The Rope Bridge By June Tun and Carolina Sapriza

    “The Rope Bridge”

By June Tun and Carolina Sapriza

There once was a little girl named Mary. It was her birthday, turning seven years old. Her mother had promised her that after she picked up her sister from school, she would bake her a chocolate cake twice the size of her head.

“But don’t stray from the dirt path,” her mother warned, “or else bad things will happen.”

“Yes, Mother,” replied Mary.

“Now off you go!” Mary’s mother walked her to the door and let Rosemary walk off onto the dusty dirt path.

Oh this path is so long, Mary thought. And quite boring.

“I should go to the rope bridge path. It’s so much faster. It’s my birthday after all,” she declared out loud. And she marched off to the Rope Bridge.

Oh, what a wonderful birthday, she thought, I’ll get back home quickly with my sister, eat that big chocolate cake and…

She halted. She was at the end of the Rope Bridge. She confidently looked up, expecting to see the other leafy green trees and a clear azure sky. However, the landscape was not at all cheery and bright. It was the complete opposite. The woods were bare, the sky was gray and bleak, and, at the center of the Rope Bridge, stood her raven-haired sister, looking downwards. Slowly, very slowly—slower than any human could move—her sister looked up staring into the eyes of Mary. But, her sister couldn’t look her in the eyes.  

Because she had no eyes.  Her face was completely blank, blank as a white sheet of paper. Mary gaped in horror, and let out the loudest shriek her lungs could manage. She whirled around and began to flee, not daring to look back. Mary ran all the way back to her home for safety.  As soon as she placed both of her feet down in her house she slammed the door as hard as she could and locked the door. Mary crumpled in front of the chestnut colored door, panting like a dog. Two minutes passed and Mary finally got to her feet. Then she wondered, Where is mother…?

She walked around the house, calling and calling her name.

“Mother? Mother?! MOTHER?!”

She then heard a thunk.

It was coming from the kitchen.

She sprinted to the kitchen. She peered out, and there was her mother, sitting in a chair, facing away.  

“Mother!” Mary cried, and ran to her, arms stretched.

The wretched mother turned; however, it was not her mother, but a white-haired woman. Without a face. Mary stopped in shock.

“Who…Who are you? And what did you do with my mother?” Mary trembled. The woman didn’t move. She simply sat there, head turned to face poor Mary. Where’s my mother!?

She tried to say, but her mouth couldn’t open. The world had turned into a black, noiseless, scentless oblivion.

Because she had no face anymore.



 

To Kill A Mocking Tyrant By Eden Arnoff

To Kill a Mocking Tyrant”

By Eden Aronoff

I wake up at 2am to train. I go to the secret gym, so nobody will notice me. I click the air and a bright, silvery screen pops up. I scroll down and go to the gym settings and press on the “weights” button. A silver, 30-pound weight crashes to the floor. I wrap my fingers around it and lift it up and down, up and down. Sweat beads on my skin. The light from the sun rising behind me glints off the silver weights. It reminds me of my father’s swords that he showed me. I think back to when I watched him practicing to be in the Marsian army. I was two then. So young. I could not think of what would happen to my father. Later that night a government official spied on my dad with his beady, watching eyes. They took my father away and killed him. No one was allowed to be in the army or prepare for the army if the high tyrant doesn’t say so. So, many years later, I am still fighting for him. But, I hear Luxa crying from her nursery. I run into her room and cradle her. I am also fighting for her, my baby. So that she can do whatever she wants to do, and not what the government wants her to do.

One Year Later

I am going to the dump to find a small foam sword for Luxa. I can’t go to any store because the high tyrant would not allow anyone to have swords. I find two small, gray and blue foam swords. I slink back home. When I get home I clean the grime off of the swords. I find a big, plastic birthday present bag. I lay them inside.

Several months later

I open my journal and start to write…

I just resigned from the army. It seems crazy, I even think I might be going mad. But, I want to do something bolder than being in the army. I want to do something that will change our nation.

I have some ideas:

Overthrow the tyrant

Protest–(not the best, might get murdered or tortured)

Harm the tyrant

Kill the tyrant–I could get tortured just for suggesting it but, he won’t see it coming. But, it is the best course of action–I have a plan!

That night….

“Come on!’’ I insist.

I am coming,” Ian whispers as loud as he dares.

We plan to assassinate the tyrant, Sir Gan. I have put Luxa in the nursery.  

“Can you take care of her?” I ask my sister Neon.

“Ok! I will!” she says enthusiastically. She picks Luxa up and tickles her belly.

I hug her then get in our shiny, grey jet. Ian pulls on the thrusters and we are speeding towards the South grid, where Sir Gan is waiting. The jet speeds along the jetway. I feel like time has slowed down. I see the particles of dust in the air. Ian, my husband, leans back in his red, padded chair. I hear the engine whirring and wheezing. Finally, we enter the South Grid. The sun is pounding down on the city. I look out of the jet’s window and I see grey, cracked buildings and people with depressed looks trudging through the sunbaked streets. We land silently in a jet lot.

We cautiously walk out of the jet and turn on our invisibility suits. We walk out into the street and head towards the biggest building on Mars, the high tyrant’s lair. We take out our blasters and hold them ready. Ian and I slink into the lair and walk up the clear, glass steps. We sneak in and see the high tyrant. He is asleep, his long hair hanging around his shoulders. A wine glass in his hand, filled with bright red liquid. Ian lunges at him and hits his neck. A long stream of bright red blood oozes from his pale neck. His eyes shoot open in surprise. Slowly, the light and hate leave his eyes. They are vacant. Ian turns around and kisses me. We did it! We sneak home and go to bed, dreaming of a better future. The next morning, I wake-up snuggled next to Ian. He is smiling in his sleep. I slide out of bed and go check on Neon and Luxa.

“Ma-ma’’ Luxa giggles.

“Hello,” I say cheerily to her.

I pick her up and face Neon. “Hey, neon! We cut the rotten stump,” I whisper.

“Oh, that is news indeed!” she cried.

My phone buzzes and I check it.

Hi, Sweetie! There are some people at the door. –IAN

OK, I’ll be right there! –ME

I hurry out of Luxa’s room to answer the doorbell.

At the door is a mob of pro-Gan activists. And they are pointing their rusty, silver guns right at my sweaty, pale face.

“How could you?” a woman shrieks.  

 

Perspective by Samantha Lin

If a giraffe were to look down on a human

It would think, “What a short creature this is.”

If an ant were to look up to a human

It would think, “What a tall creature this is.”

But if the human’s friend came up to them

They’d say, “I am just as tall as you, and you are just as tall as I

But if some other creature came up to you

It wouldn’t be the same

You’d be shorter, or taller, or larger, or smaller

Than them

It wouldn’t be the same.”

Perspective.

Wispling By Kathryn Fredy

Prologue – Brooksway, New York

The early morning sky was dark and cloudy, the same as it had been all night. Off in the distance, a storm was brewing. A bolt of lightning flashed across the sky, followed by a clap of thunder that would have been heard across the entire state. No one in the houses lining the streets of Brooksway heard it, though; they were all asleep. But deep in the clutches of the night, in one little house in the middle of the city, a light glowed brightly through the window.

Someone was awake.

~ { : } ~

Amara stared out the window onto the street below. She was thinking and waiting for someone to arrive. Someone she hadn’t seen in a long, long time.

Finally, she heard footsteps sounding on the steps up to her room. The door swung open, and a young woman stood in the open doorway.

“What are you doing up here, Mara?” The woman asked, calling Amara by her nickname, “You only come up here when you’re feeling bothered by something. What’s wrong?”

Amara sighed. “After thirty years, you’re still not acting well enough to fool me,” she answered, shaking her head, “Besides, this is not the time for practice.”

The woman sighed and began to change. Her hair shortened, and changed color, her face rounded, and she grew just the slightest bit bigger. Soon, a man that looked the same age as Mara was standing right where the young woman had been.

“You’re serious about this, then,” the man said, frowning sadly.

“I’ve always been serious about it,” Mara replied, turning around to face him, “They’ll need protection from the ones we weren’t able to stop. You know that, Caden.”

“But what if they find you?” Caden asked, worriedly, “What happens then? You can’t possibly hide from them for that long!”

“I can handle them,” Amara answered, comfortingly. “Time is always on my side. And I will use it as well as I can.”

“I don’t want you to go.”

“I have to, C,” Amara said, sadly. “But before I do, take this.” She held out a small, blue orb, tied to a golden thread, which shimmered in the lamplight. “It will tell you anything you want to know, as long as I am alive. And if you ever wish to contact me . . . well, I have the other end.” She held hers up.

“Then I guess this is goodbye?” Caden asked, even though he already knew the answer.

“You always were a good guesser,” Amara said, her eyes welling up with tears. She placed her hand on his shoulder. He hugged her tightly, and she hugged him back.

And the sun began to rise . . .

 

“A Small Village” by Dhruv Raghavan

“A Small Village”
By Dhruv Raghavan

Chapter 3

The dormitory, if one could even call it that, was a small, cramped, dingy little building, with dirty rooms and molding walls. As soon as we entered, the policeman gave us each a toiletry set, sheets, blankets, a uniform, a scrubber to wash clothes, and some sandals. We were to wake up at 4 am each day, take a bath in the well, eat our morning meal, and report to the courtyard by 5 am. Then we would train hard until 1 pm, and eat our midday meal. We would then resume our training and then go to our dorms at 7:30 pm. We would then have 15 minutes of recreational time, and then we would eat dinner at 7:45. Then we would do our homework, which apparently would take over one hour. Then we would go to bed. Any slackers would be whipped, or they would clean the latrines. The policeman left after giving instructions, and we entered the dorm.

My first thought was that the place was crowded. There were so many peasant boys like us. And I’m pretty sure they’re all from different states. They were just sitting on their cots with solemn looks on their faces. Some had friends, while some were sad and alone. At least I have many friends. “So, what are we supposed to do now?” I asked. To my surprise, somebody answered in Tamil.

“I see you speak Tamil,” he stated. “It is 7:30 pm now. We have recreational time. Oh, and I don’t know how there are teachers who speak every single main language in India! But anyway, welcome to the New Delhi Soldier’s Camp. We all live a tough life here, and you’ll eventually learn the ropes. In fact, I already know some Hindi, because they teach fast. Once everyone’s here, we all have to speak Hindi. I’m Vineet, and I’m from Coimbatore.” He shook each of our hands as we introduced ourselves. Soon it was dinner time, and we all walked to the mess hall. We were given some chapattis and subjee (flatbread and curry) which we ate fast. As we finished our food, a middle-aged man with a uniform walked up to us.
“Welcome to the New Delhi Soldier’s camp. Or as I call it, the Military Institute of Idiotic Peasants. I am Professor Das, and I took the time to learn your silly languages, but I won’t have to remember them for long. Because you will learn Hindi faster than any school will teach you. Though I bet you didn’t understand a word I’ve uttered so far. Because of your stupid peasant education.” He frowned and walked away.

“What a rude guy!” I yelled. “Does he know who we are? Though we are peasants, we are strong. We know every single trick to survive! If that grumpy, stinky old man ever shows his face again, I will bury him in a heap of cow dung!”

“Ravi, be careful,” Somu whimpered. “Professor Das will p-punish y-you.”

“P-punish y-you,” I imitated. “I already told you what I will do if he comes.”

“Really?” Professor Das suddenly asked. I spun around, but he had already grabbed the edge of my shirt and lifted me up. “I DO NOT TOLERATE THICKHEADED STUPID IDIOTS LIKE YOU!!!!!!!!” he thundered. “YOU SHALL PAY DEARLY!” he laughed. Then he raised his fist and punched me in the face. Blood spurted out of my nose like a gushing fountain, and the pain was unbearable. Spots danced in front of my eyes, and I screamed as loud as a cockerel in the morning. “SO, LITTLE PEASANT,” professor Das shouted in glee, “YOU TOLD YOUR FRIENDS THAT YOU WILL BURY ME IN A STINKY HEAP OF COW DUNG! THOUGH I WANT TO INFLICT THE SAME PUNISHMENT ON YOU, I WILL BE KIND TODAY.” Then he calmed down a bit. “Instead you will clean the dormitory toilet! So go now!” I got up and started walking to the dorm. I looked back once and saw the sorry looks of my friends. But professor Das had a permanent sneer on his ugly face.

I reached the dormitory toilet. I first washed my nose and put a cloth around it to stop the blood from flowing. I swear that I will someday punish that fellow. But I would have to do it tactfully. I looked at the toilet. It stank so badly and the area around it was covered in dirt and garbage. I took the mop and began to wipe the floor. I put the dirt and garbage in a bucket and went out towards the garbage can. On my way, I saw professor Das.

“Back so soon punk?” he sneered. “Looks like I need to give you more work!” And he kicked the bucket and all the dirt, water, and garbage spilled on the floor. “Looks like you’re going to clean the floor too!” He laughed and walked away. Cursing, I ran to the closet to get more supplies. As I cleaned the mess, I realized that this was how my life was going to be.

While everyone else was doing homework, I and my friends went to the initiation booth. We pledged allegiance to India and got many papers to do as a start. We then went back to the dormitory and started working on it. The papers were printed in Tamil for us, but I noticed that Vineet’s was in Hindi. I remembered that Professor Das had said that we would learn Hindi very fast, so I looked at my stack of paper for Hindi Homework. Sure enough, there were some basic translations that we had to learn. I immediately started working on it.

When I was done, I handed it to a teacher to check it. The teacher looked at it and gave me an F, which was the worst grade. I sadly slunk away to my bed and curled up on the sheets. I fell asleep in no time.

“Drrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrring!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” went the alarm at 4:00 am. I grumbled and groaned, but managed to get up. I took my bath and went to the cafeteria to eat my morning meal. Today it was some rice and khadi, which was a curry with yogurt and spices. I gobbled it up and went to the courtyard for roll call. Luckily, professor Das wasn’t there, but I saw another man. He was tall, gaunt, and slim. He smiled at me and introduced himself as Doctor C. I didn’t know what his real name was, but I didn’t ask.

“OK,” he stated in Hindi, “I will call your name, and you will say here. Understood?”
“Haan!” we all exclaimed, which is “yes” in Hindi. So he started calling names. He said my name, and I replied saying “jee shreeman,” which is “yes, sir” in Hindi. When he called Swami’s name, however, there was no reply.

“Where is Swami?” professor Das, who had just arrived asked. No one knew, so he sent someone to go get him. He was sleeping, apparently, and the other student had to drag him to the courtyard. Professor Das stood there with a plastic whip. “Those who do not wake up in time will skip their bath and meal, and receive 25 lashes.” Saying so, he whipped Swami 25 times, and each time Swami screamed.

“Sorry sir,” Swami whimpered, “I will wake up on time tomorrow.”

“Good!” professor Das exclaimed, and he walked away. Doctor C just stood there with a sickly look on his face. He resumed roll call.

Chapter 4

After roll call, we were divided into groups and were sent to the gym. Professor Das stood nearby with a whip in his hand. He was trying hard to find the slightest opportunity to use his brown, 6-foot long, leather whip, with a needle at the end. I saw as he whipped a boy for talking to his friend, and he screamed clutching his bloody hand. He didn’t get whipped again because he probably would have lost his hand. Professor Das smirked as the boy walked on. As I passed him, I walked in a straight line and faced forward, hoping he wouldn’t notice me. But he did anyway.

“Well well, look who is here!” sneered Professor Das. “My little friend, I am not done with you yet. And I’ll be keeping an eye on you. Or two eyes, or three. Now off you go.”

Phew! That could have been worse. Much worse I thought as I saw the boy who had been whipped before; an expression of contorted rage and immense pain shown clearly on his tear-stained face.

As I walked into the gym, I could hear the gym teacher screaming, “Oho little maggots. Time for some fun. In this gym, we train hard and no one ever has fun. So in this time for fun, you won’t have fun, which means you will feel terrible and sweaty and you’ll wish you were dead. And that will happen soon. For if you don’t sweat hard, I’ll be scraping your brains off the ground. And also I’ll have to buy a new weight and a new peasant to replace you. And we all know how much a peasant’s worth!” He doubled over laughing maniacally. It sounded more like seven walruses who had just caught the black death.

I fumed in rage and was about to say something when Vineet walked over and shushed me. “Trust me,” he whispered. “This guy makes professor Das sound like a sweet little puppy. He was a dangerous robber, and yesterday he had been put to work training peasants. Most say he likes to drink blood. Yesterday he was going to whip a boy, but the boy ran out of the gym. The gym teacher ran after him, and in a couple of minutes, came back. The boy was not with him.” I shuddered fearfully. I glanced around at the other kids and they were all looking as scared as me. One of the kids’ eyes moved to a leather sack beside the gym teacher. My eyes followed his, and to my horror, the gym teacher opened the sack. There was a metal whip in it. Professor Das’ whip looked like it was made from butter compared to this whip. It had spikes all over it that were long and sharp. The whip was 10 feet long and flexible. I watched as a stray chicken entered the gym searching for food. The gym teacher saw the chicken and brandished his whip. I gasped and he stared at me. “Do you like the whip, pretty boy?” he asked. “Well, I’m going to show you how beautiful it truly is.” And without another word, he brought the whip down on the chicken. It clucked once. Then it split in a half and blood gushed all over the gym floor. “Time to drink up boys!” he called out. And he bent down to drink the chicken’s blood.

After the chicken incident, we were made to do push-ups, weightlifting, and shooting. After lunch, we went to Doctor C’s classroom and learned Math, Hindi, Science, and India’s History. Then came the rec time, in which I started my homework (due to the advice of Vineet), and talked with my friends about the day, and the two idiots running around in the school. Professor Das, and the gym teacher (we called him “Chicken Splitter”). We ate a dinner of Naan bread and curry and went to the dorms to do homework. After that, I slept. I dreamed that I was a chicken and that Chicken Splitter was chasing me with the whip.

“Colors” by Christina Xiong

“Colors”
by Christina Xiong

The darkness was all I could feel and see. Everything was blurry without touch or feel. Plain and
broken as the dark shards of my mind. “What is red?”

“Red? Do you mean what red looks like?”

So I asked, “What’s it like?” I could hear her laugh, but didn’t understand why.

She paused for a moment and continued, “Well, it’s um… how do I describe it?” Now the question didn’t seem so dumb.

I just sat there and said “It’s fine, I’m blind.”

“Oh . . . sorry.” I heard that a lot, sorry, sorry, and sorry. Everyone felt sorry for me but they don’t understand how thankful I feel to be able to hear sounds. From listening to sounds, I felt that I could imagine colors but I don’t think I understand what colors are. What truly is red, orange, blue, green . . . what are colors? I fumbled with my hands, I knew the shapes of almost everything, I was told I have silky, long brown hair. I could feel its softness but what did it mean. There were days when I would think too deep, to the point, where I’d cry tears, big wet tears, but what was the color of tears? I’ve heard that it’s clear like glass, but how could I know what glass is like?

I sat on my bed, I reached out for my computer, it sat on the night stand, where it’s always stood. I opened it and felt the bumps below each key, I’ve gotten used to the position of the keys for the password but even then I mess up. Only if I had eyes. Round objects, that are supposed to be on each side of our noses and under our eye brows. Everyone tells me, “You have green eyes.” Sure they were green, but green was just a word to me. I opened the speakers on the computer and asked for and opened a Google doc. I began to type. A letter. I remembered my teacher wanted me to write this. She told me that writing could help me let out my feelings. But that was a year ago. I don’t know why I was doing this now. Out of nowhere I began to type, clicking and tapping on the buttons I wrote about colors.

Dear teacher,

Remember last year? You wanted me to write, so it could help me set myself free. I know you could see how lonely I was in class. Nobody would talk to a strange girl living her life in a colorless world. Even when they tried to explain colors to me, I couldn’t understand. But I wanted to write, to tell you how I feel about colors. To be honest, I’ve never seen colors, ever. I think that sounds have colors. I know it seems weird. I was listening to a song the other day. It had a sweet melody. I was always told yellow is a soft color, so I thought it sounded like yellow. Just last night, I heard thunder outside my window, and the rain beating down, I swore I could see black, dark blue and purple, maybe even dark red. I mean, usually red doesn’t have anything to do with rain, but I’ve heard that red is a color of violence, and the sound of thunder is very violent to me with all it’s terrible stories too. I can hear my neighbor’s dog right now, he’s really loud, I can see bright, bold colors. I think of bright yellow, orange and a tint of red. I’m usually asked what my dreams are like, my answer to them is I dream about my colors. But only if I could truly see them then I would laugh, scream, cry to my colors. I would react to each shade and each voice. Maybe one day in heaven, I’ll get eyes. Do you think that’s possible? I would probably laugh, scream and cry about normal things with the normal kids. I’m crying right now, just thinking about it but they’re tears of joy. Because one day I’ll be able to see my tears. And my eyes, my skin, my hair, me. That’s all I have to say about my colors but I wonder if other blind people feel the same way I do. That’s a question for tomorrow because i just want to live today to the fullest.

Sincerely,
Your colorless student

“The Alpha” by Christina Xiong

“The Alpha”
by Christina Xiong

A hazelnut brown deer pranced around in the quiet melody of the forest, the golden sky glistened above the sweet green trees. A man stood in the open with a rifle in his hands aiming straight at the deer. The deer continued to eat the lush grass, not noticing the man with the rifle. The man took a step crunch! The deer turned and looked him in the eye as it began to run.

“Get back here!” the man shouted, pulling the trigger in a misleading direction, the bullet taking a spiral into the opposite direction while the man tripped over a branch. Ivory black ravens flew from the trees, screeching their lonely cry and a faint scream was heard from a distance. The tall man pushed himself up from the ground, dirt clinging to his pants, shirt, and hair. He ran toward the sound of the scream, searching for the source. He spun around in a hurry to find a little girl lying down on the ground.

“It’s fine little girl! You don’t have to be afraid of a gunshot, don’t you know the forest is full of hunters these days?”

The man smiled as he moved toward the little girl, who laid on the ground, without moving. “Little girl, please talk.”

Sweat began to trickle down his neck and a chill was sent down his spine. His face grew with an expression of fright and terror as he looked at the puddle of blood that splattered over her blue dress and seeped into the ground around her. Her eyes were crystal blue and lifeless, her soft skin felt cold, her whole body limped on the ground, motionless. “De…de…dead?” the man stuttered, his voice was crooked and broken. The blue eyed girl looked at him with those misty eyes that were stuck in his head, forever. The thought, that he had just killed a little girl, flowed through his body, sending chills and panic everywhere. Run. His long legs ran as fast as a leaf traveling down a rapid stream. Run. Ka-ta, ka-ta, as the leaves crunched under the flying feet. All he could think about was running, as the town was coming in view. His frantic eyes drew left to right, left to right. He felt as if a presence or spirit was watching him, or maybe the Devil. He began his run again as sweat covered him.
The markets were busy today as people walked along the road, the carts were pulled up and down with fruits and exotic foreign items, as people talked and bought. Through the crowds, he ran, people turned to look at him, with disgust written across their faces. His rifle hung to his side, bumping around at a steady pace.

Instantly, in a flash, a silver object flew across the sky and struck the man’s arm. It stood strong and firm as blood gushed out of the open wound. The crowd grew around him as confusion spread. Whoever had been there was gone but left one clue for the man. Slowly he grabbed the knife and pulled it out, blood dripped as he gritted his teeth with intense pressure. A lady from a clothes shop ran out quickly with some mauve cloth which she handed to a man who began to help wrap his wound.

“Who would attack the mayor’s son?” a lady asked.

“Richard, are you ok?” a man asked. Richard turned and looked at the wrapped wound as someone handed him the silver knife which was stained in blood.

“Oh no!” a woman gasped. Others stood and watched in shock. Richard took the knife and turned it around to see a symbol. It was an “A” with a sword crossed through it. But this symbol wasn’t just any symbol, it was the symbol of the Alpha.

“Why’s the Alpha after the mayor’s son?” the crowded turn and looked at Richard.

“I don’t know,” he whispered, as the face of the little girl flashed in his head.

“Were you running away from him?” a man asked.

“Does he want your money?” another asked.

When Richard got up and he looked at the confused muttering crowd, “What if he’s here to kill us all!” an old man shouted.

“We should tell the police immediately!” a man cried. The police, Richard knew what would happen if the police got involved, just the thought of it sent the little girl’s blood drained body and cold pale face into his bewildered head.

“Everyone calm down!” Richard’s voice rang in everyone’s ear as they turned to look at the young man.

“I’ll tell my father about this and we’ll will improve protection around the town, but tonight, he might strike, so men, get your guns ready and protect your families!” The crowd cheered and one by one rushed off, leaving Richard to walk off along the small narrow road.

*****

The rain casted across the stormy night as thunder roared in the silence. The street was damp and large puddles formed on the ground. Bu-bump! Bu-bump! A man in a heavy black coat rushed down the bumpy road of uneven rocks, passing the small plump townhouses. He panted as he reached the front of a brick house with a pointed roof and a tall, lean structure. He reached out his hand and gently knocked on the door.

The door opened, “Richard why did you come?” a man in a green sweater and tan pants asked.

“I was attacked, by the Alpha,” Richard replied with a sorrowful look.

“The Alpha?” the man looked back aghast. Richard nodded as the doctor welcomed him in. “Can I see the wound?” he asked.

As Richard lifted his sleeve to reveal the wrapped wound, suddenly there was a knock on the door, a heavy loud knock. “P-please wait!” the doctor said with a stutter. As soon as the doctor finished his sentence, the door burst open.

“I’m afraid I don’t have time for that.” A man walked in, he wore a black wolf’s head covering his eyes as the rest of the wolf dropped down like a cape around his furred clothing. His evil grin spread out across his face like a demon, sending a chill in the room. Richard jumped up, the wrappings on his wound fell off as the wound dripped with velvet blood.

“Run, run, run . . . HAHAHA! That’s all you can and will ever do!” The man started to draw closer to Richard. Lightning flashed from behind the man, the light piercing through the room. “A man shouldn’t hunt if he can’t tell the difference between a deer and a little girl.” The man’s voice was rough and angry as it echoed through the room.

“I . . . I’m sorry, I didn’t know it was her.” Richard’s stomach began to tangle and throw itself around while his head ached and his whole body began swell as the wound continued to bleed.
“Some say an eye for an eye but I say a life for a life!” In an instant, as fast as sound itself, a knife pierced through Richard’s heart and blood splattered everywhere. Richard’s soulless body fell into the night’s cold end.

The man stepped on the lifeless piece of flesh as he approached the doctor. His hand reached out with a folded piece of paper at the doctor’s direction. The doctor flinched at the large hand as he reached out his, shaking one, grabbing the folded piece of paper. He turned to look at the body, and the rifle that laid next to it. A tear streaked down his wet cheek. With massive strength, he grabbed the rifle and contorted it in half. A loud metallic sound filled the room when the pieces landed and the man ran into the dark tempestuous night. The doctor looked down at paper, “This won’t be the last time we meet. – Alpha.”

“This Poetry” by Isabel Ostheimer

“This Poetry”
by Isabel Ostheimer

This poetry is sorta sucky.
I can’t reach deep into my heart and pull out the feelings
The reasons why people write poetry is to get it out
Bu there are always some things that would be better off bottled up
So maybe can’t write poetry because I can’t fully access my feelings.
Oh well
I tried

“Free Style Poetry” by Isabel Ostheimer

“Free Style Poetry”
by Isabel Ostheimer

Many think this should be written with deep depressing thoughts
Voices in your head that you just can’t get rid of
Haunting thoughts that whisper in your head
Making up something would be so easy
My brain says it’s logical
My heart says it would be beautiful
But my soul says it would be dishonest
Poetry is all about being honest, about telling a story that connects with you
So I’m going to try to be honest
It might not be heart breaking
It might be trouble
But it will be me
So don’t tell me what to write
If you don’t want to see don’t read.

“My Dream” by Isabel Ostheimer

“My Dream”
by Isabel Ostheimer

It is the thing that I have been thinking of since Kindergarten
An achievement that can shape my life
I’ve been planning on doing this for as long as I can remember
When thinking about it I felt so confident
But now it’s sooner than ever
I’m not prepared
This isn’t the movie in my head
I’m freaking out
My parents tell me if I don’t get in it will be OK
They will love me all the same
I know they will
But mom never mentions it while dad continuously asks me
“Why don’t you study so much”
“Do you even care”
“You might not get in”
I’ve been wanting this since kindergarten and now I’m having to face the fact that it might not happen.