~Speaking Out



“He told me to look at my hand, for a part of it came from a star that exploded too long ago to imagine. This part of me was formed from a tongue of fire that screamed through the heavens until there was our sun. And this small part of me was then a whisper of the earth. When there was life, perhaps this part got lost in a fern that was crushed and covered until it was coal. And then it was a diamond millions of years later, as beautiful as the star from which it had first come.”

Paul Zindel

The editorial staff of Stardust assumes that all creative submissions are works of fiction. Therefore, any resemblances to real people, settings, and events are either coincidental or the responsibility of the student authors, who upon submission to the Stardust staff give the school the right to edit their work and to publish their work for non-profit purposes only on the district website or in print via student publications.

Stardust is the Annual Literary Magazine Produced by Students

of

~The Tyrone Area High School~

|Page |Title |Author |

|3 |Changeling |Arianna Scheidell |

|13 |Tumult Passing |Ashley Hamilton |

|14 |Flower Carcasses |April Noel |

|15 |Unhappy Meanings |April Noel |

|16 |Must We Choose? |Connor Stroud |

|17 |Diesel |Bryce Kustenbauder |

|18 |To my Old Friend |Miranda Joy Walsh |

|19 |Chasing the Light |Shane Geis |

|20 |Daddy |Davina Lee |

|25 |The Silent Forest |Kali Lingenfelter |

|32 |Rocks |Molly LaPorte |

|35 |Natural Numbers |Carrie Vance |

|40 |Silence |Alesia Daly |

|44 |Back Road |Bryce Kustenbauder |

| |Best Poem for Class of 2015 | |

|45 |Heavy Rain |Chris Bonsell |

|46 |Lay Beside Him |Molly LaPorte |

|47 |The Old Willow Tree |Davina Lee |

|48 |Classic Austen |Davina Lee |

|51 |Why I’m Optimistic about America’s Future |Mark Lewis |

|53 |A Dandelion Parable |Megann Koegler |

|55 |The Dark Truth |Davina Lee |

|59 |When Curiosity Conquered Bravery |Carrie Vance |

|63 |Little Wet Lie |Mark Lewis |

|67 |Pulling Lieutenant Dan from the Abyss |Mark Lewis |

| |Best Essay for Class of 2015 | |

|71 |4 AM |Miranda Joy Walsh |

|72 |Rise of the Marionettes |Madalyn Miller |

|73 |Identity |Grace McKernan |

|74 |Walls |John Brown |

|75 |She Has Seen |Reagan Heidenthal |

|76 |Beast in the Woods |Lyndsey Kemp |

|77 |Playing God |Lyndsay Greene |

|78 |Black Eternity |Fletcher Hawkins |

|79 |Food for Gods |Kali Lingenfelter |

|80 |A Walk through the Park |Alesia Daly |

|81 |Him |Miranda Joy Walsh |

|82 |A World Full or Words |Samantha Johnson |

|83 |Wasteland |Davina Lee |

| |Best Fiction for Class of 2015 | |

|88 |Coming Home |Garrett Hunter |

Changeling

c

arter looked bored. He was picking at his nails with a sort of concentration that only a most disinterested boy could. Lily, unbeknownst to Carter, sat beside him, the colorful flowers woven through her golden hair catching the attention of a few curious bees. She swatted them away impatiently. They were distracting.

She had a job to do. This boy, little did he know, was very important. She had to tell him something, even though he might not believe her. Boys rarely ever did. She had been doing this for as long as she could remember, several centuries at least, and never once had one of them believed her until she showed them the trick with the flowers. She could make them bloom and shrivel at will.

Magic, she scoffed. It was hardly magical. All it required was concentration and enough brain capacity. These humans could make their machines; they still knew close to nothing about the secrets to the universe. They liked to believe that they did, of course; in that strange movie about aliens they believed the answer to life, the universe, and everything was simply 42. Hardly.

Foolish humans.

She snapped back to the task at hand. She couldn’t afford to let her attitude towards humans cloud her judgment.

Standing up quietly, she walked across the road into a thicket of trees where she wouldn’t be seen. Becoming visible, she removed the flowers from her hair (sad… but she would put them back later) and transformed her appearance so that she was wearing jeans, a t-shirt, and her hair was auburn instead of its normal glossy blond.

She abhorred this job, but it was most important that none of these busy humans noticed her. Not that she had to work very hard. The endless stream of humans walked quickly past her, a few shooting her annoyed glances at her immobility, but none paid too much attention.

Good.

She looked both ways – one could never be too careful around these things humans used to get around – before carefully crossing the street so that she stood in front of the boy again. He was now amusing himself by whistling under his breath.

Her time was short. His girlfriend would be here soon. Lily had followed the perky blond around long enough to snatch her phone away when she wasn’t looking and find out that her and the boy – Carter, she reminded herself – would be meeting at the park for a picnic (although Central Park did little to obscure the incessant beeping that plagued New York.)

She cleared her throat.

The boy didn’t look up.

“Hey!” she said, a little too loudly.

The boy looked up curiously, his dark hair glinting in the sun. “Yes?” His blue eyes were unexpectedly dazzling. She lost herself in their depths for a moment before sternly reminding herself of her job.

Sparkly things. Why was it that they had to be so distracting?

It wasn’t just that his blue eyes shimmered like the clear blue water of the Caribbean, but they were also familiar to her somehow.

The stark morning light lit the boy’s perfect blond hair, which fell into his eyes, obscuring their crystal clear blue. He smiled.

She felt her breath whoosh out of her. She couldn’t afford to remember, couldn’t afford to be distracted. This boy was unimportant, and as gray clouds moved to cover the sun, she tore her eyes from his.

The boy was looking uncomfortable now. He shifted on the bench uneasily. Lily remembered herself and quickly said, “Sorry!” She paused, taking a deep, soothing breath before continuing. “It’s just – you look like someone I used to know.” She plastered an embarrassed expression on her face, which wasn’t too hard. She had surpluses of the emotion roiling around inside of her. It was odd how much this boy got to her. She wasn’t easily embarrassed. Gods, Lily! Focus!

“I get that… not too much, actually,” the boy said, smiling. It looked kind of painful. He smiled wider and laughed when she blushed. She had forgotten what it was like to deal with humans. She felt so comfortable with her own kind, but humans always seemed to know exactly the way to get to her.

She laughed, trying to make it sound authentic, and failed miserably. It came out shrill and uncomfortable. A few people glanced over at her with odd expressions on their faces. She looked down, using her hair to shield her from any more scrutiny. “Uh, yeah. Sorry.” Lily quickly walked away. She would try again in another form. Funny, but she didn’t remember her job ever being quite so… difficult. It was always relatively easy.

Carter jumped up and ran towards her. “Hey! Hold up!” He obviously was a runner, Lily observed, as he came gracefully to a stop in front of her, putting his hands on her shoulders to stop her. “Where are you going?” He looked confused.

Had he wanted to talk to her? But she had just met him, and hadn’t made the best first impression. In any case, he had his girlfriend to wait for. “Don’t you have someone to wait for? Your girlfriend or someone?” she blurted, and then covered her mouth with her hand, amazed at the sheer stupidity of asking that. She wasn’t supposed to know what he was here for, or that he was waiting for his girlfriend.

A crease formed between his eyebrows. “Well, yeah… but how did you know that?”

“Ah…just a guess.” She prayed that he would accept that. In the interminable centuries that she had lived, she had learned to temper what she said, but once again her big mouth had made an appearance.

He had an inscrutable expression on his face. “Of course.”

Not again. No, no, no! She had messed up once before, gaining the suspicion of her target before she had a chance to tell her secrets. That one hadn’t been as important as this boy. If this boy was found by their enemies, his life would be in jeopardy.

She couldn’t allow herself to mess this up any more than she already had. She had to start over. He no longer trusted this form. “Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll see you around sometime.” She extricated herself from his grasp and ran off.

It was two days later, and Lily had not yet had the courage to shift into another form and talk to the boy. She couldn’t believe what a mess she had made out of her plan. Her superiors were bound to come after her any day now. She had been given this one chance to redeem herself after her previous mistake, and now she had messed it all up.

She hung her head in her hands as a curious squirrel ran up to her. She reached a hand out to pet its soft fur. Animals always loved her, and she loved them. They brought her no comfort now, however, despite their efforts. The green meadow was a sharp contrast to the black emotions swirling within her. She didn’t deserve to sit in the warm summer sunlight, not after she had failed. Again.

She remembered the first time she had messed up.

It had been summer then, too.

The boy had had the same stunning blue eyes, and in her youth she hadn’t been wise enough to know not to get involved with one of the changelings. They were important, too important, for a mere searcher like her.

It tormented her still that she had had his life in her hands, his pure and good soul in her hands, and she had lost him. The Dark Fey had caught up to them, and she had been so distracted by him that she hadn’t known how to save him. They had taken such a pure soul that they had perhaps tripled in power.

She should have been executed, but his ghost had appeared to the council and begged for clemency. She had gotten off easy, on probation for two centuries, never to make a mistake like that again. Her record had been spotless in those two centuries, and on her first big mission she had messed up so completely that she had almost blown her cover.

She stood up and walked across the field, the soft green grass tickling her shins as she made her way to the city once more. She couldn’t ride in cars, because the iron in them was poisonous to her, but she could run.

She set off, gracefully weaving in and out of traffic, so fast that she was just a blur. The humans would rub their eyes and see nothing if they caught a glimpse of her.

Back at that abominable park, she stopped in the shadow of some trees. He wouldn’t be here, she knew, but…

He was there. And he was staring at her. She had forgotten her glamour! It seemed that everything was going wrong today, and some intuitive part of her said that she should just go with the flow.

Sighing loudly, she put her glamour on so that the other humans couldn’t see her. She would look a bit cloudy to Carter, but she would still be visible to him because he had already seen her.

Smiling, she lifted a hand in greeting.

Looking alarmed, he waved back. She laughed. The look on his face. Oh, if she could take pictures with her mind, she would cherish this one.

“Hello,” she said, her voice ringing like bells even to her own ears.

He stuttered a bit before saying, “Hi.”

She took his hands. “Come with me.”

He trailed behind her like a lost puppy dog as she led him to a spot where they wouldn’t be seen.

Taking a deep breath, she changed back to the form he had first met her in. “My name is Lily. And you are Carter.”

Looking even more alarmed, he asked, “H- how do you know my name?”

She decided to come right out and say it. It wasn’t like things could’ve gone much worse, anyways. “Because you’re special. You’re not human, Carter. You’re something else.”

Now he looked positively terrified. “No, no. I’m human.” He pulled on his skin as if to prove it to her.

“No, Carter.”

“My parents are human.” He looked desperate.

“They aren’t your real parents. Carter, don’t you feel it? Don’t you feel the truth?” He did, she could see it.

“No.” He shook his head in disbelief. “No,” he said again, louder.

Sighing, she plucked a flower from the ground. It was only a sprout, but it was no matter. She focused, and it bloomed into a big orange lily. Well, that’s never happened before. Usually it’s a daisy or a tulip. Interesting. “You can do that too.”

He gasped and scrambled backwards. “No, I can’t! I’m human!”

She knelt and picked another flower, this one a bit larger than the last. It would be easier to make it bloom. She handed it to him. Looking panicked, he took it hesitantly, holding it as if it might bite him. Preposterous. Flower spirits were gentle creatures. “Focus,” she told him.

His eyes were wide, but he did as she told him to. Slower than hers had, the flower bloomed. He jumped back and dropped the flower. “N- no, it’s not possible!” He looked down at his hands. “No…” he whispered. Like the flick of a switch, his entire demeanor changed. Resigned, he picked up the flower. “I did this. What am I?”

“A faerie. I know that’s not the manliest of terms, but it’s what you are.” She smiled, hoping he believed her. Considering that this had been the most unorthodox way she had ever told one of the changelings, she wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t.

Surprising her, he looked like he accepted it. “Like you?” She nodded eagerly. This boy was one of the quickest to believe her. “How does this work? How come my parents are human and I’m not?” Carter asked excitedly.

Lily frowned. “Well… it’s hard to explain. Your parents aren’t really your parents. You were born to the fey, and we have this tradition of taking human babies and replacing them with our own. I don’t entirely know why, I just know that it has been done for as long as I can remember, which, mind you, is a very long time.”

“How old are you?” Carter walked closer to her, and she backed up.

Pasting an offended expression on her face, she said, “Never ask a lady her age.”

The boy’s expression deflated, like a balloon with a leak. “Oh. Sorry.”

She rolled her eyes. “Now, come with me.”

Carter looked suspicious now. “Where are we going?”

Lily looked him right in the eyes and said, “Home.”

Carter’s blue eyes were troubled. They sat in a field surrounded by trees, other fey walking by silently. Lily glanced over at him. “What’s wrong?”

He looked at his hands. “My parents. We just left without even telling them. And all my friends. I am a despicable human being.”

Lily had a mischievous glint in her eyes. “No, you’re not.”

Carter didn’t catch on. “Yes, I am.”

Lily smirked. “No, actually, you aren’t.”

Carter looked over to her, frowning. “How can you say that? I left my friends and family, even my ex-”

Now Lily frowned. “You broke up with your girlfriend? What happened?”

Offhandedly, he said, “Actually, she broke up with me. Said I wanted to talk too much or something. Which is odd, because that’s usually the girl’s problem. But whatever. It still makes me a terrible person.”

Lily sighed, exasperated. “You’re not a human, Carter! You can’t be a despicable human being. Maybe a despicable faerie, but I still don’t believe that you’re a bad person.”

Carter smiled slightly. “Nice to know I’m appreciated.” He sighed. “But… I guess it doesn’t matter.”

Lily grabbed his hands as music started playing somewhere in the distance. “That’s our cue!” She dragged him over to where the fey were lining up, skirting around the colorful tents that had been set up for the occasion.

“What’s going on?”

“We have to present you to the crown!”

At the end of the line stood a tall faerie, flanked by several guards and holding a woman’s hand. The woman looked warm, whereas the man, the faerie king, looked cold and regal. Coming to a stop in front of them, Lily hastily bowed, pulling Carter into a bow as well. “Your majesty, the prince,” Lily said, and then backed up.

Carter’s eyes widened. “Prince? What? You didn’t tell me-” He hushed as she shot a stern look at him.

The king appraised him. “What is your name?”

Looking extremely uncomfortable, Carter told him.

“A fine name.” Smiling now, the king said, “Welcome home, son.” He nodded to Lily. “You have done a fine job. You will be rewarded handsomely. For bringing home my son, you can have one thing, anything, that you wish.”

Carter turned towards Lily, an intense look passing between them, and for once, Lily knew what she wanted. But it was something completely unattainable to her. She could have any earthly possession, but the one thing she truly wanted was not something she could ask for. “Um… your majesty, could I perhaps have some time to think it over? It is a most gracious offer, and I would not want to offend you, but-”

“It’s quite alright, Lily.” The king smiled indulgently at her. She bowed quickly and started walking to her home. She felt Carter behind her immediately.

“You should stay with your parents, Carter.” She didn’t look at him.

He pulled her to a stop. They were in an empty field, finally away from the noise of the festival. She still couldn’t look at him.

She looked at him.

He had an odd look to his face. He watched her intently. “What if I didn’t want to?”

“What do you mean?” She was almost afraid to ask.

His blue eyes looked almost silver in the moonlight. “What if… I wanted to be with you?”

She knew he didn’t mean it that way, but she gasped in a breath at his words. It was probably just that he didn’t know anyone else there. “I…” Come on, use your words, Lily! “Uh…” Those aren’t words! Speak English!

Carter was still looking at her carefully. “Lily… I…” Oh my gods! What’s he going to say?

Shaking her head as if to physically dislodge the thoughts that were plaguing her, she finally spoke. “You should be with your parents. I’m sure they are excited to have you here, to say the least.”

His expression didn’t change. “I don’t care.”

She felt hysteria rising up in her. “You don’t care? They’re the king and queen, your parents! What do you care about if not them?”

No. No, no, no. She wished she could stuff the words back into her mouth, go back in time and calmly dismiss him. He affected her too much for her own good.

She saw a hard glint in his eyes before he decisively said, “You.”

As if someone had pulled on the hypothetical string that held her fragile world together, everything unraveled.

Sobbing inside, she covered her mouth with her hand. “You can’t… I can’t…” she mumbled.

He moved closer. “Why not?”

She stood, rooted to the spot. “You’re a royal. I’m not. It couldn’t work,” she stammered.

An idea lit his eyes. “What if there was a way, though? What would you do then?”

Before she could stop herself, she considered it. If there were a way, of course she would take it. This boy enraptured her. Fascinated her. She was falling for him with an intensity that scared her. No, that wasn’t true. She already had. “I would take it.”

He caught his breath before taking her hands. “You have one wish. You could have whatever you want. Anything. Maybe even anyone?”

It was impossible. “It might work.”

“Well, then, what are we waiting for?” he pulled her along as he ran as fast as he could back to the king and queen. Somewhere along the way, Lily realized he was using his faerie speed. Tapping his abilities subconsciously. Lily smiled. This boy was more talented than she had given him credit for. It took most changelings months to use their powers. It was truly amazing.

Finally they reached the king and queen, both breathing heavily, but Lily was more out of breath from anxiety than exertion. Lily quickly dropped Carter’s hand before the king could see it.

The king looked up, readjusting his colorful robes so that they hung just so. His wife turned around and smiled warmly. “Have you decided, sweetie?” she asked.

Lily was at a complete loss for words. She opened her mouth and then closed it again.

Carter stepped forward. “Yes, she has.” The king’s eyes narrowed suspiciously as Carter grabbed Lily’s hand. The queen just looked confused.

Summoning the strength to speak, Lily grasped Carter’s hand tightly. “Well, you see, your majesty, I have decided.” Excellent. Now the king is going to think you’re slow.

The king inclined his head. “You have but to ask, my dear.” He was staring at their joined hands.

Lily rushed to speak. “I… you said I could have anything, your majesty.”

The king nodded. “As long as it is within my power to give.” The queen smiled encouragingly. Carter squeezed her hand.

Lily took a deep breath and closed her eyes. When she opened them, she spoke. “Your majesty, I know that people are not to be given, but perhaps I could have your permission?”

The king furrowed his brows. “For what, pray tell?”

This was it. She closed her eyes again and said, “Your son. I want him.”

Chaos filled the crowd that had been watching curiously. The queen gasped, and even the king looked shocked. Composing himself, he said, “My son is not to be given, you are correct.” He paused, and everyone waited with baited breath. “However, I made a promise. If the boy is willing, you have my blessing.” He looked to Carter.

Carter spoke instantly. “Yes. I am willing.” Lily had never felt so happy in her life. Carter hugged her tightly, and the din of the crowd faded as she considered how very lucky she was. She had gotten the prince back safely, and in doing so had earned a reward. She could have had anything, yet she had chosen a boy who still acted human. But that didn’t matter anymore, she realized. Humans had the best and the worst mixed in them, and that was the beauty of it. They could make mistakes, but they learned. Faeries found it hard to change because they lived for so long, but humans had to adapt to survive. Their existence was the blink of an eye to her, and yet they burned so much brighter than she ever could.

Something clicked into place in her mind. Something that had been bothering her for a while. Maybe changelings existed because it gave faeries the opportunity to live like humans, to not take for granted all the years and decades and centuries that they would live. If you thought that you were going to only have so long to live, wouldn’t you want to live life to the fullest?

Arianna scheidell

Tumult Passing

B

lankets of darkness,

Flutter over the world and

Angels cry

At unsolicited bruises.

Celestial sparks

Rend gunmetal skies

And tear them again

With gunshots fading.

The powder still visible,

Snaking around

Trees falling

One by one,

Two by two.

Mudslides and floods

Shake fragile floors

Crash humble homes,

Re-landscaping lawns in torturous ways.

Ruling the sea,

Ruling the land,

Ruling the sky.

Sailors lower sails,

Waves slice rock in two,

Boats battle,

Struggling to stay afloat. But

Tiredness overrides the carnage.

Somewhere a mother says

“time for bed”

And clouds dissipate,

Light struggles through gloom,

Birds sing, trees drink,

Wet sand trades with dry sand.

Calm morning sun

Revives what’s perished.

Calm morning wind

Repairs what’s lost.

Calm morning warmth

Reassures survivors.

Sailors chart courses away from worry.

Boats bob, waves de-stress,

Homes relax, floors firm;

Trees take root, lawns unfold;

Angels rejoice.

The toughest

Always pass.

Ashley Hamilton

Flower Carcasses

I

walk through a seemingly endless field of green

dotted with clumps of yellow

dandelions,

my spirit as free as petals

whisking with the wind

I pluck the rooted flowers one by one.

“Mama had a baby and its head popped off!”

I sing blissfully, skipping down the field, a single thumb decapitating a village of innocent blooms.

A field once filled with liveliness

Is now full of

mama's darlings

torn in two.

Baby heads here,

baby bodies there,

all of mama's babies.

Their parts

are everywhere.

A massacre of sorts,

All compliments of me.

I lay down.

It’s 4PM, and every dandelion is stripped of life,

Dead,

Beneath my ribs,

Every one without a head---

Each one generous or resigned enough

To let me blow away its

Soul and to grant my every wish

Rotting around me in a dark 360,

Diminished--

A hard day’s work

My will fulfilled,

Finished--

April Noel

Unhappy Meanings

I

could rearrange all of my words

if I wanted--

sever them cleanly

and patch them together

again,

just to try and wring some new meaning out of them all.

But when I try to picture them in my mind,

the broken brackets look like

chicken scratch,

a kindergartner’s

dream journal.

I’d still be right back

from where I came:

a well-lit café on the edge of nowhere,

where gleaming nuances cling woefully to the encroaching dark.

April Noel

Must We Choose?

I

s one so different from the other-

Two raw emotions delicately entwined?

They burn with internal fires

Of vastly different color.

But can one with hatred in his heart

Find solace down the line?

Or are they simply too far apart,

Separated by ravines too deep

And mountains too perilous

To see one another,

Not even in their dreams?

Both can fill you up.

One with heartfelt longing,

The other with harsh disdain.

Can star-crossed lovers unravel their Fates and distance each other--

Or the cruelest among them

Feel the tug of love?

I don’t believe they can.

One is nothing without the other, conjoined by a universal force,

Like thunder with lightning,

Like the tide’s ebb and flow.

There’s no music without sound,

And no life without you.

CONNOR STROUD

Diesel

P

rius lover?

That’s a joke in so many ways.

What’s wrong with those Cummins’ anyways?

Flat-black paint brings out the seriousness in one tough pickup,

big Rough Country lifts,

two mirrors that back-slap oncoming traffic,

that black smoke rolling like coal-dust from four-inch pipes

& big ol’ farm-boy stacks

Ladies and gentleman, that’s what a truck is.

Save your electricity.

Put it in your house.

Put it in your fancy hybrid.

Put it in your pretty-boy yacht.

We country boys have the diesel covered.

You think that fry-grease burner’s

going to save you from global warming?

That’s just a short-order chef dumping his waste.

So pull up to the red light with that pretty suit and tie, my friend, and

excuse me while this power-stroke takes off…

and my rich black smoke

burns the tears

from your

eyes.

Bryce Kustenbauder

To My Old Friend

L

ure me into gasping breaths,

Oh, titan from within.

Show me I’m at your mercy--

Go ahead, do me in.

Sing to me, oh dear tyrant,

I’m forever in your debt.

I am slave to your memory.

How I loathe,

How I adore

Your painful coils,

I long for your touch,

Kiss of pain,

Kiss of a selfish lover.

Kiss reminding me of my Abandonment from above.

Lull me to sleep and lead me away,

Prince of agony.

Show them your gnarled face,

Peek out from my open wounds,

Remind me of our bond--

Never will I forget,

My old friend.

Miranda Joy walsh

chasing the

light

M

ost only love her when she’s high.

they like the feel: flying with birds and soaring with planes.

some are even lucky enough to fly higher than that,

chasing down comets and shooting down stars.

their rays burn brighter than the sun’s,

charged with the mystery of northern lights.

the troubles they face are soon memories--

their pain transformed into pleasure.

but for her, some souls can’t lift their feet from the ground--

the gravity of reality weighs them down.

the dreams they chase finish the race long before they do--

their flesh languishing dead-last in the heat.

countless hours spent awake at night come naturally to them;

there is no time to think--

just time to cry.

we choose the ways we follow,

the ways we act

even the ways we want to be remembered.

we choose above all the ways that we receive her,

for life is a gift, treasured or scorned.

sure, the cynics hate her…

until the day they lose her…

until the hour they can no longer call her theirs…

until the moment they run out of light.

Shane geis

Daddy

“H

oney, you don’t have to be afraid. He isn’t going to hear you. He isn’t going to hurt you. I promise.”

She was an older woman, maybe mid-forties, but to a twelve-year-old, anyone over twenty is considered old. Mrs. Miller was this person mother called The Social Worker.

“Emily sweetie, nothing is going to get better if you don’t tell me what he does to you. I need to know. Please. I’m only trying to help.” Mrs. Miller was a persistent woman, always trying to know every detail of my life. She didn’t need to know, nor was she allowed to know. If I told her, “Daddy” would kill me for sure.

I kept my head hanging low. I didn’t know what to say or what to do. If I were to tell her, either “Daddy” would be gone, or I would. I struggled with myself. I knew that if “Daddy” was to be taken away, I might still have a chance at living a normal childhood. But at the same time, I also knew everything he was capable of. If I told, he would hunt down my family like a hunter desperate for a kill. But then it hit me- the thought of freedom. Not just for me, but for my whole family. Oh, how I had longed for the day that my family could wake up and know we were out of harm’s way.

I sat silently for a moment- gazing at the faded blue walls behind Mrs. Miller. She had her eyes fixed on me with a strange expression; a mix between confusion, longing, and frustration.

“Well?” Her voice was no longer as sweet and consoling. Her patience was wearing thin and it couldn’t have been more obvious. She began to slouch in her seat, where she once held a perfect posture. Her hands were no longer folded neatly in front of her. Her head was resting in the palm of her left hand as her elbow rested on the desk. I couldn’t keep her waiting much longer.

I looked down at my lap. I could feel the tears welling up inside of me. I tried to hold them back as hard as I could. My heart was beating inside of my throat and my stomach felt queasy. Just tell her. I began to twiddle my thumbs, but I was soon shaking too hard to even move my dainty hands. Out of the corner of my eye, one of Mrs. Miller’s inspirational posters caught my attention. It hung crookedly on the wall inside of a thin black frame. The image was painted with the smiling faces of two young, overjoyed children in the arms of their loving mother. That could be you. One tear escaped my eyes as I snapped my head towards Mrs. Miller. That one tear turned to five then ten. Sobs of longing, fear, and the sadness of a hated child.

I had craved freedom for as long as I could remember, but now that it was in my reach, I desired it more than I ever have. I thought about the days where I perched myself on my windowsill and would gaze out my window and watch the other children laugh, play, and enjoy themselves. They had the luxury of being children instead of a prisoner forever trapped between a locked door and a two-story drop. I didn’t want to be trapped, I wanted to be loved. I took a moment to regain myself.

I slowly raised my gaze from my lap, to Mrs. Miller wooden desk, to Mrs. Miller herself. Avoiding eye contact, I took a few deep breaths, in preparation for what I was about to do. I gripped the edges of my seat and squeezed my eyes shut. I knew what it wanted now, and at that, I snapped my sight back to Mrs. Miller.

“Mrs., ‘Daddy’ beats me,”

Some people say that “love is blinding.” Obviously, when my mother met him, she was so infatuated by his smooth talk and strong features that she was in fact blinded, unable to see his true colors. He was most definitely not the “caring and loving” man he brainwashed my mother into thinking he was. He was the kind of guy that could con anyone in thinking he was a harmless man, when in actuality, there was not an ounce of kindness in his body. He was able to conceal his heinous personality with his momentary charm.

He had raised numerous red flags, but were soon all shot down by my mother’s sense of denial. Perhaps she just didn’t realize it, or she just refused to believe because she could not fathom one man containing so much evil. And for years, I was the only one that was aware of “Daddy’s” wrath.

We made a deal. I was to call him “Daddy”. Not “Dad” or “Father” or even “Pappa”. Daddy. That’s it.

“Daddy, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it, I swear! It was an acc--”

A sharp blow to the face forced my apology to an immediate halt. I collapsed on to the beige tiled floor of our living room. I stayed there for a moment- motionless, letting my face rest against the cold of the tiles. I could feel the heavy stomps of his boots on the ground shake against my cheeks. He nudged my side with the toe of his boot, and then knelt beside me. I could hear the swooshing of his blue jeans and low squeaks of his boots as he bent over.

Please, don’t.

He ran his rough, callused fingers through my curls, putting me at ease for only a moment. He had this way of striking fear into you, but at the same time, comfort. He was gently running his fingers across each spiral, similar to the way a child would pet their teddy. As he reached the nape of my neck, his grip tightened, clenching the hair I had left in his giant fists. He pulled, forcing my head backwards.

“You think I’m stupid?! Hm? You think I’m going to give into your annoying little apologies?”

Please Daddy, no.

He pushed my head back to the ground, pressing my face to the floor as hard as he could. Don’t cry, don’t cry. I snapped my head to the side, so my cheeks would at least be pressed into the ground.

“What did I tell you about those lies? They’re bad, Em. They’ll shorten your life.”

They won’t, YOU will.

He let go of my head, letting me breathe again. The air was almost painful. My lungs were burning and each breath was followed by a shooting pain in my chest. He pressed his hand on to my right cheek and turned my head towards him.

“Now honey, tell me why you called me ‘father’. You know I only like it when you call me ‘Daddy’. I know it wasn’t an accident. I don’t like it when you lie. That hurts me, Em.” He almost seemed calm now. He acted as if he was never angry. He smiled and looked into my eyes, almost showing compassion.

“Daddy, I promise it was an accident!” I waited for him to attack me right away, but he didn’t. Instead, he stood up and began to pace around the living room.

“I am tired of your lies, you know.” He wasn’t calm anymore. He clenched his fists and began to walk in my direction. No, not now. Please. His pace quickened and his face was transforming into a crimson red. I tried to get away, but I didn’t make it very far. I barely got myself off of the ground before I was rammed on to the tiles again. I felt his once gentle hands wrap violently around my ankle. He pulled with all of his strength, jolting my body backwards. He was muttering to himself as he drug my body down the narrow hallway leading to my bedroom.

He kicked down my door, and then tossed my body on to my floor as if I were an old pair of shoes being thrown into a closet. I couldn’t keep myself from crying anymore. I had tried so hard to keep the tears from escaping, but they just wouldn’t stop.

“What did I tell you about that crying crap? Do I need to give you something to cry about?!” I didn’t even get to say “no” before he began throwing his fists at me. He didn’t even pay attention to where he was hitting, or how hard he was hitting. And to be completely honest, neither was I. I knew he’d eventually stop. He always did. I only needed to trust that he could contain himself.

His last punch sent my body plunging on to my floor. I wanted to believe he was done, but I knew he wasn’t. His fast-paced breaths let me know he was still angry. I just laid there and waited for him to hurt me again. It wasn’t long before I felt those same violent hands wrap around my neck and peel me from the ground. He proceeded to slam my limp and weak body against my doorframe, sending a shooting pain down my back and giving my legs a slight numbing sensation. I couldn’t breathe. His barking was muffled and his face was blurry. My head began to feel heavy and I knew that I was drifting away.

Just when I was sure that this would be the end, something made “Daddy” stop. He let go of my neck and let my body collapse to the floor. Lying on the blood covered carpet, I began to sob again. I could feel every ounce of pain in my body, yet could not feel my limbs at the same time. I tried to move, but couldn’t even make a single finger move. I tried to scream for help, but only the hoarse whispers escaped my mouth. I was growing weaker by the second, and eventually, everything went black.

I woke up to the bright white lights of the Emergency Room. I don’t remember much of anything, but I could clearly remember my mother’s cries and the police officers that were taking photos of my battered body to use as evidence against “Daddy”.

After that day, “Daddy” had left me with a broken nose, multiple finger and toe breaks, a broken rib, and most of all, a broken mind.

“I don’t know why he does this to me, Mrs. I didn’t do anything to him! Please don’t make me go home. Please! I’m begging you!” I began to sob once more. I had never truly been afraid of him. He scared me, but at the same time made me feel safe- like he was supposed to be in my life.

Mrs. Miller grabbed my hand, looked me in the eye and told me that everything was going to be okay. She knew what “Daddy” did, but needed me to tell her in order for it to be hard evidence against him. She continued to tell me that “Daddy” was taken into custody by the police and there wasn’t any way he could hurt me anymore- that I was safe and there was a “new home” waiting for me.

I never realized what I was missing. I was allowed to be free now. I could now wake up and not worry about being beaten up for it. There was no longer someone constantly reminding me how unimportant, unloved, and worthless I was. Sometimes I think of that last time “Daddy” hit me and wish it had never happened, but life deals you a hand that you have to play. Maybe this time the cards will be in my favor.

Davina Lee

The Silent Forest

S

he didn’t even like skiing. She never had. Before she was born, my mom and dad and I would go skiing all the time. We would go every weekend.

Colorado was the perfect place to ski. We were all together then. I remember vividly the tingling sensation on my skin when I’d stay out too long, the strong smell of coffee in the gift shop, the sleep I’d fight back at night when I was to too anxious about the next day to sleep. Then when my sister was born, the divorce happened, and we really didn’t do much of anything anymore, let alone skiing. Everyone kept to themselves, we had our own hobbies. My sister, Linsey, wasn’t into outdoors, or anything I was interested in for that matter. She was a gymnast, and anything beyond the gym and her collection of lip glosses and nail polish, wasn’t important to her. Even though my family decided to wait around moping, about everything, I still kept it going, and I would go skiing with my friends a lot. Since my little sister, Linsey, didn’t get to experience the fun I did, I’d been asking her and asking her to come with me just once. I just thought maybe she’d find something in common with me. She finally agreed to it. She was only 8 years old, and she had a mind of her own. You couldn’t tell her much of anything, because already at her age, she was always right about everything, like our mom, or at least she thought she was. My mother and I don’t get along, and when I get the chance to go visit my dad, I stay as long as possible. Unlike Linsey, who thinks our mom is everything a mother could and should be. When dad wasn’t on some business trip or another one of his vacations he goes on to “relieve stress,” I would drive up to his house, and stay as long as I possibly could. Linsey wasn’t as close to our dad as I was, she was a mommy’s girl, and when it came to any fight or argument, she would take mom’s side, even if the situation was beyond her knowledge. Linsey looked up to me though, and she always knew I’d be there for her. I’d get her out of every sticky situation. In Linsey’s eyes, I could do anything, and I’d always be her protector. I promised her, “I’d never let anything happen to her.” But sometimes, most of the time, people make promises they can’t keep.

The trunk of my car was packed with bags and our skiing gear. We had a couple extra blankets, and they were folded and put in the back seat. I was overjoyed at the thought of going skiing with someone in my family, even if Linsey wasn’t too thrilled about it. “Let’s go I don’t want get to the cabin too late,” I yelled to Linsey walking out the front door. She sulked out in her fuzzy pink coat, which made her look like a short little pink marshmallows. She had soft fluffy pink boots to match it. Her hair was perfectly tied into a little pony tail on top of her head, and her pail, snow white skin glimmered in the sun. She put her bag in the back and climbed into the front seat as I started the car. I looked over at her and smiled, “Well, let’s do this!” She smiled reluctantly and put the seat back. I could tell there wasn’t much I could say to make her excited for this, so I just stopped trying and we pulled out of the driveway and headed along our way.

The town we were headed to was a dark little town. It was creepy actually, really creepy. Every house looked the same, painted in dark greys and blues, and black shutters. They all had the same boring, two-story design. Not even the bright snow was brightening up the town. It seemed like all the white in the world couldn’t make this town any lighter. It’d take a serious snowstorm to even get remotely close to it. All the windows were covered with black curtains, and it seemed as if everyone in this town had a problem with electricity. We didn’t let that bother us though. “This town has one of the biggest and oldest grave yards you know,” I told Linsey as I kept my eyes on the road. “Remember those stories dad always tells us about when he was young, and him and his friends used to go up to that grave yard, what’s it called, Laurel Graveyard I think.”

“Yeah. But those are just ghost stories, they aren’t real,” Linsey argued.

“Oh I know, but they’re still fun to listen to. There’s this legend you know, there’s a cabin resort out here. And when people would go stay in them, and go skiing they would always disappear. No one would ever find them, and when they did, they were dead…But they weren’t frozen, in fact all their skiing gear was still on them, there wasn’t even any signs of frostbite. But they would be clinging together…”

“Well what do you think happened to them,” Linsey’s eyes widened.

“Let me finish,” I nodded. “It’s said that all the lost and evil spirits from the graveyard lure them into the woods, and there, they suck every inch of life right out of them, eat their souls, and take them as their own. Leaving their bodies nothing but an empty vessel…”

And then came the screech.

Before I could finish I slammed on the brakes. Lindsey’s seatbelt clasped her tightly into her seat. A deer, a single deer stopped suddenly, and then galloped across the road as if the accident he almost caused was old news to him. “Dammit,” I said looking over at Linsey. “I’m sorry are you okay? I didn’t even see it run out.” “I’m fine,” she recovered and gathered herself. She looked back out the window as we drove off. We kept silent for a little while. “Alyssa,” Linsey looked over at me. “You don’t believe those ghost legends do you?”

“Of course not. They’re just stories, for fun,” I answered. I kept driving down the long stretch of road. This would be a long ride.

It got to the point where I was sitting so far up in my seat, glaring, looking out the window. The roads were horrible. I couldn’t see a thing. It was white, everywhere. The once dark and eerie town was now white, nothing but white everywhere. There was about three inches of snow on the road and at least a foot on the snow banks. “Oh my gosh, Linsey, I don’t even know if we’re gonna make it to the cabin tonight,” I said, almost not believing myself. I had checked the weather every day this week, there was no call for a blizzard. “What do you mean? Where will we stay,” Linsey asked. “Well we have blankets. And I can let the heat on in the car, if we have to stay in this all night,” I answered. It wouldn’t be comfortable, but it might’ve been our only option. I could see Linsey didn’t have any plans on staying in this car, so I kept driving. The roads were getting icier as the time passed, we were still about an hour and a half away from the cabin. I looked down at my phone, fully charged. It was about 7:00 pm. The sky was a dark purple color, and the snow just wouldn’t stop. I began sliding around every single turn. The roads were horrible, we couldn’t drive in this. I tried to go as slow as I could, after all, we were the only ones on the road in this weather. Before I had the chance to pull over, I made a sharp right turn, and my car slid the whole way across the road. I hit the brakes but they just weren’t working, there was no traction. We spun around and went straight into a ditch. I looked over to make sure Linsey was alright. Her face was in her blanket and she was gripping onto her knees really tight. She poked her head up, and I could see the fear in her bright, crystal blue eyes. “Are you alright?” I asked again. She nodded and looked around at our surroundings. Weird, the snow was suddenly slowing down, as if its whole purpose was to get us in this mess, and then mock us afterwards. My car was at an angle in the ditch, I knew we weren’t going be able to drive up and out of this. Despite the fact that I already knew we weren’t getting out of this, I started my car and began flooring it anyway. Nothing. We weren’t budging. I looked over at Linsey. “Well I hate to break it to you, but this is our bed for the night.”

“Why can’t you call dad? He’s only about 45 minutes away from here, he’ll get us out.”

“I mean I can try to call him,” I said grabbing my phone out of the console. I opened it and stared at it in disbelief for a while. “What’s wrong,” Linsey asked, “no service out here?”

“My phone is…dead” I replied.

“What do you mean your phone is dead, you just fully charged it before we left, and you haven’t used it since,” Linsey argued. “

I know, that’s what I’m saying. Unbelievable, it’s like…..” I stopped looking out the window.

“It’s like what?” she asked.

“Like…like….this was supposed to happen, I don’t understand,” I said, still puzzled looking out the window. The snow calmly danced around us outside of the car, as if every snowflake was laughing and making fun of us. “Well there’s no use in us just sitting around here, it’s 9:00 and I wanna wake up and get out of here early,” I said. “I have that emergency bag that Mom packed with blankets, hand warmers and some other stuff. Thank God she is a little overprotective. Let’s try to go to sleep, and forget about this for now, we’ll get out in the morning okay? I promise.

Sometimes, most of the time, people make promises they can’t keep.

I must’ve drifted off for a while, because when I awoke Linsey was curiously fussing with the radio, trying to find a station to play music. I could see her freezing breath moving in and out of her mouth. “Linsey, you won’t get anything out here, we’re in the middle of nowhere. The grave yards just right up over the hill, through the woods.” My sudden voice must’ve startled her because she jumped back into her seat.

“Are we actually gonna sleep here,” she asked.

“We don’t have that much of a choice,”

“There’s probably like a store or a gas station not too far down the road, can’t we walk there?”

“No that’s ridiculous, it’s freezing out. Stay bundles up and I’m sure someone will spot us. We can flag them down and have them give us a ride into town. If not, we’ll stay here and leave in the morning. We can make it a single night. People will have to take this road at some point, and when they do they will find us.”

I looked around at the road, the only tire marks around were ours. I couldn’t back my statement up very well. I looked away for a second, and when I looked back, I saw a woman, an older woman.

She was in a blue robe and her brunette, almost grey hair played in the wind. She wasn’t moving, just standing there. Down the road in front of us. Suddenly she appeared closer, I felt peaceful looking at her. Her eyes were white, all white. Her pupils were nowhere in sight, she smiled at me. It wasn’t the kind of smile your comforting grandmother would greet you with, it was a dark conniving smile. Evil. She began laughing, louder and louder. Her laugh filled my ears, I closed my eyes and shook my head. “Stop! Stop! Stop,” I yelled. I opened my eyes and she was gone. I looked over at Linsey; she was leaning on the other side of the seat. She stared up at me with wide eyes. Her once fair, snow white cheeks were flushed with splotches of pink, and her perfect ponytail was suddenly a frizzy mess, and little blonde curls poked through from her hat. They fell like a golden waterfall, wrapping and twisting around her face. “Didn’t you see her,” I asked.

“See who?”

The woman, in the blue robe, she was there, right there,” I said pointing to a blank spot on the road, which surprisingly had no footprints at all.

“No, I didn’t see anything. Are you okay,” she asked, looking more confused than concerned. “I must’ve imagined it,” I said looking down at my feet. We sat there for a few seconds in silence. It was an awkward vibe now, and we both felt it. I didn’t know what to say. “How do you think the ghosts lure people into the woods, just wondering,” Linsey asked. “I don’t know,” I replied, “maybe they like hypnotize them.”

“I don’t think anyone could hypnotize me. I would know what I was doing,” Linsey said. “Yeah I guess so,” I answered. We pushed the topic off and sat there resting for a while. I wanted to get us out of here so bad. We both tried to sleep, but the old ghost legends were on both of our minds. We didn’t believe them exactly, but the thought that we were trapped here freaked us out.

It was now 10:00. We were starting to get cold and the heat in my car seemed to not be working. I couldn’t take the confinement and I needed to do something. My mind slipped back into thinking about the old ghost legends. There I was, Lindsey’s age, in the cabin at the old ski resort. My dad sat cross legged in front of me. He was rambling on about the Laurel Graveyard legend. “You don’t ever wanna get stuck out there” he said, “they’ll take you, they’ll get you to the woods one way or another,” he’d say with a flashlight below his chin.

“Stop it daddy! Those aren’t real stories are they?” I’d ask.

“Of course not sweetheart, they’re just for fun, I promise.”

Sometimes, most of the time, people make promises they can’t keep.

My eyes opened, wearily. I was sweating, I felt hot. The heat was off and the car was absolutely freezing, but I was covered in sweat. Linsey was waking up beside me. I looked at the time in the car. 10:30pm. What seemed to be a long sleep was only a half hour. I felt confined and miserable. “Linsey, I can’t stay in here any longer. I can’t. Let’s go we’ll walk, we’ll go someplace. It doesn’t matter let’s just get out of here,” I said to her. She looked about as half nuts as I did, as if we’d been trapped in this car for weeks. “Come on, I’m getting us out of here, we’re not staying in this car,” I said opening the car door. There we went, the two of us, hand in hand so peacefully. We walked slowly across the road, snowflakes calmly flowing down beside us. The snow, that once viscously swirled, lunging us into a ditch, keeping us from our final destination, was no longer. It was soft, peaceful. The wind blew softly, twisting our hair into the air. We didn’t look at each other; we just slowly walked, hand in hand. We were completely at ease. Nothing else mattered, not the wreck, not the skiing trip, not getting home. We just kept walking. I took one last glance back at my car. It didn’t matter to me anymore. In fact, the only thing that was on my mind was my biggest goal now. The deep feeling inside of me, something was telling me to go to The Forest.

It was a blustery, freezing day. The snow was up to no good, working its magic, swirling over the little creepy town--the dark eerie town. A young couple, probably around 17, was on their way out to the ski resort cabin. They just wanted a nice little weekend to themselves. Without warning, their car broke down in the middle of the road. No one else was on the road, not a car track inside, no one. They were alone, no cell phone, just the two stuck with no help. I looked over at Linsey, as she looked at me. We both laughed mysteriously. Looking down from the forest on the little couple, we watched them very carefully. Linsey’s eyes glowed white, no pupils, and her skin seemed fairer than ever. It glowed in the sunlight, with her perfect complexion. The wind was blowing but the wind did not faze us. Our hair stayed still and we couldn’t feel the chill of it. We slowly made our way down to the road, calling the couple softly, coaxing them out of their car. It wasn’t long before they, too, made their way to the silent, beautiful forest. “Just another soul to take,” I said smiling to Linsey. And our laughter echoed over the valley. No one could escape the silent forest, I promise you that.

Kali Lingenfelter

Rocks

“i don’t want to die!”

Laura’s blood-curdling cries bludgeoned my ear drums and echoed through the rocks surrounding us. She was slipping. Her hands clawed wildly at the ledge, pleading with the craggy terrain to give her something to clasp, something to hope for, to help her do what I could not: save her life.

I had been lying on the ground about four feet from where she clung, begging my legs to regain feeling, for just one toe to wiggle, but they wouldn’t. The boulder that fell from the ledge above had sent us staggering in opposite directions: me toward the jagged wall where another rock collided with my back knocking me to the ground, and Laura over the edge where she now hung, waiting for me to redeem her.

“Ben, please!” My head whipped to the side causing a wave of searing pain to rip through my body. Through every muscle, except for the dead hunks of meat and bone that any other time would have propelled me to the edge of the cliff. To Laura’s side.

But now, when I needed them most, they failed me.

I could only see half of her head from where I was lying. Her raven hair had come undone and a few strands were now plastered to her forehead by the blood flowing from the wound just above her eyebrow. Dust gathered and pebbles were spat in the air from the force of her desperate pursuit of a steady grip. Sweat dripped from her brow and flowed down her nose leaving dirt stained trails across her face.

"Hold on!" I sobbed. "Don’t you dare let go!"

Our eyes met and I could see the fear in them; her steel blue irises shrieked for salvation.

My own became blurred with tears as I considered what life would be like without seeing those frozen pools ever again. Without hearing the sound of her dainty feet pad over the damp bathroom tile every morning; the smell of her perfume lingering in the air and floating into our bedroom. Without feeling the warmth of her hand in mine as we drove through Guadalupe Back Country in the convertible, her ebony locks battered by the wind giving her those irritating tangles I would smooth for her at the end of every trip while we sat watching the sun set over the peaks of Sitting Bull Falls. Without those flustering moments when she would delay our trips back to Las Cruces by insisting we stopped by her work to pick up her favorite hoodie she forgot.

Where would I go? I surely couldn’t return to the apartment we shared. I wouldn’t be able to cope with the cold indent on the mattress that was once filled with her warmth, or the sight of the half-moon coffee stain on the dining room table I so fervently objected to the day she made it, only to be met with her bemused smirk and questioning look.

“Babe…it’s from Ikea. Relax,” she said as she wiped at the dribble with her hand, kissed my cheek, then strolled out the door. Floating across the carpet rather than walking like the angel I knew she had to be.

I couldn’t lose her. A life without her was not one I wanted to live, especially now.

“BEN!”

Reality stung me like a scorpion as I came crashing back to the ledge. Laura was beginning to lose the little grip she had and I didn’t know how to help her.

The rope! I rolled to the side grunting as the pain surged through my veins, and fumbled for the zipper on my back-pack. When my fingers finally made contact with the plastic aglet I tore the zipper open snapping the cord at the end off in the process. I rummaged blindly through the bag, passing over water bottles, Cliff bars, and broken sunglasses but the rope was gone. There was no lifeline. There was only me.

With every inch as I dragged myself along the sand and gravel, the sharp pebbles underneath me pierced my skin. The more intense the pain became the more I focused on her slipping to push myself through. And with every passing second her finger tips crept closer to the end of the rock, and I knew I needed to do something fast. As I racked my mind for every scenario, every answer, every possible action I could take, I watched with horror as one of her hands disappeared into the abyss The hand that I held when her father died. The hand I held on that cold, snowy night in Pittsburgh. The hand that I wanted to slip the ringer I bought two weeks ago to make her mine forever. I prayed to God above to see her face again. I wanted nothing more than to feel her weight tug against the straps no matter how excruciating the jolt to my spine would be. What felt like a hundred lifetimes passed until I felt the pull at the other side. Fire shot through my vertebrae like I knew it would, but it didn’t matter now. All that mattered was that she was moments from being in my arms again. I rejoiced only a few seconds before I realized I was faced with a new problem: how could I pull her up when I couldn’t move from the waist down?

“Laura?” Anxiety leaked from my voice as I called to her. “Can you hear me?” I crawled toward her. Her fingers were buried in the earth, trembling like a child’s. I reached for her.

The hand disappeared, and the canyon trembled with a screaming wind.

Molly laporte

natural numbers

T

here are seven billion people on this earth. Among these, 30o million live in the United States. Of these, 27.7 percent are children under the age of eighteen. Most of these children have families.

What about the children who don’t have moms or dads? What about the orphans? What is their number? What is mine?

Rain runs down my face as I slog through the soggy grass. A black river of people follows me. Watching me. All pretending not to stare. But I know they are. They all wonder what I am going to do, when in truth today will work precisely how the last eighteen years of my life have worked. My father just won’t be there.

I get a ride home from my neighbor. “I’m sorry about your father, Marty. He was a good man.” I sit in silence. “If you ever need anything, just walk over and ask. We’re here for you.”

You could have said that a year ago, when the cancer showed up, when I really needed help. The car slows to a sickening stop. “Well, there you go. The Mrs. said you can come over for dinner if you want, but I’ll be seeing you around.”

“Thanks for the offer, but I think I’ll just stay in for tonight. I have an early morning tomorrow,” I mumble through a half-smirk. I hop out of the mini SUV and slam the door.

I’m not lying about the early morning. I still have school, plus I have to go to the bank to figure out what to do with the rest of my father’s money. There is not much left--barely enough to put me through a semester of college.

I unlock the door to the one-bedroom, one-bathroom, one-sink shack that has played the role of house since I was a child. My father passed everything down to me, who else could he have given it too? Most of his stuff is junk, including the house. But I don’t mind. I’m not on the street, and my dad, well, neither is he. The house was so cheap when he bought it that he paid for it completely in less than two years. Now it is all mine. The hum of the refrigerator draws me closer and I realize that my stomach has been serenaded by the mechanical melody. I pull out a pack of chicken Ramon noodles and dine in silence. The watch my father bought me for my sixteenth birthday shows 11:09PM. I roll over and lay on the couch. It’s been posing as a bed for eighteen years. Sure, I could sleep on my father’s bed, but what’s the point? It will be empty tomorrow night.

School was normal. Teachers gave me sympathy cards, and a student even bought me lunch. But I don’t need any of that stuff, especially the sympathy.

After school I walk to the bank. I’m in no rush. I am on my own time now. The bank office is cold. The metal chair sends a cold chill through my bones. A fairly large woman walks in the room, claiming this as her office. She smells of a freshly smoked cigarette and aged perfume.

“Marty Stewart?” she said. Her voice indicates she is a five-pack-a-day kind of girl.

“Present.”

She gives me a glare that means I am not to be messing around.

“Your father barely has any money left in his account. But since you just turned eighteen a few days ago I will transfer the remaining amount into an account under your name.”

“Thanks.”

“I am surprised. Normally when people die all of their money goes into their debt; your father barely had any.”

“My father didn’t have anything. He had nothing. You can’t have debt when you have nothing,” I hiss. I don’t need her thinking my father was a wonderful man who paid off everything, who cared enough, who remembered.

“Well, then that explains it. Marty, tell me, are you interested in going to college? I can tell you all about our student loans.” She tries to make up for getting me upset, but I am already over it.

“I don’t need help with college money, I got a scholarship. Basically a full-ride. I just need to pay up a year by myself. And that’s how I will do it. Pay by myself.” I stand to leave; I know we are done here. I begin to walk towards the door.

“How did you manage it--the scholarship?”

“I’m nothing like my father.” I don’t give her a second look, and I casually leave. I don’t want to make a scene.

When I get home I check the mail box. It’s been part of my daily routine since my father was in the hospital nine months ago. The mail box is cold against my skin. It whines as I open it. It is old, older than me. I should replace the piece of crap. I grab all of the white crème papers slanted along the side of the box. But before I close the lid I take an extra glance inside the box. I don’t know why, I have never done it before. I just feel that I missed something. Blending in with the old gray box was a piece of gray parchment. I pull it out and it’s addressed to me. Not another sympathy card. I shove the gray envelope in with the white ones. It stands out significantly, but I pay no more attention to it and make the short journey back to my house.

I hate paying bills. Every one of them. And since my father kicked the bucket I have to pay all of the funeral bills too along with the tab for a 183-day hospital stay. How it will ever add up I have no idea. They’ll be coming for the house, I’m sure. That’s the only mail I get now. Well, that and this grey envelope.

After countless minutes of math, I gaze over to the parchment that has my name on it. I reach out for the envelope and look at the return address. It’s not a place I recognize. I don’t think another second before I tear away at the grey paper, and retrieve the letter.

Dear Marty,

My name is Anna, I am five years old. I was in the hospidal with your daddy. My heart is sick. Your daddy was my best friend. He told me I would get better someday. I mis your daddy. He was very nise to me. None of the other kids would play with me, but your daddy would color piturs with me al the time He told me al about you. You r smrt, and nise. I have a big thing coming up. Its cald an operatshin for my heart. I wil right agan. By.

Lov, Anna

I search my lungs for air but all I feel is a strong pinching. He never mentioned a little girl. I visited him every other day for the last nine months. I was there for every operation. I was there for him. Why wouldn’t he tell me? Why was this secret kept for so long?

I scan the room for the torn envelope. It’s hidden in the pile of shredded papers I created not so long ago. The return address. After a brief second look, I realize this address is just a few blocks away. Why didn’t I recognize this?

The letter slips from my hand. It falls to the ground and scrapes against the wood gracefully. This doesn’t matter. Why should I care? So what? He was nice to a little girl. It doesn’t matter.

But the thought of my father reaching out to another child kneads like bread in my head, twisting and stretching it till it’s hard to breath. I steady myself so I hover above my couch-bed. I need to lie down. There will be no supper for me tonight. Sleep will do me some justice. At least it will make me forget about this a little while. But before I shut my eyes, memories flush through my mind. Washing away the walls I worked so hardly to build up. To block the memories of my father. My real father.

“Dad! Dad! Do you want to come out and play with me? I found a ball outside. We can play catch,” I grin through a six-year-old smile.

“No, honey, not now, alright. Daddy’s real busy with work. Maybe tomorrow, all right sweetie. We can get some ice cream and maybe see a movie. Hopefully I’ll get paid by Mr. Thomas and…Never mind. Just go outside and play honey. Watch TV if you want. ”

Tomorrow came and went as did several tomorrows and promises. The ice cream always melted and the movie was always in end-credits. Bitter-sweetness was a specialty of my father.

“Guess what I did at school today dad? We went on a field trip to the zoo! It was the coolest place ever! Do you think we can go there someday?”

“When you are a little older honey. I have a lot to handle since…..Please, go outside and play sweetie alright.”

Tears fill my twelve year old eyes. But I hold them back

Dad sits in the swing in the backyard. Swaying back-and-forth, eyes at the sky. Every once in a while I see his hand brush against his eyes. Bugs maybe? Sometimes his head hangs down and he grabs the back of his neck. Pushing the screen door, I walk out to the swing and sit beside him.

“Dad, can I ask you something? “Dad? Why don’t you ever talk about Mom?”

“She...”

He lets out a huge breath like a deflating balloon. “Your mom died in an accident, sweetie. She died coming home ….Marty, I really don’t want to talk about this, all right. All right, sweetie?”

“But Dad, I want to know if you miss…”

“…Miss her? Of course I miss her!” he yelled. “I miss her. I’d give anything in the world to bring her back. Now will you please go inside, Marty. Daddy needs some time to think.”

Tears fill my eyes as I head back to the house. At times, I wonder if he ever thought about me.

A layer of sweat rests on my forehead. My body is numb from the sting of the memories my father left me with. Why did he treat me that way? I shut the question out of my mind for the rest of the night. My eyes fill with tears. I am alone. I don’t have to be scared. My father is gone. But I still hold them back.

Soon I am swallowed whole by the darkness of night. Sleep falls over me. I don’t wake up for fourteen hours.

I sit at the kitchen table, envelope in my hand. Why would a little girl write me a letter? How did she have my address? I need to know who she is.

The sun enters the window and when it meets my face I know I have to go. The house is on Oakland Drive. Not far from here.

When you grow up living without a car, the one thing you know how to do is run. I lace up my old sneakers and lock the door to the house. I don’t know why I do it, force of habit. Nothing inside worth stealing. It’s just something my father did.

The rhythm of my feet hitting the pavement is a song so familiar I can sing it anywhere. The hot cement burns the bottoms of my worn-through sneakers, making the rhythm beat even faster.

I see the house that matches the number of the address.

And the math questions return.

What about the children who don’t have moms or dads? What about the orphans? What is their number? What is mine? Was I number-one in his heart all along?

I crave the answer.

All the numbers will be here, rational and irrational, natural and unnatural, behind this door. As I look toward the sky, a small smile forms on my face.

Carrie Vance

Silence

G

reeted with silence, Axel Hardy waved goodbye to his good friends the Joneses as he opened the creaky front door with tense hands. He closed it as silently as he could. Home alone, he thought as his legs shuffled across the stained carpet. Puberty wasn’t on his side. With long, scrawny legs and arms sprouting wildly from his torso, his awkward body appeared disproportionate. No bawling baby brothers. No mom. No Leo. He plopped on the couch. Axel’s boney form stretched across a sofa covered in cat fur as a warm grin formed across his cheeks. Finally, silence.

The silence was broken like glass by a car screech, a lock of the vehicle, and haunting footsteps nearing the door. Leo. The husky mountain man stumbled as the door opened beneath his tattooed hand. He’s drunk. Again. Axel sat still and silent, hoping he could just disappear. It didn’t work.

“WOOH! What a night!” Leo lets out, raising his hands to the air, stretching out his beer belly. He slams the door shut. Axel locks eyes with the tough bearded 34- year old step dad. He seemed to be in a haze.

Axel cleared his throat. “Does my mom know you were drinking?” he squeaked. Over the past three years of living with Leo, Axel learned that whenever Leo came home from a night with the guys, it didn’t end well for whoever is closest to him. Namely, Axel.

Leo fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette and his lighter. “Did you clean the house?” Leo asked avoiding Axel’s question. He inserted the cigarette between his lips and lights up for the tenth time tonight. A large gray cloud of smoke appeared from his mouth like a dragon breathing fire. Axel stared at the cigarette and shook his head, no. “Well go do it!” Leo shouted approaching Axel, pointing at him with his cig. “Your mom said it has to be clean by the time she gets home in the morning, and I ain’t doing it!” Axel’s mom works night shifts at the local Wal-Mart. Since Leo doesn’t work, she takes whatever hours she can get for as long as possible. Axel’s two little baby brothers stay at their grandparent’s house every weekend. Step-grandchildren are not welcome, so on Friday nights it’s just Axel and Leo. Alone.

Axel disobeyed Leo’s command at first. “You never do anything around the house!” he yelled. His face grows scarlet all the way under his musky thick brown beard. He gripped Axel’s arm tightly and pulls, forcing him to stand.

“I said, go do it. NOW!” Leo commands again. He inhales the toxins form his cigarette and exhales right onto Axel’s face causing him to cough. Leo points the burning cigarette at Axel. His grip tightens as the end of the cigarette gets closer and closer to Axel’s face. He begins to squirm.

“Leo! Don’t! Please!” Axel screams as he tries to pull away from Leo’s angry grip, but he’s too weak. The cigarette lightly touches Axel’s bony cheek. It doesn’t take long for the fiery sensation to burn through his nerves to his brain. “AHHHH!” Axel screams to no one.

Leo pulled away with an evil grin. He laughed at the lanky helpless teenager’s pain as he grabbed his shirt collar and threw him down to hardwood floor. Leo raised a his hairy fingers, pointing at the steps.

“Go… NOW!” Leo yelled one more time. Axel quickly scurried up the screechy stairs as Leo stretched out on his tweed recliner beer in one hand, remote in the other.

The raunchy smell of cat feces smacked Axel in the nose as when he poked his head in the old bathroom. My God, he thinks holding his nose while walking into the beaten up bathroom that looks like the 1960s threw up and used this room as the doggie bag. He wandered across the chipped tile floor that became a little more yellowish and brown with every year that passed. It used to be white.

Axel started the normal cleaning routine scrubbing down the whole entire grimy bathroom; he started with the toilet and he noticed his brothers must have forgotten to flush. What’s the use? Axel plopped down on the floor. It’s not like it’s going to stay clean for long. Axel could hear the loud noise of the television filling the house. No sign of Leo. After he put the cleaner underneath the sink, Axel tiptoes to his room, lies on his bed, and tries to relax. And dream

Dreams, wonderful dreams were Axel had maids and servants that were cheerful angels. They were kind and polite. The house was silent, pure, and peaceful. He didn’t have a care in the world and there were no worries in his dream. He wanted to live in his dreams forever. “Where am I?” Axel questions one of the servants whose smile seemed to pierce through him. The servant was a tall and muscular man with his midnight colored hair slicked back on his head.

“Axel!” The angel-servant yelled, still with a smile on his face.

“Yes, I’m Axel but where am I? What is this place?” The man’s smile slowly turned downward.

“Axel!” He yelled again in a more angry tone. “Axel!” He yelled again. His toned body became more heavy set and his perfect slick hair slowly receded. He was turning into Leo. “Axel!”

Axel opened his eyes to witness Leo hovering over him, his face redder than ever. “What the hell do you think you’re doing!” The dream was ruined. Axel opened his eyes to the lumberjack drunk with anger.

The sight of the intimidating man made him flinch. “I was- um- I-,” He tries to explain but there was no way to reason with Leo. The feeling of weightlessness overcomes Axel as he is slammed against the wall. Leo squeezed his arm cutting off the blood supply and beginning the bruising process

“Get your ass downstairs now!” Leo pulled Axel from the wall, throwing him to the ground and giving him one last shove with his muddied Rocky boots into the small of Axel’s back. “Get your ass movin’ boy.!” He shoved Axel out of his room. At the top of the stairs Axel grabs the handrail begins to take his first step, a hard kick makes him tumble down the stairs.

Axel shrieked on the way down. He crashed into the front door and moans. His one eye is blinded by a large deep gash that won’t stop bleeding. Leo marched down the steps and grabbed Axel’s ears. “Leo!. Please,” Axel screams as he starts to pull him onto the carpet of the living room greeting him with a swift kick in the gut. Axel grasps for air and he can feel the contents of his stomach rushing from below.

Leo circled the helpless boy like a vulture. “I asked you to do one thing. One little thing and you didn’t do it!” Another kick to his gut. “When I tell you to do something you do it. Do you understand boy!” Axel squirmed on the ground, unable to get up. The tears running down his face were diluted with blood gushing from the gash. “Aren’t you going to fight back?” Leo questioned nudging him to his back. Axel slowly rose to his hands and knees. A small pool of blood began to form on the rough carpet below him. He glanced up--four Leos towering over him. Slowly and steadily, Axel rose to his feet and grabbing the couch for support. Without hesitation, he threw a right hook to Leo’s chubby face. It did nothing. “Was that supposed to hurt?” Leo said with a chuckle. Leo grabbed him and shoved him against the stair railing squeezing Axel’s neck. “For a second there I actually thought you were going to fight back.” The strong and bitter odor of Jack Daniels leaked through his teeth. “You’re just a scrawny nobody.”

“Leo,” Axel whispered as the grip tightened. A small smirk appeared on Axel’s face. “I’d rather be a scrawny nobody than a useless fatty.” The grip tightened and Axel could hear the faint crack but nothing more as Leo faded away.

Leo’s hairy beard began to shrink. He grew luscious black hair. “Axel!” he appeared to say. Axel closed his eyes and the sounds around him grew quiet. He didn’t feel the punches. He didn’t hear the screaming. The sound of silence was soothing.

Alesia Daly

Back road

B

ack road, tell me, where have you been?

I’ve known you since I can’t remember when.

Back road, you’ve always run through this boy’s heart.

Nothing in life will ever drive us apart.

I’ve done some things on you that I’ll never tell--

Those raw nights swerving and screaming like hell.

Back road, when it seems I can’t do anything right,

I feel your tug and you make it all right.

All those nights you carried me home;

With you riding shotgun I was

never alone.

Back road, it’s a wonder you haven’t killed me yet;

You’re a twisty old girl whose curves spell wreck.

Back road, when it’s time for me to exit this place,

Know beneath my ribs there’ll beat an empty space.

Back road, you’ll never leave me timid or alone--

Back road, till I die, you’ll be the way home.

Bryce Kustenbauder

Heavy Rain

T

he dark skies collapse onto the ground.

Every moment passing by gains upon us.

Everywhere we look,

Everything we do

It is there, falling.

There is no escape.

There is nowhere it can’t follow.

It sinks into your home,

It floods through the streets,

Sometimes it’s the reason that you can’t sleep.

Always bashing on the windows, and screaming softly as the wind blows.

Drop by drop, it drowns the mind.

Drop by drop, paranoia unwinds.

Ages to come, the black swarms drift away.

Surely it shall haunt you, every day.

Chris Bonsell

Lay Beside Him

L

ay beside him

tangled in knots of uncertainty

trapped by the fear of loneliness

never know what might be

never seeing light beyond the cracked door

lay beside him

let him keep you in the rut

stuck yet reaching for the dream

constantly yearning for the sky

grounded so his dreams can come true

lay beside him

smothered by his ceaseless love

pinned under his never-ending affection

let him pamper you in his prison

model the ball and chain for him

lay beside him

keep your anger tamped inside

let it fester and boil with time

wire your thoughts to an irrevocable freedom

ticking closer to the line

lay beside him

Molly laporte

The Old Willow Tree

B

eneath life’s shadows

She comforts me,

With branches low and tears of green,

Exuding beauty beyond belief,

She shields me with every flowing leaf.

In the fullness of summer’s heat, at her fullest when life is mean--

She cradles me, she listens deep;

Her emerald cage hides tears unseen.

And in the wind, I hear her cry,

Sounding through fields and through my mind.

As months pass her leaves will surely fade--

No more hiding beneath her shade.

In the wind I hear her cry--

Perhaps she cries for me,

Till summer returns and I wilt once more

In the arms of the weeping willow tree.

Davina Lee

Classic Austen

A

s an English buff, I have always been one to scout out a superior book for me to obsess over. No prejudice is felt towards the genres of these magnificent literary gems, so there’s never a halt to my reading experiences. With all of the books out there, it’s seemingly impossible to discover a book that stands out among the rest. That isn’t the case for all books, but I have found through experience that newer books and young adult novels all tend to mirror one another. I never liked reading what everyone else was reading. When all of my friends were sobbing over depressing, petty, romance novels, I was up in the corner of the library looking for a book that didn’t resemble all of the others on the shelves. Time in front of that shelf has introduced me to endless amounts of underrated books that I wish other people would also invest their time in. One of these books I discovered in that lonesome corner was a novel that will forever stand out to me. Sure, some novels may intrigue me a little more, but none have the qualities this book possesses. As New York Times magazine’s nominee for Book of the Year, Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice exhibits the following praiseworthy traits: a refreshing storyline, an understandable point of view, and a challenging context. When it comes to books (novels in particular), if it does not have a refreshing storyline, it will eventually just blend in with the other books on the shelves. In this day and age, everything gets turned into a competition. So, when an author has a successful release of a new, dramatic novel, novels of the same genre and theme start to come out of nowhere and get eaten up by the public. For example, when the Twilight Saga was turned into a major movie production, vampire-based novels were popping up on library shelves like daisies in the springtime. It was basically the Baby Boom of Vampire and dark fantasy themed novels. When events and phenomena’s like this occur, all of the “highly acclaimed and/or anticipated” novels seem to reflect one another and show no strikingly different storylines. I don’t particularly fancy a book with the same plot as the one next to it. Perhaps that is why I enjoyed Pride and Prejudice as much as I have. Yes, it may be a romance novel, but it doesn’t primarily focus on the soppy details of the attractions or lack of between the characters. I have read a lot of romance-based novels, but none like “Pride and Prejudice”. Jane Austen did a superb job at creating a believable love story. She also didn’t overload it with graphic details of the electric and intense details of an attraction between a man and a woman. Along with romance, this book hints themes of reputation. In the era this book was written (late 1700’s to early 1800’s), reputation could make or break your entire livelihood. The first sentence of this entire story not only describes the theme, but foreshadows the entire plot: “It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife” (Austen 1). This sentence stands as one of the most famous first lines in literature.

Pride and Prejudice was written in third person omniscient, meaning the reader is all-knowing. This point of view allows the reader to tap into the thoughts of all characters and have a higher understanding of the story. Many times in stories, a situation has occurred where only the main characters reactions, thoughts, and opinions are presented. Third person omniscient gives the reader the opportunity to see how every character in this book is thinking and feeling. For example, the characters Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet had many feelings and words unsaid towards each other, but I was able to know about them because of this story’s point of view. I was able to see Darcy’s growing love and admiration towards Elizabeth, while seeing her hatred and disgust towards him dwindle and slowly transform into interest. I loved being able to know all of the characters’ feelings because it really sucked me into the context. The way Darcy acted towards Elizabeth came off as condescending, but due to the novel’s point of view, readers are able to see that, in most cases, there is a deeper meaning to the way he acts. Also, I do not particularly fancy having to decode every action a character makes. I like being told what the other characters are feeling rather than having to use context clues to determine how their day went by the way they breathed during a conversation. With all of the books I have to thoroughly analyze during school, it’s nice to have a book that I can just read without having to worry about any hidden details. I’m sure that if Jane Austen would have decided to go with a first person point of view and just focus on Elizabeth, Mr. Darcy, or even Mrs. Bennet (Elizabeth’s mother), Pride and Prejudice would still be a wonderful book, but seeing all of the feelings between Darcy and Elizabeth’s roller coaster of a love story makes it all the more special.

Most novels the young adult and even adult audiences engage in have painfully easy contexts to read. I mean, why buy one of these simply written novels when you can just go down a few shelves, buy a children’s book, and receive the same educational benefits? Or lack of, shall I say. Personally, I believe that, in order to assist our brains growth, we must challenge ourselves. Even if the storyline in Pride and Prejudice is a relatively simple one, the language aspects of it are decently challenging to say the least. Published in 1813 and written in the time period of 1791-1813, Pride and Prejudice was written in old English. At first, reading the context is pretty difficult, but if you really pay attention to the context, comprehending the language becomes less of a pain. Because this was written in the time period it was, the story wasn’t tarnished by modern-day English slang. I often found myself using a dictionary (or Google) to decipher some of the words. Most people are intimidated by books with challenging contexts and is jam-packed with “big words”, but in all honesty, these books are the best kind because they make you pay closer attention to them while broadening your vocabulary simultaneously. Just because a book isn’t easy to read doesn’t mean that it isn’t enjoyable. Take a step out of your comfort zone and pick up a book that is going to make you pay attention and actually do some good for your noggin’! Jane Austen did not use the simplest language choices, and for that I must applaud her.

When it comes to finding a book I enjoy, it cannot mirror every other book on the shelf.

I spent a lot of time in this corner of the library looking for a book that didn’t resemble all of the others. This is where I had discovered a book that I will forever enjoy—one with a refreshing storyline, an understandable point of view, and a challenging context.

Works Cited

Austen, Jane. Pride and Prejudice. London: Egerton, 1813.

Davina lee

Why I’m Optimistic About America’s Future

2013 Voice of Democracy Winner

A

teenage girl cries into a damp dishrag. Tired, alone, and scared, she doesn’t know where to turn. A full-time mother to a fatherless child, she works two minimum wage jobs to feed her baby. It’s not the way she imagined her future, but it’s her reality. Her parents have shunned her, her friends have stopped calling, and sometimes the only words that mean anything are the tear-smudged scribbles of her order pad. She knows the stakes of throwing in the towel, so she wipes the mascara from her cheeks, checks her reflection in the stainless steel, and faces the crowd to clear another tip-less table…because she has no other choice.

A software developer sips a whiskey at the end of a bar. There are plenty of opportunities here, scandalous ones that might restore some remnant of his manhood. Edging toward forty, he never dreamed a Carnegie-Mellon IT degree would end like this. When his firm off-shored the division to a sister-plant in India, his pixelated dreams became a worthless pile of rupees. Ignoring the woman next to him, he knows his wife is probably getting to bed soon. He doesn’t want his kids to see him like this. He blinks hard, clenches his jaw, and pushes the glass away. He’s going to tell his wife that he loves her. He’ll explain to the kids that they’ll have to do with less. For too long now, that suit’s been hanging in the closet. Tired of running, he’s ready to make opportunity happen…because that’s the only thing left to do.

Nearly two weeks into a federal government shutdown, it’s hard to resurrect confidence in America’s future. In many ways, the shutdown is a metaphor for the moral failure of Americans to get along. The challenges pitting us against each other are daunting and deep—the hostility of the wealthy class toward our unfunded entitlements, and the nonchalance of the entitled class toward our unfathomable debt. It is true that the chasm between the One-Percent and the Ninety-Nine yawns wider than at any time in our history, making the American Dream of home ownership and a college education improbable for many in the middle class. But it’s just as true that we have suckled too long on a Welfare State that encourages us to ask our government for help before we help ourselves. The political clash is a cocktail for economic disaster.

But our dysfunction transcends class warfare.

When governmental over-reach restricts the light bulbs that we buy and the toilets that we flush, the environmentalist cheers yet the entrepreneur weeps. We give tax credits to green industry to develop solar and wind technology at home, but in the next breath we import the cheapest available panels and turbines from China and deprive our work force of high-tech employment.

We create world-class intelligence systems to defend our hard-earned freedoms from acts of terror, but we also create a Surveillance State with Orwellian bureaucrats who brazenly pirate our email messages. To paraphrase Ben Franklin, does a nation so eager to surrender liberty for safety deserve either one?

Despite our current dysfunction and dissension, America is a land of unbridled possibility, one that has risen from the ashes of the Great Recession. Though our national debt is a threat to a fragile world economy, increasing numbers of Americans, both the entitled and the overtaxed, recognize the danger. Like so many Americans before us, we must recognize the problems at hand and re-dedicate ourselves to confronting them though shared sacrifice—with fewer handouts, with longer careers, with different notions of prosperity, with deeper commitments to environment and education, with a fuller awareness of the courage necessary to live in the land of the free.

In the end, it will be worth the struggle. We will guarantee a secure future for our children. It’s a struggle we owe our servicemen and servicewomen in particular, in whose heroic shadows our quibbling must seem petty and shameful. Those too timid to lay down their lives for freedom owe this struggle to those who fought for the principles we cherish. Their memory is an unfailing solace in a cynical world--a world thirsting for a sign that democracy deserves another chance.

We must take that chance--because so many veterans before us have spilled their blood to give us second and third chances that we do not deserve—and because in hundreds of millions of ways, America is a teenage mother holding down two jobs. She is an unemployed father with a family he loves.

America is a Spirit that confronts a challenge and does not run away…because meeting the challenge is the only thing left for her to do…and because she has no other choice.

Mark lewis

a Dandelion parable

“Some see a weed, some see a wish.”

i.

A

t age six, Jenny lived across the street from the empty schoolyard at the corner of Lincoln and Ninth Street. She never understood why the school was vacant—nor did she understand why the lawn was never cut, but she appreciated it nonetheless. During summer break, she would roll down the dandelion covered hill with her two very best friends. As they tumbled down, their laughter clacked off of the building and tumbled toward the houses lining the street below. When they reached the bottom of the hill and had no energy to run back up only to roll back down, they reached for the jump rope.

The girls simultaneously sang, “Cinderella dressed in yellow, went upstairs to kiss her fellow, by mistake she kissed a snake, how many doctors will it take? 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10.”

When Jenny took her turn jumping, she stomped on a cluster of dandelions, launching little white seeds into the air. She looked at her friends in disbelief.

“Look how many wishes I wasted!”

In an effort to comfort herself, she plucked a lone dandelion with her tiny hand. She took an enormous gasp of air to fill her lungs, and as she puffed every last seed off of the seemingly magical flower, she made a wish. A wish she refused to tell Abby and Lizzy.

“Come on, we’re your best friends,” muttered Abby in an attempt to convince Jenny.

“If I tell you guys, it won’t come true,” Jenny defensively stated.

And with that, her wish fluttered along in the warm summer breeze.

ii.

As Jen lied her baby girl down for a nap, she spotted her wedding rings on the dresser. It had been three weeks since her husband had left her. Signs of his vacancy were everywhere. The lawn was in desperate need of a trim. Although it was her least favorite chore, she knew it had to be done. When she bent over to put on her cheap thrift store shoes, tears rolled down her face. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. She walked out the door and carefully pulled it closed so that the little one wasn’t awoken. Of course nothing could ever go right for her. It took fifteen minutes of strenuous tugs to get the mower to finally come to a roar. As she chopped down the jungle she called her backyard, she thought of her to-do list.

I need to buy diapers, formula, some groceries, pay for Laura’s daycare, and schedule an appointment with the lawyer.

The grass and weed clippings flew in the air, causing her to sneeze.

“Damn these weeds!”

She went back and forth in her yard for what seemed to be forever, repeating the same motions almost as if she were an automaton. As she finished up, she realized how much she hated that her life wasn’t going the way she had planned. The way she wished ever since she was little. However, she knew she couldn’t think like that. She had a house, career, child, and another one on the way to take care of. It wasn’t her ideal life, but she had to play the cards that she had been dealt. She glanced over her shoulder and saw a yard covered with decapitated weeds.

iii.

Two little girls trotted down the hallway until they found a room marked with Jennifer’s name. They each carried a vase of hand-picked flowers. As they set the vases on the night stand, they reached over to give their great grandma a kiss. Her arm doddered as she reached out to grasp theirs. Jen looked over as if she were trying to figure something out. She often gave this conjecturing look because her dementia had stripped her of so many memories. She recognized that tiny, pudgy hand--the hand that had swung the jump rope and had plucked the dandelion on that warm summer day. The one that had worn an engagement and wedding ring and tucked her baby in. The same hand that pushed the mower and had slowly become wrinkled. Her life was almost over, but so much of it had been lost. She grew up and forgot about the magic the dandelion once brought her. There she lay, on her death bed. With Laura, her granddaughter, and her two great granddaughters in her room, she revealed her wish.

“Ever since I was a little girl, I wished to be happy,” she muttered.

The diminutive things that had brought joy to her life seemed to disappear as she grew up and suddenly came back to her right before she passed away. In rivulets, tears streamed down their faces. She didn’t use her last breath to say “I love you.” Instead, her tiny, wrinkled hand reached for the vase, and grabbed a wilted dandelion. She filled her timeworn lungs with as much air as possible and blew every last seed into the air. She ended life in the same way she had started it. She had something to believe in. I wish for my family to learn from my mistakes and realize the magic of such unimportant things.

Megann Koegler

The Dark Truth

W

ill Rogers once said, “Everything is funny as long as it is happening to somebody else” (Rogers). I experienced the bitter truth behind this statement at the naïve age of ten. I remember the day that these words had brutally slapped me in the face. I never realized that my actions towards my miserable teenage sister would ever catch up to me, but I soon realized that I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Growing up, I was my mother’s little angel and my father’s little sweetheart. I could do no wrong. I did what I was told and I never seemed to misbehave. When I did make a little behavioral hiccup, my mother didn’t think much of it. This annoyed my older, but not much wiser sister. Especially because she was the one who actually experienced firsthand that I was, in fact, a rebellious little devil. My secretive cons and pranks played on my “big sissy” would have made Lucifer himself feel a bit of pride towards my rotten soul.

I was unstoppable. From liquid soap in her soda pop bottle, to adding a little bit of extra spicy pepper to her foods, I was making my sister more miserable. Fully aware of her thinning patience, I configured a huge, scandalous stunt to pull. Well, scandalous to a ten-year-old, at least.

Since the beginning of time itself, my sister has been absolutely petrified by the thought of clowns. And with the recent purchase of a new, yet somewhat large porcelain doll, I saw the makings of a potentially perfect prank. I had all of the materials necessary to pull this stunt off, so I began to plan and map out my acts. Now all I had to do was wait for the perfect opportunity to strike. And wait, I did. I waited a whole two days before I could seize the opportunity to scare the life out of my sister.

Because I rode the bus home from school and she had to walk, I would always arrive to our apartment approximately fifteen minutes earlier. I ran back to my room and began to dress her brand new dolly up. I pinned my own clown wig to its head and strapped a small red nose on to its petite face. In a rush, I placed the doll under her covers, shut her door, and ran to the living room to “do my homework”. I waited. For what seemed like an hour, I waited. I almost couldn’t take the anticipation anymore. I nearly started pacing the room until I heard the frantic rattling of house keys in the door. She was home.

I sat there, quiet as a mouse, as she dropped her belongings on the floor like a hot potato and made her way back to her bedroom where the clown beneath her sheets awaited. Without saying a word, she shuffled down the hallway with her snout in the air. The closer she got to her bedroom, the more nervous I became. Will she even notice? What if she doesn’t even get scared? My doubts were diminished as a blood curdling cry shot through my ears. It worked.

“YOU LITTLE TWIT! What the hell is wrong with you?!”, she howled as she plodded her way out of her room.

The closer she got the louder and more fast-paced her breaths were. I didn’t know if she was mortified or livid. Perhaps it was a mixture of both. With her trembling hands, she clasped a firm grip upon my braided pig-tails and yanked me from my seat. I released a small yelp as my tiny body plummeted to the cold tiles of our dining room floor. With all of the strength I didn’t know she had, she picked me up and carried me down the hallway towards the closet. I could see my fate. My dark, cold, crammed-up fate. I began to kick and cry for help, but my pleas for mercy were muffled by the sleeve of her boyfriend’s hoodie being shoved into my mouth.

My sister’s trudges of revenge were stopped as we approached the closet. The sleeve of the obviously unwashed hoodie was yanked from my mouth so she could turn the knob that opened the portal to hell itself. I saw it- the pitch black, over-crammed space I would probably release my last breath in. She loosened her grip on my braids just enough to throw me from her arms to the unforgiving tiled floor of the closet. I landed with my face buried into my arms. I looked up at my sister with tears in my eyes as I helplessly mouthed “why”, hoping to strike a cord and gain some sympathy from her cold heart.

“Maybe you’ll learn your lesson”, she retorted with not an ounce of remorse in her voice as she glided her hand up the side of the wooden, locked from the outside door and slammed it in my face.

There I was- trapped between the walls of terror. I was in a prison of my own fear. The pitch black nothingness brought about thoughts I did not wish to think. I carefully scooted myself up to the door and began to frantically pat every millimeter in an attempt to find the knob. I did eventually find it, but just as I had feared, it was locked. I latched my grip on to the door knob like a suction cup and began to shake the door as hard as I could. In fact, I’m not really sure how that door was even attached to its hinges after that. My heart dropped and my stomach flipped. I’m going to die. I didn’t even get to tell my mother I love her. I tried to keep myself under control, but the moment I touched a fuzzy object behind me, I lost every ounce if self-control I possessed. Booming wails escaped my mouth as I began to bawl my little eyes out. I threw my body to the ground like a two year old throwing a temper and started to kick the door with all of my might.

“Let me out,” I begged, “please! I’m sorry!” Nothing seemed to gain back my sister’s sympathy.

I didn’t know what else was left to do. My sister seemed unresponsive and this darned door was as locked as locked can get. I, with the only remains of hope left in my pitiful soul, began to contemplate different tactics I could use to get my sister to release me from this evil place. I thought about kicking a hole in the door. I even thought about screaming bloody murder to catch the attention of my neighbors. All of a sudden, I remembered one threat that always allowed me to get my way.

“Celestia, I AM TELLING MOM!”

All noises from the living room had come to an abrupt stop. The silence had only lasted for a few seconds before I could hear fast-paced footsteps rushing down the hallway. It worked. An overwhelming feeling of sheer excitement had taken over my soul. I was experiencing more butterflies at the thought of being re-introduced with the heavenly lights of my house than any of my prior crushes had given me in the expanse of my ten years. The rattling of a doorknob had never sounded so sweet.

The second my prison door had opened, I catapulted myself from the floor of the closet to the sweet, sweet floor of the lighted hallway. I was completely over-ridden with joy and my inner child had me running around the house gazing in admiration at every single light-fixture I could find. I was free.

On that traumatic day, I experienced firsthand the dark truth behind Will Rodgers’ words: “Everything is funny as long as it is happening to somebody else” (Rodgers). That day, I learned that my sister was not as dumb as I thought she was. I had always thought she didn’t have the audacity to fight back, but I discovered the hard way that I couldn’t have been more wrong. Perhaps I was the stupid one. Well, stupid in terms of scaring my sister, at least. I stumbled out of that closet with a new lesson learned: do not use someone’s biggest fears to their disadvantage because if they know yours, there is a definite chance they’ll get you back. Or you can just keep your fears to yourself.

Davina Lee

When Curiosity Conquered Bravery

J

ames Stephens once said, “Curiosity will conquer fear even more than bravery will” (22 1). In the winter of 2010, I learned the true feeling of conquering your fear when I along with two of my best friends departed on a curious adventure.

Instead of staying inside painting our nails and watching romantic comedies like every other group of thirteen year old girls, my friends and I enjoyed exploring the unknown. That is why on a Sunday morning right after church we decided to break into a house just to say we did. Our target was not selected at random however; we had our sights on this house for months. We chose a house that wasn’t on a main road, and one that would also have an easy escape route. Also, just to play it safe we picked the house that appeared the most abandoned.

With the doors locked, our point of entry was only a small window in the basement which had been shattered out by a rock. When I was thirteen I was bigger than my friends, who were both older than me. They slithered through the window with ease, as I almost gave us away by nearly getting wedged in the small crevasse. I wish I could say my landing was graceful, but the bruised wrists I received from the cement basement floor, proves it was not.

The chilled air skimmed along my cheeks causing my body to tremble. I was dressed in my Sunday best which consisted of thin black pants and a simple sweater. To our surprise we discovered that the basement was disheveled with furniture, and boxes holding newly bought toys and appliances. My friends and I thought that was odd, because the house was run down, and taken over by several birds.

We ascended up the steps, and made it to the first floor, nothing exciting to see there just unfilled rooms, and creaky wood floors. The second floor was occupied with more furniture. I was surprised that someone would leave so much furniture behind, and not be worried that it would be stolen. If three thirteen year old girls can break in through a small window, a grown adult could cause more damage. But we were not there to steal, just to feed our minds of curiosity.

As I meandered around the house I kept contemplating of how it looked when people lived here every day. I wanted to know the placement of the couches and tables that were now covered up in odd sheets. I wondered how many people lived here, and how warm they kept the temperature in the winter. I thought how my mother would love to decorate a house just like this one in her spare time.

We started our hike up to the attic knowing our adventure was coming to a close. We discovered that the windows from the second floor and up were all broken out, that is why there were so many birds around, and why it was nearly freezing. The stairs were very creaky; each step we took made large sounds that ricocheted through the entire house. I was behind my friends while we climbed the steps, when all of a sudden we heard the owners march in the front door.

The sound was quick and loud, but all three of us knew that we were caught. I stood frozen, eyes wide, heart pounding. My face went pallid. My first thought was how scared I was to tell my parents, especially my dad, why I was in trouble with the police. We stood absolutely still for eight entire seconds. Those seconds seemed interminable, and were the longest seconds of my human existence. I did not breathe, I did not move, and I did not even blink.

My second thought after being caught was maybe if we remained in the attic we could wait them out. Even though we were still in the stairway what I could see of the attic looked empty, so they wouldn’t be coming up stairs. Plus the owners couldn’t stay here forever. It is freezing and they don’t live here.

I observed the fear in my friends too, they didn’t move either, and I wandered what they were thinking. I knew I would be in the most trouble by my parents, and I knew I would not be allowed to hang out with them anymore. But they would be disciplined too, in whatever way I did not know, but at that moment I didn’t care to know.

After the commotion of the owners walking in it went dead silent. There were no sounds of footsteps, and no voices. I began to doubt if we really did hear the owner of the house walk in. We have walked by this house nearly every day, and not once did we see anyone who looked like an owner. The house was in horrible condition, anyone who cherished this house enough to visit would at least tape up the windows to keep the birds out. But all the windows remained broken.

During the eighth second of our absolute silence, we heard the exact same noise coming from the attic. My curiosity started to scream. I don’t know what it was about this second noise that made my heart start beating again, but I came back to life. I didn’t stand still anymore. I was no longer filled with fear. My friends and I migrated up the remaining five steps and realized that the sound of the owner coming into the house was just the sound a small flock of birds dancing in the attic.

The sight of the birds was relieving, although in the corner of my eyes I saw several rotting dead birds. There were so many I lost count in the six seconds we stayed up in the attic.

The scare from the birds made my friends and I only want to do one thing, and that was to get out. We raced down all the steps and turned the corners of the hallways recklessly. Finally we found the basement again. Again my friends escaped with ease, while I slashed a small cut in my church pants.

We were only four steps always before my friend admitted histrionically, “I forgot my hat in the basement!”

We chuckled sending her back in by herself though the miniscule window to retrieve it. Once she came back we started laughing, and talking about what we want to make for lunch. It was if the three of us forgot that moments ago we were bursting with fear. Our pulses regulated and our body temperatures went back to normal. We started being our regular, curious selves again.

As I look back on it now, I am glad I went along with my friends into that house, just to feed my curious head. That was the last time I was inquisitive enough to break into a house. But I wouldn’t have been able to do it back then if I was only brave, and had no sense of curiosity.

Work Cited

"22 Inspirational Quotes on Fear." Practical Happiness Awesomeness Advice That Works The Positivity Blog RSS. N.p., n.d. Web. 16 Oct. 2013.

Carrie Vance

Little Wet Lie

A

n old African proverb states, “The end of an ox is beef, the end of a lie is grief” (SearchQuotes 1).

When I was twelve, I wish I had known and understood this truth. It was an exemplary summer day. I’m talking 90 degrees, no clouds in sight, and nothing but cute girls and popsicles patiently awaiting me at the pool. Every kid’s dream. I could hardly contain a smile as I lathered some sunscreen on my arms and legs. Despite my high hopes, my father had other plans. You see, if you have a dad like mine, you’d be lucky not to inherit his intense antipathy for fun. The man is allergic to having a good time! For him, nothing beats a good ole hard day of labor. Gruesome, sweaty, smelly, tedious labor. And his plans for an “awesome” trip to clean out the pig slop from the barn didn’t fall short of his idea of entertainment. To say the least, I was not a happy camper.

“Dad! No way. I’m not doing it. All my friends are going to the pool! C’mon, please?” I pleaded.

“You’re coming with me. Let’s go, it will be fun! Put your jeans on. It’s not every day you can work on the farm!” he retorted. I rolled my eyes and scowled. Man I hated the farm. Always with the stupid flies gnawing at your skin. And that horrific cocktail of sticky, sweaty, smelly, mud pie ridden griminess was enough to make me want to gouge my own eyes out. I stomped all the way to my room to put those cursed jeans on. When I got to the second sock, an idea hit me like an angel-linebacker from the heavens. I would just fake sickness! Geez, they did it in all the movies! How hard could it possibly be? Then, once my dad had left, I would simply walk over to the pool and have a blast. Perfect. I was such a genius. It was fool-proof.

“Dad, I don’t think I’m feeling so hot,” I choked through a superficial stuffy nose. “Do you think I can just stay here?” On the outside, I was sheepish and ashamed. On the inside, I was teeming with excitement. What would he say?

After looking me over, frowning, and chewing on his lip, he finally sighed, “I guess you can stay here.” He was thwarted. “But you better stay here, you hear me? I better not find out you were out there running around when I get home,” he added sternly. After nodding my head animatedly, I caught myself acting a little too enthused about the whole ordeal. Toning it down a notch or five, I restored myself to the phony facade.

“I promise,” I blurted out impatiently. My friends would be getting there soon. I was not about to miss the best day of my life. I crossed my fingers behind my back to vindicate the fib in my own mind. He would never find out anyway. As soon as the door sounded the alarm of their departure, I didn’t spring into action. I was no rookie when it came to this. Counting down from 30, the door opened on 4. The keys. Classic. I had expected as much; my dad would never think to leave the house with them. There was always a second trip. Although he didn’t know the situational irony of the circumstance, I’m sure he was reassured to see me lying idly on the couch. Flipping through channels, I said one final goodbye to him as he walked out the door for good. Now I could unfold my plan. I frivolously applied some sunblock onto my skin. I tossed my shorts on, some change for some snacks, snatched a towel from the laundry room, and made sure everything was in order. The television was off, the sink wasn’t dripping, and all was good. Humming a tune, I made my exodus from the prison through the back door.

The stroll to the park was delightful. I couldn’t help but feel proud of myself for my accomplishment. I had gracefully eschewed doing any stinking chores and was on my way to have some fun. I was on top of the world. I skipped the entire way there. Rolling up to my oasis with a confident swagger, I flashed my pool ID like nobody’s business. I hastily took off my socks and shoes so I could enter the pool at last.

“Come on in, the water feels fine!” Tristan called from the right. The pool was packed to the perfect number of people: not too many people on the slides but enough to distract the lifeguards. We always liked to make trains or hang on to the sides of the slides. Of course, boisterous horseplay was also always an aspect of the pool day.

“Don’t have to tell me twice!” I retorted. The water swirled around my curly hair like soft serve ice cream on a hot day. The icy escape felt too good to be true on my deprived skin. I lingered below the surface to take it all in before I plunged into the dry air again. I let out an impressive yell of triumph as I shook my hair out of my face like a dog. The sun shined even hotter, the water splashed even harder, and the slides slid even quicker. Everything went right that day. I’m not gonna lie to you; I wish I could say that I felt too guilty to have a good time. But nothing could be further from the truth. For my friends and me, we had the best day of our summer. I left on time, fifteen minutes before the expected arrival of my father.

The walk home was when it set in. You see, my dad always made a day of working somewhat of a bonding opportunity. Although neither of us was very sentimental, there was something to be said for spending some good quality time with your father. It started to occur to me that he seemed so disappointed that morning because he knew I didn’t want to go with him. That’s not what I wanted at all. I felt so guilty for blowing him off. I lost the skip in my step. The smile wiped from my face. My ecstasy proved to be ephemeral. At this point, I probably would have traded the entire day of fun just to be with my dad at the smelly farm. Even toiling in the writhing filth seemed to be better than this terrible feeling in my gut. I sulked all the way home.

When I arrived home, my guilt subsided for a time. Perhaps it was just the feeling of being where my dad at least had told me to stay gave me some comfort. It was a long seven minutes until the door opened again. I was going to confess to him about what I had done. But when I saw him round the corner to talk to me, I just couldn’t. I didn’t want to disappoint him any further. So I decided to keep my mouth shut and stick to the original plan. But my facial expressions didn’t get the memo. It was quite obvious that I was regretting something, and it didn’t help that I was a tad sunburnt. My dad was no Sherlock Holmes, but it didn’t take much to diagnose the issue. I was busted. Two weeks of no television and lots of chores more than made up for the mistake. But I still wished I had just kept my promise.

Maybe those old African proverbs did have some truth to them. I had thought that my lie would have only made for a fun day. Unfortunately, it proved to really come back and bite me in the butt. Everyone can agree that the end of the ox is beef, but only the lucky see that the end of a lie is grief without learning it the hard way.

Work Cited

SearchQuotes. “African Proverb Quotes.” Web. 20 October 2013.

Mark lewis

Pulling Lieutenant Dan from the Abyss

2o14 American Legion Essay Winner

U

nited States legislators could learn something from Winston Groom’s curious classic Forrest Gump. Through Groom’s novel, readers experience the secondary battlefield of war--the return to home. Lieutenant Dan, Forrest’s commanding officer in the treacherous fields of Vietnam, arrives home reluctantly, ashamed that he did not die in battle. His family had a proud military heritage; it was expected of Dan to follow in the footsteps of his predecessors. Dan found following those footsteps difficult—literally, as he lost both legs from a mortar round. Unfortunately, Dan plunges into an abyss of hard liquor and despair. He sees himself as a washed up fraction of his former self. It is fortunate that government institutions embrace him step-by-step on his road to recovery.

But that is not how the story goes.

Dan earned a couple badges to boast about in the local bar. The check comes in the mail once a month. However, neither form of recompense makes him feel vital. The only thing keeping Dan from killing himself is the care he receives from a good-hearted friend. When no one else will, Gump entrusts Dan with a position of authority on his shrimp boat, keeps him company, and ultimately rehabilitates him until he is back on his “feet.” Is the United States government so large and impersonal that it cannot learn something from the straightforward action plan of Groom’s quintessential village dunce?

The government often underestimates one truism of war: there are no woundless soldiers. Broken marriages, emotional instabilities, and ruptured careers--our soldiers’ non-physical wounds regularly go unheeded. The VA hospitals do an adequate job in the immediate medical care of veterans. However, before soldiers check in and after patients check out of VA facilities, their needs are not met in the most expeditious manner. According to The Economist, nearly a million veterans are currently waiting for treatment at VA hospitals. On average, it takes the VA about nine months just to complete a claim. (Economist 1).

After soldiers return from the war, many wounded vets have no way of building and sustaining a successful career. Despite the assistance offered by the government, too many soldiers lack the resources to go to college or to secure the necessary training to land jobs. Increasingly, the notion that the military offers the world’s best on-the-job training is more myth than fact. The Center for Public Integrity reveals, “In September 2012, the unemployment rate for post-9/11 female veterans hit a high of 19.9 percent” (The Center). Is it any surprise that veteran suicide rates surpass the norm? The VA reports that on average twenty-two veterans committed suicide every day in 2010. Last year, more active-duty soldiers took their lives than were killed in combat (Economist 1). Simply put, joblessness leads to hopelessness.

Why is America increasingly ignoring the needs of its heroes? With Tea-Party pressure to limit spending on one end of the political spectrum and a burgeoning anti-military ethos on the other, our soldiers are caught in the middle. To exacerbate matters, a slow-to-heal world-wide recession has shriveled revenue, with less money for hospitals, therapists, and education for returning soldiers. Ironically, better body-armor has also meant fewer dead soldiers than wounded ones so that the vast inflow of the wounded requires a myriad of expensive high-tech care procedures and prosthetics that the government lacks the funding to provide. Columnist Kaya Williams reveals, “As of April 13th, 2013, about 852,000 claims were awaiting decision, and 69% (about 590,000) of those had been waiting more than 125 days” (Williams 1). With so many soldiers awaiting limb replacement and therapies, a returning soldier in the VA queue may feel more like an encumbrance than a hero.

With so much military and fiscal turmoil--with an indomitable budget looming over our legislators’ heads--it is difficult to decide what to cut. However, our wounded veterans have risked both friendly and unfriendly fire and sacrificed deeply so that civilians can claim freedom from the sanctuary of the home. VA hospitals either must improve their current state of service or else additional facilities must be staffed with better-trained professionals. If staffing is not the issue, then computer efficiencies and other technologies are a must to mitigate the backlog. More attention must be directed at the psychological needs of veterans, especially those who suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder; such ailments are neither illusory nor untreatable. Furthermore, the government must better rehabilitate veterans to successful careers. Wounded soldiers do not just want to be “thanked for their service” in a cliché manner everywhere they go. Annual parades and half-time shows are thoughtful, but they neither set a table nor pay a bill. Veterans want to be part of a family again—a family that they can help to sustain in every way. Some seek work from old bosses, while others will become their own, yet all yearn to re-immerse themselves in careers surrendered to serve their country. By subsidizing substantial hiring incentives, ultimately America will supply wounded veterans with the intangibles that mean the most: hope that one day they may become the people they want to be, and faith that their country will not betray them.

Lieutenant Dan was given the care he needed from a special friend. It took neither a military strategist nor a Washington bureaucrat to figure this out; all he needed was emotional support and a way to earn a living. Forrest had enough innate decency to listen to Dan, spend some idle time with him, and to hire him. Thank God for Bubba Gump Shrimp and other miracles of the mundane. Once on his feet, Dan restored himself to success with a new set of legs and a fiancée, both symbols of his new life. The solutions are not complicated. His rebirth was facilitated through a dullard’s kindness. With increased funding and efficient follow-through, this is the least America can do for all of its heroes.

Works Cited

Economist. “The Waiting Wounded.” 23 Mar. 2013. Web. 10 January 2014

The Center for Public Integrity. “Post 9/11 veterans come home to a nation that cannot address their needs.” 25 Aug. 2013. Web. 8 January 2014.

Williams, Kayla. Nation.Time. “The VA Disability-Claims Backlog…and the VA’s Response.” 23 April 2013. Web. 13 January 2014.

Mark lewis

4 AM

I

f 2 am is for poets

If 3 am is for ghosts

Let 4 am be for lovers

Let those 60 minutes stand for the hour of lust

Hour of love

Hour of need

Let those 3600 seconds be a time marked by sweat-sheened bodies

Deep tangled limbs

Breathless words of love

Let this hour be stained by sweet nothings

Bitter promises

Longing dreams

4 am is for the lovers

4 am is for you and me

Miranda joy walsh

Rise of the Marionettes

E

ighty short takes is all we have,

But we’re not even scripted for that.

We squander the days

Nodding the scenes away.

Eat, sleep, work, repeat--

choreographers’ renditions of living.

Where is the adventure?

Where is the desire?

Where is the love?

You won’t find them on this

stage, I assure you.

So turn off the phone,

Turn down the music,

Turn away from the boss,

Turn inward for a moment, and

Stop letting the make-believe rule you.

Your stage directions demand you be

quantified

documented

bottom-lined

spread-sheeted

porcelain-skinned

barbie-dolled

designer-clad

And soulless.

Take heart.

Burn the script.

There is a time

For the creative mind,

For the hopelessly bubbly

For the imperfectly determined

to rise.

And that time is now.

So slip off your bonds

And open your eyes.

You are no marionette

Dangling from lifeless strings.

Cast off those tangled chains, my friend,

And dance wildly to the corners of the Earth.

Madalyn miller

Identity

I

am not a writer

I am not an artist

I cannot twist the words

I cannot swirl the paint

To create a work of beauty

I am not a scientist

I am not a mathematician

I cannot calculate the density

I cannot evaluate the differential

To design a theory of logic

I am not a leader

I am not a speaker

I cannot persuade the people

I cannot fashion the words

To generate a movement of power

I am not a hero

I am not a martyr

I cannot brave the danger

I cannot sacrifice for the cause

To perform an act of honor

I am not a dreamer

I am not an innovator

I cannot imagine a world

I cannot redefine this world

To stoke a fire of inspiration

I don’t yet know who I am

Nor who I am to be

What I’ll do with my life

All I know is what I’m not

And who I’m not.

And that’s simply not enough.

Grace mckernan

Walls

D

eath glares from a mile away--

Why did I even come today?

Gossip in the halls,

All about my thoughts,

Can they see through my shield--

That I just want to feel?

Why am I hated?

Why am I degraded?

The pain is fading,

Busted knuckles under the skin,

The swelling from within.

These walls cry

As I thrust my fist into them.

Time after time,

I shouldn’t let them get to me,

But they’re tearing away

At the exterior wall,

Soon I shall fall--

Holes scattered through the wall

I’m gonna break his jaw.

This time I’m done.

The words bounce off me.

Now they truly see

I’ve stopped letting them

Burrow their way into my skin

I’ve finally realized

I’m not saying goodbye.

John brown

she has seen

Y

ou left her with scars

and open wounds;

You dirtied her with your lies

and false-truths.

You told her she was your little girl,

That she would grow to be beautiful.

You said one day, she would find her own,

But as you cut the wings

She dearly wished to spread,

You trapped her deeper in your darkness,

Never to see that beautiful end.

You thought you were doing good,

But you were dimming the

beautiful light in her eyes,

Crushing her soul,

Severing her mind from her body

She now knows fear.

She has seen the Monster.

Reagan heidenthal

Beast in the woods

L

ike beasts stalking the woods,

They avoid the trees and focus on movement--

Movement sometimes stiller than the trees--

Quivering unlike the rest.

The beast pounces.

The prey does nothing,

has done nothing.

It’s not about deserving.

Animal rumor consumes the woods:

Attack this creature.

She is weak,

She’s different.

Afraid to run.

The prey runs home

In search of sanctuary--

Reaches her peak:

A stress that cannot be tamed,

That refuses to speak,

That refuses to give up,

The scars of its mind

Are the scars on its arms.

This prey it true, and

The beasts are real--

Though fable to some

Who will never understand--

An oft-repeated story of a girl

now fallen.

What happens in these woods is real.

And it happens every day.

Upending the fairy tale.

Lyndsey kemp

Playing God

T

he dimming hills roll by through the car window, as

spacious mountains adjoin the sun,

Turning the skies as dark as the deed she will perform.

He never loved her.

He got what he wanted.

He told her to take care of it.

The procedure is as silent

as her streaming tears.

Murderer.

Monster.

It is unforgivable, she knows.

God will disown her for her selfishness, she knows.

The accusing hypocritical stares will follow her eternally.

She shudders.

As she leaves the graveyard to head to her car,

She sits for what seems a short lifetime--

And she weeps.

LYNDSAY GREENE

Black eternity

I

t is dark in here,

Nothing but a text box,

Trapped within

someone else’s words.

It’s a girl, alone and sad.

stuck here just like me--

complains that no one woke her up.

complains that she inhaled the toxins,

transported to a brief eternity.

Will I ever return?

The dark simplicity scares me.

Seconds ago I was wide awake.

Now I am here:

Alone with a sentence.

I wish I could comfort her.

But I need comforting too.

The light comes back.

Blinding and blurry.

Lying on my bed in a dull haze,

Never will I do this again, I say to myself.

And yet seconds later I’m on my way back

To that black forever.

Why do I do this to myself?

Fletcher hawkins

food for gods

O

h, how I hunger for you

as I inhale your enamoring scent from across the room.

I gaze over lesser students to catch a glimpse of your eyes,

which sparkle like a thousand stars in a wild night sky.

They’re chocolaty essence captures my soul as

You’re hair cascades over silken shoulders--

a magnificent, golden waterfall.

Like a stone sun peeking through marbled clouds,

Your heart-shaped lips are chiseled on your face.

When you smile, my heart flutters

Like butterflies fresh from the cocoon.

You dance like a wingless angel

and speak like the songbirds of June.

I stare at you from across this room

in speechless admiration.

If I could date you, I would.

But I can’t,

So here I sit here in English,

Mesmerized by every breath of you.

Who wouldn’t want Ambrosia? [1]

[1] in Greek mythology, the drink or food of the gods

Kali lingenfelter

A walk Through the Park

T

he long winding road

Twists and turns throughout

The botanical gardens

Once again

She trails behind Him,

A diminutive pup,

Enveloped by the murky shadows of

Her Master.

Fantasizing, she is ecstatic,

But she is not,

As she embraces His hand,

A leash that’s restraining her.

Where He saunters she follows.

When He berates

“Stop…

“Sit…

“Stay…”

She obeys his actions.

She’s distracted,

Feathered friends dancing in the wind.

So happy

So free

Up in the heavens, never to be grounded

by an owner,

Unrestrained doves flutter in the radiance of the sun

Speckling the clean blue sky.

Doves, birds of love.

She thinks she loves him but deep down

She knows

She’s nothing

But his bitch.

Alesia daly

Him

L

et him close around you

Let him steal you away

Your bones have the patience of the mountains,

But your mind hasn’t that much time

He’s going to break down your soul

He’s going to strain your heart

He might leave you breathless for hours,

Or maybe the storm he brings

will only leave you warned

We will see if the demon will let you sleep tonight,

But fear not

He will be back again

He has all the time in the world

Go on,

Count to ten

Count to twenty

Breathe in

Breathe out

Think about all the happy thoughts

The demon doesn’t care

Do you think your tears cease him?

Do you think your silent screams will fill him with guilt?

You’re wrong

So, my dear,

Let him crush your chest

Let the tears burn down your face

Don’t make a sound

No, not even a peep

No one cares

No one hears

No one comes

Miranda joy

walsh

A World Full of Words

W

hat’s the meaning of life?”

Inquiring English teachers want to know--

As if it’s written large between the lines, not

Taking refuge behind the letters--

As if it’s hidden in plain sight,

So simple to discover but difficult to comprehend.

“What’s the author trying to convey?”

English teachers--they want to know.

As if we know what an author’s thinking,

without the privilege of a mile in his shoes.

How can anyone plumb the personal images behind heartfelt words?

Like blood, the pen stains the page and distorts it like an inkblot.

We’re supposed to know?

We’re supposed to understand,

To command omniscience on the spot?

No reader has that power—let alone the choice.

Samantha johnson

wasteland

I

always suspicioned sanity was overrated; that’s how I ended up coming to this place.

I took a deep breath before passing through the wrought-iron gates that led to the turning point of my career. The garden was well-kept, and the cracks between the concrete pathways remained clean of weeds. I paused about halfway to the building just to take in the artificial beauty of it. It was it was the peak of summer, and the oaks in the front yard stood erect and full. Warblers fluttered from the low branches, creating the rustling, living shade I recalled from those summer evenings beneath trees as a child. This place felt familiar; it felt right, but it was significantly smaller than I had anticipated, so much so that as i approached the heavy white door, I hesitated, like I knew I didn’t belong here.

The door creaked open before I got the chance to ring the bell that hung crookedly to the left of the doorframe. On the other side of the threshold stood an older man in his mid-sixties, straight as one of the oaks on the lawn, an engaging smile that spread from ear to ear. His black shoes were polished and reflected the peeps of sunlight that scattered across the marble tiles. His lab coat beamed a brilliant white, radiating the daylight of the afternoon.

“How can I help you?”

He spoke with ease. The words seemed so calm, fluid, unpracticed. His voice was sturdy, like my grandfather’s, with a quality that could build a sense of trust in anyone. He reached for my hand.

“Welcome to Evergreen Manor. I’m Doctor Gates.”

I saw a road sign for the place when I was on my way to work about a week ago. With my writing career headed nowhere fast, I was desperate—for inspiration, for the creative drive that seemed to be hiding from me. The thought of a nuthouse reinvigorated interest in my barren wasteland of an imagination. Fabricating a plausible motive to show up was not difficult. I thought of my mother. I always thought that a place like this was waiting for her—with the bug-eating, shadow-kicking, and hair-ripping crazies. Not a day went by that she didn’t pop, shoot, or sniff to feed her monsters, so I felt little remorse fabricating this ruse to feed my own. I thought of all the nights she spent on the couch shooting up and drinking bourbon straight from the bottle while my siblings and I worked our asses thin keeping the house in decent enough shape to avoid eviction.

And when reality came too close, she beat us, until we grew up.

Dr. Gates led me through the doors into a dimly lit hallway that led to his office.

“What brings you here?”

He walked with his hands in the pockets of his lab coat, with one of his strides consuming two of mine.

I knew I couldn’t tell him the truth behind my real motive. Hell, he’d think I was crazy.

“My mother isn’t… doing well--aging hasn’t done her mind any justice. She’s been delusional lately. I’ve come to check the place out. Wouldn’t want my mother stuck in just—anyplace.” Truth was, I hadn’t talked to my mother since I graduated.

He looked at me with an expression that showed little concern. He’s probably used to sob stories about how loved ones driven suddenly off the deep-end, or others languishing gradually in the throes of dementia.

“Unfortunately, our minds dissipate along with our youth. It’s hard to deal with, especially if it is someone you love. It’s hard to see them go through such a change. It’s like they’ve become… different people. Have a seat while I scrounge up some papers.” He directed me to a small mahogany chair with crimson cushions.

He was mumbling something. I didn’t know whether it was a message intended for me or not. I just continued to gaze at the walls that were plastered with framed degrees and awards. There were newspapers highlighting the success of Evergreen. The carpet was thick and an odd shade of green that clashed with the scarlet interiors. His desk was a deep cherry and was hoarded with piles on piles of papers forming mini-skyscrapers of confidential information that were ready to fall at any moment. Good to see that his filing cabinets were being put to good use.

His mumbling grew louder and much more aggressive. His once rosy cheeks now resembled the red interiors that filled his office. I couldn’t make out what exactly he was rambling about, but a few curse words slipped off of his tongue.

“Is everything alright, Dr. Ga—“

“Yes, it’s fine. Perfectly fine. Ah, give me a minute. I need to take care of some business.” His words were rushed, much like my mother’s when she was having one of her fits. His polished shoes stomped through the carpet as he panicked out of his office.

I was left to myself in the painfully silent room. The lights were even dimmer than before. The brass lamp on Dr. Gate’s desk occasionally gave a subtle flicker. The cloth lampshade cast a yellow tint upon the ceiling and painted the walls.

The clacking of Gate’s shoes could be heard faintly from down the hall. They grew louder as he continued his path back to his desk. His steps were no longer forceful and frantic, but calm and soft.

“I apologize for any inconvenience. I really needed to find these papers.” He waved a small stack of papers in the air. His silver hair was a tattered mess as opposed to the slicked style he had just minutes ago.

I nodded.

“Alright, now where were we?” His smile was now forced and his voice was cracking on every other word. He began to ramble about how great a place this was and that my mother would be in good hands. Honestly, I didn’t care. With every phrase, with every twitch of his eye, and with every crack in his voice, he was proving himself to be crazier than all of the patients that could have resided there.

There was a tension in the room that I had not felt when I arrived. The tension was almost suffocating. I wanted to vomit. I felt the burn and chunks make their way up my throat. Sweat was dripping from my brow. My mind was racing. Millions of thoughts dashed across my mind, all too quickly to comprehend, except for one.

Run.

“Is everything alright, Ms.? You seem a little disgruntled.”

“I’m sorry, but I think it’d be best that I leave. I’m not feeling well. It was nice meeting with you, Dr. Gates. I’ll be sure to keep you updated.” I made my way to the door before hearing the creak of his chair. He hoisted his body up, keeping his weight on his arms that leaned on his desk.

“I don’t think so, Ms. You stay right there. Don’t take another step,” he demanded, “Once you’re in, you’re in. There’s no going back.”

“I have every right to leave!” I was forcing the tears of anguish back. With every breath I took, the lump in my throat tripled in size.

“You can’t leave, Kyra. You simply can’t leave, darling. You will see in time. Trying to escape will only make the reality of the situation worse. Now calm down and come take a seat in my office until the nurses come to get you.”

“My name. How do you know my name? Who are you? What do you want?” my voice was just shy of a scream. My head was shaking forcefully in disbelief.

No, I must be going insane. I’m just imagining things.

“Oh Kyra, I know everything. I know that you don’t talk to your mother. You haven’t spoken a word to her since you were a teenager. Trust me, I know a great deal more than you think.”

“No, you’re lying. There’s no way. No way.” I began to walk backwards toward the front door.

“Come. Do not refuse me.”

His voice was grim, threatening.

I turned around on myself and began to move toward the main entrance, just short of a sprint. The faster I ran, the longer the hallway grew. It was as if the walls themselves were stretching, changing color, laughing at me. My heart was pounding in my throat so loudly that I was surprised nobody heard its fearful song.

“Better run faster, girl. They’re gonna get you.”

The voice was unfamiliar. It sounded like an elderly woman. It echoed in my mind and shattered in my soul.

They’re gonna getcha.

It played over and over in my mind, changing pitch and tone with every repetition. The words grew louder and closer together until they started to overlap each other and made my ears ring.

I looked back. No Gates. He was gone. This did not provide any relief, for he could be anywhere.

They could be anywhere.

I let out a sigh of relief when I felt the coolness of the brass doorknob against my quivering fingertips. But the brief joy was brought to an abrupt stop as I felt the sheering pain of a needle into the side of my neck.

“Ha, ha! They gotcha!” the voices were like nails on a chalkboard.

There was two of everything. Two ceilings, two doors, two Dr. Gates’, two empty syringes, two tall men in sea foam green scrubs, four tall men. Six. Black.

I woke up in a bed made neatly with stained white linen, clueless about how I had made my way back. The last I had remembered, I was taking a stroll in the courtyard.

My body was incapable of movement.

I felt an overpowering numbing sensation throughout the entirety of my body with the exclusion of the side of my neck, about two inches below my right ear. The springs of the mattress dug themselves into my back, making it impossible to feel comfort.

As I lay on that bed, I could hear the faint words of a familiar voice. The clacking of his heels crept toward me. He was not alone. There were another set of footsteps accompanying his. They were softer, yet still heavy. Nurse sneakers.

“She tried escaping again. Taking a walk in the courtyard when she saw one of the others writing in a journal. Must have set something off. For a while she thought she was still a writer. Tried to sell me the ‘mother’ story, still hasn’t forgiven her for admitting her. Mom’s always the crazy one! Teenagers.”

He let out a sigh—he had heard the story too many times.

“She was doing well. She has been taking her medication, right?” A tone of panic rose through his words.

The nurse spoke up, “Yes, Doctor. I give them to her every day with her lunch. I--”

“You’ve seen the pills touch her tongue?”

“I saw her put them to her mouth.”

Her voice was shaky.

Gates’ clacks scampered down the rest of the hallway to my door. I heard the rattling of his keys but didn’t feel scared. I stared at the swirls painted on the white ceiling. Gates barged through the green door, breathless. He took in a deep breath and opened his mouth to speak, but I cut him off.

“Looking for these, Doc?” I reached into my pillow case and pulled out a handful of blue pills. I looked at them in disgust. The pills made the voices stop. My voices fed my imagination--the pills starved it.

Just as Dr. Gates reached for the pills, I clenched my fist and watched the blue dust fall to the ground like the first snow of winter. It was beautiful.

I threw the half-crushed capsules to the ground and watched them scatter, destroying the mesmerizing picture created by the dust.

A lot of beautiful things were destroyed in this place. Beauty, like sanity, is only temporary.

Davina lee

Coming Home

S

he looked at the clock as she sped out of her house.

4:05 a.m.

Furiously flipping through her wallet she made sure that all the money she had was with her; she wasn’t coming back. Money, driver’s license, car keys. Everything she needed was there. She unlocked the door to his ‘59 Studebaker Hawk and threw herself into the driver’s seat. As she turned the key she planned her trip. Three dozen of her boyfriend’s one-hundred dollar bills, his car, and her looks should get her far out west--maybe to California. There she could start a new life.

She kept the lights off of the gold Studebaker as not to awaken any neighbors, or even worse, him. She hoped he didn’t hear the car start over the rain as she slowly she crept out of the winding driveway, her heart pounding harder with every turn of the wheels. She was doing it. She was leaving him. Taking his money and his car. After all, he owed her. A dime for every punch, a nickel for every bitter word. She had never felt so alive in her entire life. With the flick of a switch she turned the lights back on and pulled left, heading west. She reached for the radio, searching for a station to get her mind off the stress. It was the time of day where the radio stations would play the most Rock & Roll for all the teens. Elvis Presley, Buddy Holly, The Beatles. She liked the sound of the upbeat drums and guitar. They almost cheered her on as she cruised down the road. She sang along with Buddy Holly’s “That’ll Be the Day” as she rolled down her windows:

That’ll be the day that you say goodbye,

That’ll be the day when you made me cry,

You say you’re gonna leave, You know it’s a lie…

That’ll be the day-ay-ay that you…

Her flowing blonde hair whirled in the breeze under the light of full moon. She smirked to herself at Holly’s words, almost mocking him for thinking she wouldn’t leave. The sun would soon rise and the birds would come out and she would finally be free. Content with her decision she eased onto the gas, eager to see where her trip would take her.

10:30 a.m.

She had just crossed the Kansas/Colorado border when she started to worry about the police searching for his car. After all it was one of a kind, and he had to have run down to the sheriff's station by now; it was almost midday. She knew she would get caught and taken right back to “his” house if she kept driving the Studebaker. It was always “his” house no matter how much she helped.

Clean my house. Cook my food. Pay my bills.

It seemed as if she did everything and owned nothing. She figured she would drive his car until empty and then leave it on the side of the road. From there she could walk to the nearest gas station and hitchhike her way to California. No one could turn down a pretty girl like her. She was always the talk of whatever town she entered. If she wanted a guy, she could get him. A flick of her hair and a crack of her smile and she was set for miles. She knew that. She glared through her sunglasses at the gleaming road, moist with the rain from the early morning drizzle.

A few more minutes passed. The car sputtered a bit then gradually decelerated. It was finally empty. With a single hand on the wheel and a single eye on the road she searched for her belongings in the car, gathering them so she could leave as soon as she pulled over. She threw them all into her large purse and veered right to the edge of the road. As she got out she glanced into her wallet, double checking the amount of money she had. Then she tossed her heavy purse over her shoulder and swaggered her way down the edge of the road, hoping to attract the attention of a man eager to give her a ride.

11:00 a.m.

“You going somewhere, honey?” an older bearded man asked as he slowed in his rusting pick-up truck.

“Maybe,” she replied, “why, who wants to know?”

She gave him a flirtatious look as she continued to strut down the road.

“Me. Ain’t no pretty girl like you should be walking in this heat. Why don’t you come hop up in this seat? I’ll take you to wherever your heart desires,” he said as he pulled to the side, unlocking his door for her to come in. “I don’t bite. It’s just a little ride to get you out of the sun baby.”

She was uneasy about the man. He was filthy with motor oil and had a greying beard and mustache that reeked of a stench that could be smelled from outside his truck.

“What’s your name?” he asked, grinning with his green, yellowed teeth, “My name’s Bryan. My friends call me Big B. The B is for Bryan. I’m sure you can figure out what the big is for”

At first she was confused on why they called him Big B. He couldn’t have stood taller than six feet and was not by any means overweight. But then she realized and got a sick feeling in her stomach.

“Angela,” she nervously answered.

“Nice to meet you Angela,” he grinned, “now why don’t you bring your pretty self over here and hop in the truck with me?”

She hesitated. She did need ride, and he was the only person she had seen in a half hour. She finally mustered up the courage to open the door and slide her lean body into the leather covered seat, which was heavily cracked showed the yellow foam and springs within.

“There ya go baby. Where you headed?” He asked. His teeth were more disgusting up close. The roots were nearly exposed and blackened. Tobacco.

“California I think. To start a new life” she answered.

“I see I see,” he pulled back onto the road, “running from something?”

She hesitated.

“Not really. Just want a new life.”

“People don’t just want new lives for no reason darlin’.”

She stared at him as he smiled through the few teeth he had.

“I do.”

“You’ll tell me soon enough.”

She stared at him in disbelief once more. She prayed that God would give her another option. She prayed she’d see a gas station or a town for her to be dropped off at. Until then this was a waiting game with a dirty, old man that never learned the boundaries of what was saying too much and what wasn’t.

2:00 p.m.

She was well into Colorado now. He had been attempting to flirt with her for three hours and she was starting to believe that he was driving her in circles. She had seen a lot of the same. Land as far as you could see in one direction, mountains in the other. Her stomach began to grow sick again.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked. He could sense the fear in her voice and fed off of it.

“Home baby. You’re coming with me!”

She glanced to the door to unlock it and noticed one thing--the locks had disappeared into the door. He grinned once more.

Garrett hunter

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