A LEGEND OF ELADRIENIA AND DEATHSTROKE

Murtagh and Thorn
Drawing by Mary Cullen.

"My mind is the only sanctuary that has not been stolen from me. Men have tried to breach it before, but I've learned to defend it vigorously, for I am only safe with my innermost thoughts."— Murtagh

By Gabrielle A. Hartenstein

Grade 6


Once there was a girl. Her name was Eladrienia. She was a bright girl of 15, but she always had her head in the clouds. She heard stories of dragons and elves and the famous rider, Eragon. She always imagined herself riding on top of a dragon and fighting with the elves against the evil King Lucifer. One day when Eladrienia went to fetch water, she heard an agonizing cry. She followed the sound to find an injured baby dragon. The dragon looked at her with navy eyes as big as diamonds.

‘’Hey there…you’re going to be all right…just hold still while I rap up this nasty wound,’’ Eladrienia explained cautiously. Eladrienia ripped a piece of her dress off and rapped it around the dragon's wound. ‘’There you go.’’ Eladrienia answered.

The dragon was black as night. The thing that troubled Eladrienia was that dragons do not just show up. They usually hatch from eggs, when the one they chose as their rider finds them. This one was already hatched, but alone. "Okay, you go now," Eladrienia responded. She went back to her jug but when she turned around the dragon was still there. “You really need to go,’’ Eladrienia explained.

As she began to walk home, she could hear the dragon trudging behind her.

"Please go away, you will get hurt if you are with me, or worse taken to Lucifer!’"

The dragon just stared at her.

"Okay you can come, but you have to be quiet."

So she put the dragon in her pack and set off carefully. When she arrived at her home, she gave the water to her aunt and went to her room. Eladrienia pulled out the baby dragon and set it on her bed. She made sure that the door and the blinds were shut. She sat on her bed and stared at the dragon. The dragon walked over to her and snuggled up against her shoulder, then it felt like fire to Eladrienia and she blacked out.

When Eladrienia woke up the dragon looked at her curiously, she felt different. She walked over to her looking glass. She gasped. She almost looked like an elf; and she had a weird scar on her shoulder.

"Bree! Dinner Time!" yelled her Aunt Lilly.

"Coming!" Eladrienia yelled back but in a quiet voice then she commented to the dragon, “You stay here.”

She put another dress on to cover up the scar, and she put up her hair in a way that her ears were covered. After dinner, Eladrienia snuck some meat to her room for the dragon. She was playing with the dragon when there was a knock on the door. Eladrienia tried to hide the dragon a little bit and then she went to the door. When she opened the door, a lady with the black hair that was always watching her was standing there.

"Eladrienia, let me in your room,’’ the women explained. “We need to talk privately.’’

"Um…you cannot go in there.’’ Eladrienia said frantically, as she tried to block the door.

Surprisingly, the women had enough strength to grab Eladrienia’s wrist, push her, and shut the door. The women’s eyes grew big when she saw the dragon.

"It’s you?’’ she questioned. She looked at Eladrienia and turned back to the dragon. She held out her hand to show the same sign that was on Eladrienia’s shoulder.

"A rider!’’ Eladrienia said to herself.

The women walked over to Eladrienia and she ripped off the sleeve of her dress exposing the scar. Then she pulled down Eladrienia’s hair to reveal her pointed ears. "The prophecy is true,’’ the woman said,’’ I’m Arya, a rider and an elf. You are the prophesied one, and you are in grave danger. You have to come with me.’’

"Wait, Arya the elf that fought with Eragon?’’ Bree asked.

"Yes, and we have to get you to him, the Varden, and Ellesmèra to sail you there.’’ Arya vehemently exclaimed,’’ Have you named your dragon yet?’’

"No, because I do not know if it’s a boy or a girl?’’ Eladrienia answered.
"It’s a boy.’’ Arya stated dully.

“Then his name is Deathstroke.’’ Eladrienia replied.

Eladrienia went into her brother’s room and took some trousers and shirts. Arya and Eladrienia snuck out of the house. As they traveled, Eldrienia felt as her mind was exposed. They had little trouble except that Deathstroke grew too big for the bag he was riding in, so he flew above them in the clouds.

One night while sitting around the fire Bree felt something touch her mind.

“Eladrienia,’’ it said.

“Who is this?’’ Eladrienia asked.

“Deathstroke.’’

“You can hear me?’’

“Yes.’’

“Of course, I heard that dragons and the riders could talk with their minds.’’ Eladrienia explained excitedly.

Arya suddenly said, “I did not think the prophecy was true, and I found you. The weird thing is you appear similar like him.’’

“Like who?’’

“Eragon, well, when I first met him.’’

That was all they said to each other. During the time they were together, Arya taught Eladrienia to use magic and a sword. Eladrienia also started to ride Deathsrtoke. She decided that she liked to ride Deathstroke better than riding her horse.

One day as they were traveling Eladrienia asked, “What exactly does the prophecy say?’’

Arya was quiet for a moment. Then she replied, “The prophecy predicts that there will be a rider with the rider’s sign either his or her shoulder, and the dragon would be the as black as the sky. It also predicts that rider will defeat Lucifer.”

“Oh…but who will train me?’’

“Eragon. He will teach you to be fearless and strong.’’

“Why do I have to go to the Varden and Ellèsmera?’’

“Because we have to prove to Orik and Nasuada that the prophecy is true, and if we sail out from anywhere else but my home, Eragon will think we are intruders.’’

It was about a month or two before they arrived at the Varden.

“So the prophecy is true.’’ both Orik and Nasuada agreed.

“Yes, but I’m sure Lucifer has found out by now. That’s why I must get her to Ellesmèra and sail her out to Eragon before it’s too late,’’ Arya answered.

“Yes, hurry!’’ Nasuada protested.

So Eladrienia and Arya set off again. When they arrived at Ellesmèra, everybody was extremely elated. Unfortunately, Eladrienia was put on a ship the next day to go to Eragon. Deathstroke followed by the sky.

About three days later, Deathstroke touched Eladrienia’s mind, “There’s another dragon ahead; it must be Eragon.’’

Suddenly, Eladrienia felt a breeze of sleepiness sweep over her. Eladrienia woke up in a room with Deathstroke beside her. There was also a man looking at her; behind him was a blue sapphire dragon.

Eladrienia only had one thought when she saw him,’’Eragon.’’

“You’re lucky to be alive,’’ he explained. “You suffered from heat stroke. I came at just the right time.’’

“Thank you, for helping me.’’ Eldrienia answered in a quiet voice.

“I am Eragon Shadeslayer, and you are the prophesied one, and this is Saphira Brightscales, gesturing to the dragon behind him.

Eladrienia suddenly felt as if someone was invading her mind. Deathstroke was growling at Eragon, looking as if he was about to pounce on him, but Saphira kept him from doing it.

“Stop it!’’ Eladrienia screamed.

After a few minutes, she felt it as her mind was released.

“Good, it is actually you.’’ Eragon said. “I will leave you to get ready.’’

Eladrienia looked at Deathstroke and he gave her a gesture that sort of looked like a shrug. As Eladrienia stood up she was dizzy. She walked over to a desk to find a black shirt and black trousers. When she walked out of the cabin, riders and dragons were everywhere.

“Hail the prophesied one!’’ someone yelled from somewhere.

Then everyone knelt down and bowed to Eladrienia and Deathstroke. Eragon walked up toward Eladrienia and spoke saying, “You will train with me and when your training is complete you will go against Lucifer. Are you ready to begin?’’

“Yes…Master,’’ she replied.

“Let’s begin.’’ he answered.

Applause broke out.

Over the next few months, Eladrienia became very skilled with a sword. She caught on quickly when it came to magic and riding techniques on Deathstroke. The last day came. The riders’ sword maker presented Eladrienia with a black sword with silver engravings on it that said that she was the prophesied one in dwarfish and in elven. Before she, Eragon, and the others left, she went to her cabin to make sure her armor was ready for battle. She also went to say goodbye, because she might not come back. Eladrienia walked up to the looking glass and what she saw was not a farm girl, but a warrior. She had become stronger. The reason why she looked like an elf was because it was apparently part of the prophecy. Eragon was really fond of Eladrienia, but she never knew why. She wore black dragon scale armor. Eladrienia once had long hair, but she had had to cut it for training and for the battle. Eladrienia walked out of the cabin ready for battle, and if it be, ready for death.

As they flew, Eragon pulled up beside her and asked, “What did you name your sword?’’

"Tagingiera,’’ she answered. When she proclaimed that, her sword crackled with black lightning.

"Very nice.’’


As soon as they arrived they were attacked. About half way through the battle, a gigantic gray dragon appeared and on the dragon sat Lucifer.

“Dragon rider, you are too weak to defeat me, so join me!’’ he yelled.

“Never! You have terrorized this kingdom long enough! Now I will defeat you!’’ she screamed back.

The battle was bloody. Eladrienia was cut on the shoulder and at the rib. But Lucifer was more injured than her. Lucifer suddenly jumped on Deathstroke. Eladrienia was trained to fight on Deathstroke’s tail so she was prepared. They fought and fought until finally Lucifer was on his knees. Eladrienia yelled,’’Tagingiera!’’ She stabbed him through the chest, and she thought he was dead so she made way back to the saddle. Then she felt as if hot iron slice through her back and then she passed out.

Eladrienia woke up in her cabin. She felt bandages all over her back. Eragon was talking to two people, but he stopped when she woke up. He walked over to her and asked, “How are feeling?’’

“Not the best, not the best.’’ she answered.

“Well there are some people here I would like you to talk to,’’ he said.

The people walked over. It was Nasuada! The man beside, strangely, he looked like Eladrienia.

“Eladrienia,’’ Nasuada said, ’’This man Murtagh…is…your father.’’

“What?!’’ Eladrienia asked.

“I am your mother. Listen, when I was captured by Gallbrotorix, Murtagh was his right hand man, and he saved me. He left soon after that, but I found him and we secretly married. I had you and I left you on the doorstep of your "Aunt Lillie’s." Then she started crying,’’ When I saw you I was amazed how much you looked like him, Murtagh, your father.’’

“So I am your daughter?’’ Eladrienia asked.

“Yes,’’ said Murtagh.’’And when I heard that I had a daughter, I returned as soon as I could, and now I have decided to never leave again.”

So now the family was reunited. Eladrienia had a family and a dragon. This story of Eldrienia and Deathstroke along with others is now told from generation to generation, but it is not time yet for all to be known, only when they are history and then to the end time.

END

Soft Thorns

Chandler Hamby

The snow is soft and beautiful where the little boy plays. His tarnished blue sled lies close by, frosted with ice crystals and dirt. He looks up, his little cheeks ride-apple red and giggles as he ascends the slope again, remembering the thrill. The sheer, pure beauty of throwing oneself onto a board of metal and wood and feeling yourself sail gracefully to the bottom…to him, there is nothing better.

His sister waits inside, her eyes half envious, half wondering. Her brother frolics in the snow, but she may not. Her health does not permit it, for she was sick last winter with coughing disease and though she has recovered her mother remains tentative. It is not so bad all in all, she considers; she is warm and safe inside with all the things she loves as equally as her brother and his sled. Her books await in different rooms glowing with firelight or pale winter glow, beckoning with fingers outstretched, offering her a journey. She has read all of the books, gone through every tale, lived and died every adventure. The brother has read perhaps two; she considers reading aloud to him when he comes in dripping and wet and trying to make him understand.

In her room, there are three other little children, but not of the kind one normally expects. Their skin is wax, their eyes glass and their hair made from that of horses rather than being formed on any human head. They sit quietly in their chairs; Arabella, Christina and Marie, all named with great care and decision based off of their temperaments, dress and preferences in drinking tea. She gave them breakfast earlier which they were not in the mood for, as the clay biscuits remain untouched alongside glass fruit. She therefore left them for a while to talk quietly among themselves as to why they seemed to reject the girl’s perfectly able means of feeding.

The girl thinks of this as she stares out the window, her hands pressed against the cold glass and leaving indentations in the frost outside, warmed by her skin. She cracks the window open a little, testing the air with one little nose and one less-small hand. Catching a tiny flake on her hand, she stares at them as if to find what they mean just by watching the ice melt into her palm. It’s sad, she thinks, that something so beautiful must be so short. Her poetic soul likes the metaphor, however, better than the actual vision. She must think more on this, perhaps holding a perfunctory discussion with the dolls on it later in the afternoon.

She’s sticking an arm out now, as if to plunge it into the cold air as one would into clear water. There’s an embankment of snow just below the window going down like a little hill to meet its neighboring members and smooth out onto the yard. She manages to poke in one finger and giggles, then reaches farther to follow it up with a hand. The snow is cold, she remembers suddenly as the warmth of her skin morphs into frozen mist. But it’s beautiful, and perfect, dangerous, of course, as Máma had told them.

Pápa is in the mountains right now, with his fellow soldiers. Máma said that he was alright; that he had written to her and he was coming home in two months for a short break. 

Her little heart quickens thinking about it…he has been gone for months and Robért had been getting angry sometimes. The little girl thinks of this many times, wondering why Máma had been crying last night, curled up by the fire as if to shut the world and cold out alike. The girl wasn’t even supposed to be watching, (this made her guilty) but she heard noises in the night and crawled behind the couch, sitting with her back to it as she listened to her mother refresh herself with tears. And why had her brother been so angry the other day? He was not that much older than she; anything he knew she should be able to know too, but Máma had told him something that the girl did not seem part of. She tried not to feel hurt by it and told the dolls everything in a confidential talk that they had been kind enough not to disclose.

“Therese!” A sharp voice makes her start, losing her balance and tumbling towards the open window. Cold whiteness surrounds her vision as she plunged into the snow drift, its soft arms taking her quietly. She heard a cry and an arm reached out after her.

“Robért!” Her mother shouted. “Aider votre sœur !” (Help your sister!)

Therese looked around under the snow, some of it falling into her eyes and coating her lashes, melting against her face. It felt cold and prickly, and not nearly as pretty as when she had been simply looking at it.

Strong, young hands gripped her around the waist and she was pulled from the snow bank roughly, falling onto the slabs of the garden path that her brother had swept clean that morning. Her mother was running outside, her face a mixture of anger and relief.

“C'était une chose stupide, stupide à faire!” (That was a stupid, stupid thing to do!) Her mother picked her up and shook her whilst simultaneously brushing her off in the way only mothers can.

“Pourquoi n'avez-vous pas plus prudent? Vous savez que vous avez été malade… vous devriez avoir rappel!” (Why were you not more careful? You know you have been sick…you should have remembered!)

And then her mother is holding her tightly and there are tears running down her face and Therese is utterly confused. But Robért had let go and was standing a few feet away. And as the girl looks up at him as if to ask Why is she like this? What’s happened? He merely shakes his head, as if he would and could not answer her.

She rises slowly, standing straighter and looked at her mother. “Je suis désolé,” (I’m sorry) is all she says, but it has its effect. Her mother relapses into a quieter temperament, then sighes.

“S'allume; Nous allons vous réchauffer”. (Come on; let’s get you warmed up.)

Therese nods and allows her mother to lead her away, her brother watching her go quietly.

A much older boy’s eyes have replaced his own.

Far away, on the slopes of the Alps and straggling with the few remaining ounces of his strength, the source of Robért’s silence lay. The wind sliced heartlessly through clothing and skin alike, his silent pleading for relief unheeded.

The letter had come to his wife two days ago, stated with simply cruelty and rough English:

“Madame Roquefort,

It is with deep regret that we inform you that your husband was lost some three days ago in the snow drifts of the eastern Alps. Caught in a blizzard, he was able to rescue four of his men but did not arrive back at the camp with them. We have sent out several search parties and continue to hope for his safe return.

Sincerely,

Johannes Rothschild,
Captain of the 5th Parisian Fusiliers
January 9th, ----



The soldier knew nothing of this letter, or the fact that he had been announced lost, but he could guess. His mind felt numb as he trudged through the hopeless drifts of snow, knowing that it was a hopeless endeavor, but it seemed a shame to give up now. His wife and children were waiting for him…it made him sad that they would not see him again. He was a practical man, a fighter as well as a lover, and he knew what his situation was even as his body gradually shut itself down.

Icy cold fingers reached into his arms to claw him back, erase the little progress he had made. The snow drifts were sharp yet soft, like soft thorns that pulled on his clothes and skin and soul.

Just let me go. His cry was desperate, helpless, trapped in his mind and unable to get to his unwilling mouth. Man against Ice, how often they strove to be one! But sometimes the elements liked to show that they still had the upper hand, at the expense of one of their admirers. His thought was rebellious as well as begging, demanding that the ice let him go.

Round and round the mulberry bush,
The monkey chased the weasel.

His heart was rapid in his chest, the beats chasing after each other much like the song that sang itself insistently in his head. Childhood flashed into youth morphing into adulthood, all to the tune of Le Bruit Va la Belette (Pop goes the Weasel).

His steps were faltering now, his body seizing up. He wasn’t going to last much longer like this and he was panicking. Was no one searching for him?

Every breath he drew in now was pain. Pain, agony, hurt, wounded, dying, fading; the words flashed through his mind briefly. He hoped his wife was alright, and Robért, and even little Therese, with her mind the size of a palace. He wondered what she had thought about today, her thoughts tumbling one over the next, and the wonderings calmed him.

Soft mounds of snow were drawing him in, enticing him not with death now but rest, that siren-call of warm, frozen sleep. Ironic, he thought, that one should start to feel so warm as one’s body turned to ice.

Icy cold fingers reached into his arms to claw him back, erase the little progress he had made. The snow drifts were sharp yet soft, like soft thorns that pulled on his clothes and skin and soul.

He struggled up the snow bank, its powdery surface oddly clingy. It held onto his boots, soaking through, and his pants, sending icy needles through his skin. Snow blew every which way, seemingly determined against all odds to make its way into his eyes and mouth and ears. He was drowning; but not in the way he might have wished. Cold water takes you swiftly, fills your lungs and brain and mouth and you die before you even realize you’ve done it.

He was drowning in frigid air.

He had hiked almost to the top of the mountain slope, where he knew that over the ridge would be a small town he had been to once before with his regiment. There, he might find food and rest…if he was going the right way. His tired mind was trying to register whether or not it was North or South, for he had been uncertain before he even set out. But trusting his instinct, he headed towards the South and prayed to the virgin that he was right.

He had lost feeling in his feet.

The top of the slope was very close now, and he was on his hands and knees by the time he reached it. His tired eyes looked out across the snow-ridden slops and dunes, willing them to find the town.

Icy cold fingers reached into his arms to claw him back, erase the little progress he had made. The snow drifts were sharp yet soft, like soft thorns that pulled on his clothes and skin and soul.

And the town was nowhere to be seen.

The man’s body gave up before his will. His legs collapsed and he went rolling just a little way down the slope, landing on his belly with the fingers of his left hand pointed toward the thing he had prayed to for his salvation.

Mother Mary, take my soul. Remember the services I have accorded you. Take care of my wife and children. Don’t let me be forgotten quickly. Take me quickly.

Six days later, two men hiking along those same alps stumbled upon a higher snow drift than the rest. One of the soldiers stuck his hand in the drift to help push himself out, then jerked back with a cry.

“Ce qui ne va pas, Jean?” (What’s wrong, Jean?) One asked in a mixture of concern and amusement. “Vous regarde comme si vous avez vu un fantôme!” (You look as though you’d seen a ghost!”

The man’s face was ashen white as he dug away the snow with his hands, his companion going silent as he realized the truth of his own words.

His fingers were still pointing towards the town he so desperately wanted to reach, frozen stiff and white.

“Pauvre diable ; Il ne saura jamais à quel point il était,” (Poor devil; he’ll never know how close he was) one soldier said regretfully.

“Son cerveau doit avoir été blessé par le froid” (His mind must have been addled by the cold) the other answered.

“Allons-nous le prendre?” (Shall we take him?)

“Il ferait la même chose pour nous,” (He would do the same for us) the other noted quietly.

With equal silence, half of respect and half of strange fear, they picked up their captain’s frozen body and carried him down the hill to the waiting platoon below.

Other works by Chandler Hamby:

Chandler Hamby Wins!
Headache
Funeral by the Sea
Screaming Fire (poem for the Fourth of July)
The Sunset Crowns the Day
The Great Saying
Sin's Solvent: A High Demand

The October Contest

Each year Students Publish Here! sponsors a writing contest. In past years the contest has been to use a list of random words to compose a poem. This year the contest involves writing an extension to a modern piece of fiction. This is a short short story that tells what happens to the main character(s) after the end of the published work. Write about your favorite characters: the hobbits, the talking horses of Narnia, or Merlin and King Arthur. Here is an example of an extension to the Harry Potter novels.

Three Years Later

By Grace Jacqueline Neff 

(Grade 7)

Harry Potter took a deep breath snapping the box closed and slipping it back in to his pocket. It was a lovely autumn day; a light wind blew through his hair as he stood on the beach waiting for Ginny. Harry had taken Ginny on holiday to a small cabin on a peaceful beach in Wales. As Harry waited for Ginny to go for walk down the beach with him, he glanced down at the gold watch the Wesley’s had given him for his seventeenth birthday.

So much had happened since that day, some things as he had never dreamed would happen and some he had only hoped for. For sure one of the highlights had been getting his girlfriend Ginny back. Harry thought of how good the last couple of years had been with her. He thought of his best friends Ron and Hermione, who had gone to the mountains of Iceland for their holiday. The previous day Harry and Ginny had received an owl message that they were going get married the following spring. Ron, Ginny’s brother, was Harry best friend so they were both immensely excited for them; and sent the owl back with a letter of their congratulations. And what about Neville? Had he gotten the job at Hogwarts as Herbology teacher that he had applied for?

Just then Harry was torn from his thoughts; as he saw Ginny’s red hair coming over the sand dunes. Harry took another deep breath and walked to meet her.

“Sorry I’m a little late coming out, I got engulfed in my book The Wizards Travel Guide to Wales and lost track of time,” said Ginny.

“It’s no problem; I was just thinking,” Harry replied taking Ginny’s hand as they begin to walk.

“What about?” asks Ginny, tucking her hair behind her ear as she walked.

“About a lot of things; about all that’s happened in the last three years, about Ron and Hermione, about you,” Harry paused as Ginny stopped walking and looked up at him.

“What about me?” Ginny asked.

Harry didn’t hesitate. “About how much I love you,” he said simply. Harry considered whether he should go ahead and do it or say something before. Ginny looked as though she didn’t know that to say, and Harry made his decision. He let go of Ginny’s hand and slipped his hand down into his pocket where his wand and a small box sat. Taking out the box, Harry opened it and looked down into Ginny’s eyes and said four simple words,” Will you marry me?”

Ginny was grinning ear to ear; she looked at the ring and back up at Harry, and stammered back “Yes, yes, of course I will!”

Harry took the ring from the small box slipping the box back in his pocket and slipped the ring onto Ginny’s finger. She stood admiring the ring for a moment, a beautiful silver Goblin-made ring with a shiny topaz in the center. When Ginny lifted her head, Harry leaned over and kissed her.

Harry was ecstatic! He had been planning this trip for months and she had said yes! Suddenly, there was the sound of fireworks overhead; Harry wonder whether he was imagining it, but Ginny seemed to have heard it also. They drew apart. There on a sand dune near the cabin stood Ron with his arm around Hermione and his wand in the air producing to fireworks!

“Oh!” Ginny exclaimed. “I forgot to tell you, Hermione sent an owl said they were coming for dinner!”

Harry was overly excited to see them; he had not seen much of them over the last six months because they had been traveling all over Europe together. “Sounds brilliant!” he said taking Ginny’s hand once more, but now feeling the cool silver of the ring. ”They’ll be the first to hear.”

“Hear what?” asked Hermione.

“Sounds like we’ll be haven a double wedding,” said Ginny happily holding out her hand toward Ron and Hermione.

“Well you did it, mate. I was starting to think you were having second thoughts when we didn’t hear anything,” said Ron.

“And you did it to say congratulations,” Harry replied.

“What? Do you mean to say you knew and didn’t tell me?” demanded Hermione.

“Course, we planned it together months ago when we planned our trips; we bought the rings together!” explained Ron. “That’s why I knew it was all right to send the fireworks!”

“Well, let’s go up to the cabin and have some supper,” interrupted Ginny trying to distract Hermione from lecturing Ron.

“And,” Harry added, “Ginny and I have some owls to send!”

The four friends began to walk up the sand dunes to the cabin, Ginny’s hand in Harry’s, and Hermione’s hand in Ron’s.


END

John Nichols: A Psychological Thriller

To Know Avail
By John Nichols


Click.

The sound of the hammer being drawn back caused David to open his eyes and stare at the steel death in his hands. A teardrop slipped down his cheek and splashed harshly against the cold metal, dissipating into dozens of tiny droplets, like a life shattered irreconcilably.

With his elbows on his knees and the revolver between his cold sweaty palms, David shuddered and clenched his eyes shut, blocking out the world around him, the world that had ignored him, tuned him out like the cries of the dead and dying.

David shook his head to clear his mind, but to no avail.

Disjointed memories came rushing back to him, shattered like the teardrop on the gun, like the mess that used to be a life.

That time, when he was fifteen, that first kiss, sloppy and awkward. That very next day when she was with someone else, for some reason known only to her. It just wonÆt work. I've got to be thinking about my future now.

A future, set in stone, at fifteen.

When he put that pencil grip on a girl's desk in the third grade, the girl that he "liked", since love had not yet entered his vocabulary. That girl that left the school in fifth grade, the girl he had tried to get together with, the girl that would not deign to speak with him now. Just....not my type....

A type, typical.

David jumped up from the couch and put his hands to his head, feeling the barrel of the gun tap against his head as if reminding him why he was where he was today. He paced back and forth across the floor, the fabric of his jeans quietly swishing when he moved, the soles of his shoes squeaking every time he took a step. He stopped in front of the bay window and stared out. There was the world, the place that had beat his head into the dust, condescending to him like the lowlife he was.

Again memories came back to him, like the teardrop, like the life.

Sixteen, buying his first car, worried about the money he did not have. That car that would bring him a moment of happiness, that car that became the laughingstock of the school. The girl that left because it would not start quick enough. Sorry, but I can't be with someone who can't buy me things.

Money, the only important thing, why not marry it?

Eighteen, at the awards assembly when he received eight, almost nine, different awards, more than anyone else combined. Eight because, well, you could not win them all could you? The hardest working, most accomplished guy in the class, and no one seemed to notice. Except they did, and he knew that they noticed. How did he get all those awards? My grades were higher.

Pieces of paper, "honorable mention", worthless trash.

The day he turned nineteen, the girl he had been courting for six months, the moment she said yes to his rose and crummy poem. A dream come true, a dream no one else seemed to notice. The day she tried to leave. "You have to let me go. David, please....you have to let me go."

David whirled around pointing the gun at the woman tied to the chair in front of him. Her pleading echoed through his head, the begging from her heart: David, I don't want to be here. I want to leave. I don't want to be with you anymore.

"You know I can't do that, love." David stated flatly. "I have to keep you here until you understand." She would understand; he hoped dearly that she would.

David sat back down on the sofa, forcing his gaze to the floor so as not to meet the desperate gaze of his love, his love that no longer loved him. He turned the gun over in his hands, studying it as if for the first time, as if contemplating its purpose. To kill or defend? To preserve or to maim?

Ten years old, first day at a new school, afraid of the unknown. The howling jeers, the disgusted looks on disgusted faces. The beatings, the girl who helped him, the girl who ran away from home, the girl who was found murdered, amongst other things. Dead, because of him.

Compassion kills, does it not?

David glanced up from the gun and stared at the woman before him. A pretty little thing, she was. The spitting image of what that world said was beauty. Olive skin, golden locks, blue-green eyes. Lips full of life, ruby red gems of seduction. Voice strained with fear, yet still persuasive in its own way.

"Please David, you must let me go. You aren't helping yourself by keeping me here."

His first kiss in what he had thought would be his last relationship. What he had thought would be his last first kiss. Soft, tender, full of life and love. Her lips, sensuous, pleasurable to the touch.

Irrelevant.

He lifted the gun up to eye level, pointed it at the woman and said softly, his words as cold and lifeless as the steel in his hand, "You will stay here, tied to that chair, and locked in this apartment until you understand that you do love me. I'll make sure that you do."

Again he stood. Again he paced to the window, looking out at the world before him: the street below, the apartment building across that street, the people passing by, oblivious, that police car slowly coming to a stop and parking.

The officer within opening the door and exiting the vehicle.

That officer making her way toward the front door of his complex.

Panic struck David in that instant, but he shook his head trying to forget the world and what he had seen. No! I'm imagining things. I'm paranoid. I just want to feel loved...

He whirled around, pacing feverishly toward the door of his fourth-story unit, glanced out the eyehole, saw nothing. Darting back to the window and glancing out, the officer walking past the door and out of sight of the window.

"David, you cannot be loved if you keep me here."

And I cannot let your heart be seduced by another. The memory flashed before him. The day he had followed her, to see what had caused her to turn away.

"David, why are you keeping me locked up inside this room?"

Paranoia is not paranoia if it is true is it?

"I can't let your heart be seduced, love. He was going to steal it, and I couldn't let that happen, love." For if the heart falls, the mind and body are not far behind.

David wiped his hand across his forehead, clearing the sweat gathering on his face. That was his purpose, right? To protect his love here so that her heart could not be seduced by another jealous, evil suitor, one who would destroy her heart and her very soul.

That day, when he was twelve, abandoned...

That day, in middle school, rejected...

That day, hated, scorned, mocked, spat upon...

The tears, the anger, the hatred...

The longing, the burning passion, full of desire to be wanted.

To be loved...

But to no avail...

David's hand shook as he raised and pointed weapon at the woman tied to the chair, bound tightly with no hope of escape. A silent tear ran down his cheek, his breath heaved itself in and out of his lungs, prolonged his misery moment by moment.

"Please, love, please," he sobbed, tears freely running their course, dying as they fell from his cheek to floor, "please love me. You have to love me."

"David," the woman said, eyes rimmed in red from the tears she had shed, "let go. This is not love."

David stood in silence, gun shaking, tears burning his cheeks as they, too, abandoned his forlorn figure.

He sank down onto the chair behind him, and from there, David fell to his knees, weeping openly. His body writhed and twisted as the pain of rejection wracked his human frame.

The woman looked on, pity for David in her eyes. "David, I have never left you. Never have I forgotten you. I have always been with you, and I will always be with you. But you must let me go. You cannot keep someone locked up and expect them to love you. Let go, David."

David rolled onto his side, curling himself into a ball, his sorrow flowing from him like a drain empties a bathtub of water, leaving it cold and unfilled. Her words echoed in his head. Let go, David.

Let go.

David.

Let go!

He raised his head, staring into the deep green eyes of the woman. It was like staring into the depths of an emerald forest, a whole life-filled forest, where things were...right.

He nearly stood and freed her then and there.

Thud, thud, thud.

A frantic glance at the door.

Fear and anger replacing the sorrow and surrender.

David, standing, aiming hate and death at the door.

"David, no!" the woman screamed.

Another set of pounding on the door. A voice outside calling to him, "David, let me in! I can help." A woman's voice.

"No!" David screamed, turning the gun toward the woman bound to the chair, "don't come in here, or I'll kill her."

Fresh tears from David's captive love.

"David, don't do anything you'l forever regret. Please, let me help you. I know what you're looking for; I can give you the answers you can't seem to find, but you have to let me in."

"No, I can't let you in. You'll ruin everything!"

"David, I'm begging you, listen to what I'm saying. That pain, that fear, that anger: I know how it feels; I've been there."

A pause. And in that pause, David thought he heard, in his delirium, tears coming from the other side of the door.

"David, oh David. How it must hurt."

Confusion mixed in with the fear and anger in David's head, causing the gun to waver for a brief moment.

What was this foolish cop trying to do?

"David, believe me, I've been in your shoes before. More people than you know have stood where you stand. The only difference is that they went down a road no one could ever come back from. We can save you, David. You have to let me in and take your friend with me."

"She's not my friend! I love her! She's my love."

"David, free your love, let her go. Keeping your love tied up is no way to show love to her. Please, David let me in."

The gun wavered again, but David still refused to move.

"David...my...love," the woman in the chair whispered. His eyes returned to the deep emerald oceans of right-ness, and the gun wavered yet again. All other sounds seemed to be drowned in that sea, in the thick, sweet nectar of her voice.

"David, please, let go...just, let go. If you love me, let go."

Something in that voice, something so very right about it, struck David deeply. He shuddered, sobbing uncontrollably. The gun fell to his side, and his shoulders drooped. David was ready to let go. He loosened the bonds of his love, so that she might move freely.

"Stay there," he said, "please."

David moved to the door, unlocked the latch and said, "I'm going to let you in, but wait until I say you can come in."

He received no acknowledgment from the other side, but David still took two long steps back from the door.

Suddenly, the door flew open and the officer rushed in, arms wide as if running for an embrace...or a tackle. She had a large smile on her face with tears running down her cheeks.

But David saw none of this.

Reacting without thought, he raised the weapon.

Pulled the trigger.

With a loud report, the officer fell to the floor dead.

The woman in the chair screamed, but did not move from the chair as if she was unable.

David stared blankly at the dead woman on the floor, then at the woman in the chair.

"I'm sorry," he said, as he raised the pistol to his head.

But before he could find the strength to pull the trigger, David fell to the floor, unconscious.

Through the blackness, he seemed to hear voices calling for him, echoes of memories.

David, please, let go.

David, please, let me in.

David, my love.

I want to be loved!

But to no avail.

The darkness tightened its grip about him, threatening to tear him limb from limb. Yet far off in the distance, there shone a light, a small pinprick of emerald.

Music filled the darkness as the light grew.

Music about love.

The light grew so bright, David's consciousness had to squint its eyes.

And suddenly, he awoke.

The white ceiling greeted his waking eyes. He pushed himself up on his elbows and glanced around his apartment. Everything was as it should be, everything in its place. Yet somehow, it was all wrong. Nothing was as he remembered. He glanced toward the door: no body, no bloodstain. Toward the chair: no duct tape or sweat stains.

Had it all been a dream? David glanced at his hand, the empty hand that held no gun. And then, David knew that his struggle had been a war with his own heart.

A knock sounded on the door. David jumped up and pulled the door wide. "Hello, my love," said a woman with emerald green eyes.

And in that instant, David came to know avail.

PJ Makes the Tackle

PJ Makes the Tackle
By Courtney Rupp (Grade 6)


Grudgingly, I slurped my dinner: canned soup left for me on the stove.

As usual, my mom and dad weren't home. They never were. They are always at work, putting out some chunky soup for my dinner and leaving me alone. See, the thing is that my parents really don't care about me, or about Titan, our dog. Their single concern is work.

I trudged up to my room, Titan following at my heels. Once in my room, I heard a faint scraping sound coming from downstairs. I peeked out my bedroom door, seeing nothing. Maybe we had mice! No, we couldn’t have mice or else Titan would be barking and whining instead of resting his head lazily on my lap. I decided to ignore the noise and listen to some music. I turned on my favorite band and tried to relax but, couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. I heard a crash downstairs and instinctively leaped to my feet. Titan started barking. What was happening? Nervous sweat was breaking out on my forehead.

I ran to my phone and frantically punched in my mom’s cell phone number. No answer! Next, I tried my dad’s. Nothing but a dead beep. Now Titan was pawing and growling at the locked bedroom door, trying desperately to get to whatever was crashing around downstairs. I patted Titan’s speckled head and tried to calm him down.

“Alright boy, on three I’ll open the door and I want you to distract whatever it is that’s down there while I run and call the police from the Craig’s house.” I felt a little guilty about leaving Titan here alone, but told myself if there was another choice, I’d take it. Titan looked at me sadly with his big brown eyes as if he’d understood what I’d said. A wave of guilt washed over me and I lost my guts. Okay, no problem. Think of a new plan. Maybe mom or dad will come home soon. I hopefully checked the clock then felt the hope drain out of me. No luck with that plan, it was only 3:00 p.m. Mom and dad came home around 10:00 and there was no way I was going to stay cooped up in my room for seven hours with a possible lunatic downstairs.

The crashing had gotten louder and louder as it came closer to my room. Suddenly, all went quiet. Titan uttered a low growl. I knew what was happening. The maniac had seen my bedroom light on, put two and two together, and realized they weren’t alone in the house. They were coming closer to my door. Closer, closer, closer until they would open the door to my room and then- GULP! I didn’t want to think about that. The only thing I could think about was how I didn’t have a window in my room so I wouldn’t be able to escape there.

As I was thinking the answer hit me like a slap in the face. HIDE! I grabbed Titan by the scruff of his neck and pulled him under the bed. I gave him the hand command for ‘stay’. Now, a spot into which I could vanish! I didn’t have time to think about that because outside my door, I heard footsteps slowing to a stop, right outside my door.

I watched in fear as the doorknob turned, ever so slowly. My frozen brain was able to process only a single thought. My last chance. My final stand, and that one thought, as crazy as it sounds, was ‘football!’

As the door opened I plowed over the maniac as Titan charged furiously after me.

“Ouch! What the…, PJ!” my prisoner gasped. I removed my foot from their chest and looked down into my mother’s familiar face.

“Mom? What are you doing here?” I asked in surprise.

“I-I I quit my job to have more time with you, I was trying to cook,” she stammered as I helped her up. I felt my cheeks redden. She explained that she had missed me and couldn’t stand her job anymore so she quit. I quietly forgave her for never being here.

I just sat there, stunned. I would have agreed to anything she was saying at that point. I smiled in spite of myself as she droned on about leaving her job and wanting to spend more time with me. I thought that everything was going to be alright.

Maybe.

Winched: A Short Short Story

Winched
By Savannah Baker (Grade 8)

Why was I was being escorted into the police interrogation room, again?

Sitting in this small windowless room again, I kept telling myself I didn’t do it! Not this time. I’m totally innocent.

I know this place well. I have made my way down these halls more than once for different reasons. But the difference between then and now is that I was guilty then, but I’m innocent now.

This time I was escorted by two officers who left me sitting me in a cold, metal chair on one side of a long, metal table. Paul - his name tag told me - left while the other one – Sam, I think - went to stand in the far corner of the room, where he watched me intently. I thought his stare would burn a hole straight through me.

I sat like this for a while. No one came or entered the room. The air was stuffy. And it annoyed me to be here for two reasons: I didn’t know why I was here and these people were wasting my time when I had things to do.

“Mr. Dylan Haves.”

I turned toward the familiar voice to see my “dear friend.” We’ve had many adventures together.

“Officer Swanski,” I said, acknowledging his presence.

“How come I’m never surprised to see you in here anymore?” He asked, taking a chair opposite me.

I grinned. “I don’t know. You tell me.”

Swanski and I became well acquainted at my previous visit. That time they tried to pin auto theft on me, but my friends got me out with a few big, well-placed lies. Before that visit, there were six other occasions to get to know Swanski.

“Okay, Dylan, enough chitchat. Let’s get down to business.”

He tossed some photos onto the table in front of me and my grin disappeared. There was a picture of a dead kid, the eight-year old boy from next door. His lifeless body sprawled on the carpet of his bedroom. There was a toy box next to his head and in his right hand he held a video game. Every photo was shot from a different angle. Every image pierced me. He was a good kid.

“You better start talking because you are about to be charged with murder.”

I jumped from the seat.

“What? Are you serious? I never touched the kid.”

“Take a seat, Mr. Haves. Just answer my questions. Where were you last night?”

“I was hanging out with friends.”

Swanski placed a gun in a plastic bag on the table in front of him. I could see the gun and I knew it was mine.

“Why did you kill him?”

“I didn’t! You have to believe me.”

“That’s funny, cause your prints are the only ones on the weapon.”

“You know it’s my gun. But I didn’t kill him. Honest, I didn’t.”

Just then the door opened and in walked the cell guard and Dylan’s state-appointed attorney, Ted Bennet.

“Mr. Haves, don’t say another word! I’ll take it from here.

Swanski turned to the guard and said, “Take him back to the cell.”

The guard pulled me up by the arm and led me away.

__________________________________

The public defender was the first to speak.

“We’ve got him this time, Swanki. Did you see the fear in his face?”

“Scared enough to confess to a slew of lesser crimes and to name the real killer. I like it!”

“I’ll visit him tomorrow and crank up the fear. Tell him that this charge is likely to hold.”

The men shook hands.

“Nice doing business with you, Ted.

Short Story: The Flint Knife

The Flint Knife

by

Jordan Romain (Grade 8)

CRASH!

The sound of clattering stone reverberated through the pristine halls of the musem. Sirens sounded.

“Wow, Mattie! You clumsy fool. You just broke the Badarian flint knife!”

Mattie’s wide eyes looked down at the knife. Terror made her stutter.

“I… I didn’t mean to. I tripped. Honest.”

Ms. Russell came rushing to where the girls were standing over the stone knife.

“What’s going on here?”

“Mattie broke the flint knife,” Rachel yelled, accusingly. She relished causing trouble for Mattie, her enemy.

Ms. Russell’s brow furrowed. “Is this true, Mattie?”

“Yes, Maam. I’m sooo sorry. I didn’t mean…”

“Mattie’s going to jail! Mattie’s going to jail!”

“Stop that, Rachel.”

The sirens finally subsided. Security guards flowed into the room, moving toward Maddie. As they cleared the area, the museum curator rushed in. He was a skinny, pale man with thick glasses.

“What happened to the Badarian knife? Oh, my goodness! Do you realize that this knife is 5000 years old?”

He was so upset that he appeared to be about to faint.

Mattie began to cry. She knew the artifact was important. Her teacher had explained to the class before they left school that they would be seeing the knife that Zipporah, Moses’ wife, used to circumcise their first-born son. It had to be valuable! Thank goodness it didn’t break.

What Mattie didn’t know, however, would change her life forever.

A ruby had dislodged from the knife’s hilt and had fallen into her shoulder bag. Even as the class was boarding the bus to return to school, the ruby was starting to glow.

Mattie sat in the front of the bus and as Rachel passed she sneered and said, “Nice going today, Mattie. You’re such a clutz.”

Mattie felt like sinking through the floor. She held her shoulder bag close to her chest and she felt something warm radiating against her. She opened the bag and looked inside. What she saw almost made her shout, but she didn’t want to draw any more attention to herself today. She would explore the glowing object when she was home.

When Mattie arrived home, she rushed upstairs to her bedroom and locked the door behind her. She dumped the contents of her handbag onto her bed. There on top of her mirror and lip gloss was a strange red object, glowing like an ember. She stared at it nervously. She wondered where it could have come from.

She finally stretched out her hand and touched the ruby. It was hot and she quickly pulled back her hand. Her curiosity was mixed with fear. What could this be?

Suddenly there was a knock on the door. Her mother called, “Mattie, are you okay?”

Mattie tossed her pillow over the clutter from her handbag and turned toward the door.

“I’m fine, Mom. I’ll be down soon.”

“Okay, but please hurry because I need you to set the table.”

Mattie grabbed the ruby and hid it under her bed. Then she went downstairs and set the table, her mind pondering the mysterious appearance of the object.

During dinner she was unusually quiet which raised questions from her parents about her day. Mattie reluctantly told her parents what had happened at the museum; how she had tripped and knocked over a display case, spilling a 3000 B.C. flint knife onto the floor. She didn’t mention the ruby.

Mattie’s mother was horrified and her nostrils flared. Mattie knew she was about to get a major lecture, but her father stepped in and said, “It was an accident, dear. Accidents happen!”

Mattie’s eyes began to tear. It had been a very emotional day.

“May I be excused, please?”

Her father nodded and Mattie quietly slipped out of her seat and rushed upstairs.

That night as she sat up in her bed, she held the mysterious red object … she was sure it was a ruby… between her palms with her knees drawn up. Now it was strangely cool and calming. She drifted off to sleep. And she dreamt of the flowing Nile with stone shrines along the riverbanks. She saw a stranger in long multicolored robe. He was talking to a man and a woman in a strange language. They handed him the ruby that she had found that day in her handbag. The ruler took the stone and placed it in a flint knife.

He handed them the knife and said, “Keep this for the circumcision of the son who is to come. The ruby gives prophesy and the knife brings pain.”

Then the two men and the woman disappeared. The knife and ruby vanished also. The sky became gray and stormy. A booming voice from heaven said, “Mattie, now you know of things to come… the power of the knife and of the ruby. Guard the ruby as one of my holy prophets.”

Mattie awoke and sat up in her bed. It was a dream, or was it? She looked down at the ruby and an invisible hand began to chisel: Prophet of the Most High.

Mattie’s eyes grew wide and she sighed deeply. This was more than she could handle. This was scary. She picked up the ruby and held it close, wondering where she could hide it. How would she ever be able to keep it from falling into the wrong hands?

Another Short Story by John Nichols

Good Enough
John Nichols



Rachel stood from where she knelt on the ground, silent tears streaming down her tired, pale visage. She let her long, swirling black hair down from the bun in which she had it to keep her lush tresses from blocking her sight. Her light, blue-green eyes stared down into the hole between the floorboards where she buried her heart. Where she buried everything that she once loved. Her hands, clad in gloves, soiled and brown with the fingers missing, reluctantly released their grip on the small heart shaped box, a once sparkling silver box, beautiful, but now dirty and grimy. She reached down into the hole and scooped dirt over her heart with a calloused hand until the box could no longer be seen. Then she turned on her heel and left the study, looking back longingly after each step. There could be no mistaking the pain she felt in leaving her heart behind.

She only hoped it would be enough, that giving up everything she once loved would be good enough.

She entered the library of the old rotting house. Sunlight streamed in through holes in the roof and between gaps in the ceiling boards. The dirty fingers of her left hand touched the spines of the many books lining the shelves as she walked along, her heels making the only audible noise on the floorboards. Her gait was light, as though she had dropped a heavy burden and now could run freely among the fields surrounding the house, yet she continued on her tour of the dilapidated home.

This was her home, since as the saying goes, the home is where the heart is.


And she had just buried her heart. Here. In this house. In the home.


There could be no turning back, she knew. She had to press on, had to make sure there was nothing else she needed to bury, no more pieces of her heart lying around. What was this life she now lived? Why did she need to bury her heart, and leave it behind in this...this home?

Because the home is where the heart is after all...

But did she want this to be her home? She only hoped that her sacrifice would be enough, that giving up her heart would be good enough.

The tears rained from her eyes in a steady shower, streaking her cheeks, ruining her mascara, and dropping to the floor, leaving a trail of droplets wherever she went. Rachel turned to look back the way she had come, and a tremble struck her lips. Her lipstick was a pale red, but only accentuated her tormented beauty. She wore a blouse, once white, now light brown and a black skirt, torn ragged by time and wear. Silence save for the muted thudding of her heels against the wooden floorboards filled the house, the home as a bank of grey clouds passed over the sun, dimming the light streaming in through the rafters. Her black hair curled beautifully around her as she strode weakly toward a bookshelf, standing alone in the middle of the room, much like Rachel stood alone in her world where everything she once loved now resided in a hole filled with a heart-shaped box, her heart, her box. Her misty eyes focused on a black leather bound tome, filled with blank pages, waiting to be written in. She removed it and cradled it in her arms as if it were a newborn baby. She slowly made her way over to the desk in the library, where she sat down and removed a quill from its inkwell. She began to write in its pages, slowly and irregularly at first, then with a measured rhythmic pace.


She could only hope it was enough, that emptying her mind into these pages would be good enough.

She wrote about her life, the things that had happened to her when she was a young girl, living with her father (how she hated him) and her mother (how she missed her). She wrote about the things the man she was told to marry did to her, the abhorrent things she feared to mention. Rachel needed to get them all out, or she would never be able to start over, to leave her heart, her mind and everything she once loved behind in this house, this home where her heart and soon her mind would live, or die, she did not care.


She set the pen down and stood, the tome of her life finished, the ink smeared where had not yet dried. She wrapped her hand around a pewter candlestick, the wick burning and the wax slowly melting, dripping, much like her life falling down around her. Her hand quivered and she released the candlestick. It fell briefly through the air, landing on the page before her which caught fire and began to burn rapidly. Her face showed no sign of fear, no mark of surprise, and her gait gave no signal of hurried movements as she walked out of the room and into the foyer.


She only hoped the fire, the cleansing fire would be enough.


The flames quickly spread through the library, consuming everything. Rachel stood in the foyer, staring blankly at the door in front of her, the portal to the outside, to the wild unknown where nothing of hers resided. Instead of reaching out to open the door, she waited.


She could only hope it was enough, that her sacrifice would be good enough.


The flames rushed into the hall, the creaking sound of falling timber crashing around her filled Rachel’s ears, but she did not listen. The burning fingers of the fire curled about the hall, nearly enveloping her in their embrace. Still she did not reach for the door. Black smoke choked her lungs and stung at her eyes. The flames crawled closer, as if they were being cautious of this...woman.


She began to cough, and as she felt the burning heat scald her back and the flames nip at the hem of her skirt, she lunged for the door, throwing it open. Rachel tumbled out of the burning house that crumbled all around her. She stumbled blindly down the steps of the porch and tripped. She fell headlong into the grass, the soft damp bed of the earth. And she lay there as her past crumbled and fell into a smoldering pile of rubbish behind her.


She could feel the burns on her back. She could hear the rasping in her lungs, and the smoke still darkened her eyes. She knew in that moment the fire feeding on her skirt would soon engulf her entirely. She knew she would die.


She could only hope that what she had done was enough, that by burying her heart, giving up her mind, and burning her body would be good enough.


She did not scream out in pain. There was no need, no one would hear.


Then it began to rain. Nay, it began to pour, to shower with a gentleness Rachel had never known. Grey clouds darkened the sky as the droplets fell from the sky onto Rachel’s back like the cleansing tears that rise to one’s eyes when a great pain has yielded to hope and happiness.


The heavy rain slowly began to subside, but it never completely ceased showering the land, leaving everything refreshed. Rachel lay still on the grass, green as emeralds, and slowly slipped into unconscious contentment as the dark grey gave way to an almost white grey sky. The sun slowly pierced the semi-darkness of the clouds, its rays falling from the ancient welkin and onto the ancient earth.


Though her body lay still, her mind raced, the thoughts coming as fast as she could think them. Why can I not just die? What purpose remains for me here in life? After all that’s happened, after all of the pain, all of the loss, all of the suffering, why must I still live? God, just let me go.


Her mind froze briefly. Where had that last thought come from? She pushed it aside and began grieve. She lamented the loss of her heart, everything she once loved. She wept for the loss of her mind, everything she once knew. And as the pain from the burns set in, she shed tears for her torn and broken body. The pain seemed to increase, and Rachel gasped, curling herself into a withering wet ball of flesh. Her makeup had been washed off of her face, and her hair had fallen about her shoulders. Now, she was a damp whimpering child, lost in the world, everything she once was, save for her body, lost in the smoldering ashes behind her.

But would that be enough? Would the loss of her heart, everything she once loved, the loss of her mind, everything she once knew, be good enough? Am I good enough? she asked herself.


Another spasm of pain wracked her body. Her face contorted in soundless pain, her mouth open in a wordless gasp. She was dying, she knew she would last only a few more minutes. The sun streamed through the clouds now, each of its separate tendrils of warmth, light, and life breaking through the pall as candlelight would cut through the holes in a plank of wood.

She fell onto her back, her wet hair splayed out behind her like a brown halo, one knee bent across the other leg, her arms out from her sides. She heaved a heavy gasp, and with a sputter of tears and breath, Rachel slipped away. Her pale skin, as beautiful as ever against the grass, was no longer dirty; it had been cleansed by the rain. Her blouse, once white now brown, was white again, whiter than ever before. With her makeup gone, her skin shone with a beauty seldom seen by even herself. Her green eyes shone like emeralds in the sunlight.


As the warm fingers of the sun wrapped themselves around her body, a voice whispered on the wind, I will never let go of you, my daughter, my child.


She had never been able to hold on to anything good enough in life. Now in her death, she would have her peace. Her sacrifice would have to be good enough. The life slowly drained from her body, her skin paling, yet her beauty never failing. The rain still fell and the sun still shone upon her; life continued around her cold body.

Yet death was not to be her end.


Again the voice whispered, You have died to yourself, my daughter, now rise in new life.


Slowly, yet surely, the burns on her skin began to heal. The skin closed around them, and they were gone. The pallor of death was slowly forced back from her skin as the rosiness returned to her cheeks. A breeze blew over her, and flowed into her mouth like a breath of fresh air. With a gasp and a stream of tears, her back arched off of the ground and she collapsed onto the grass. Her emerald eyes stared blankly at the sky, and only one thought filled her mind.


Am I good enough? she asked herself weakly. Am I good enough for you to love me? Am I good enough?


The wind whispered a third time. My daughter, you are more than good enough for me to love you, and I will never stop loving you. I have died so that your life might be restored, now rise up and live your life. Leave the ashes of your past behind you, and step forward over that hill into what lies ahead. My daughter, I will walk with you every single step.


Rachel slowly rose and shuffled through the grass over the hill. She would hold on to this feeling, this love, because it was good enough.



END

Another Story by John C. Nichols

At the Deli
By John C. Nichols

I sit by the window at the generic white-topped stand-alone table that seats two. I share a sandwich with the woman I adore. I look outside through the clear dual-paned window across the parking lot filled with cars. The lot is like an ocean, the cars like ships. The glass cuts off all sound from the outside where these small four-wheeled ships lie in their berths, the slips marked by painted white lines upon the hard surface of the blacktop sea.

The shops line the edge of the lot, the ocean’s shore: a shoe store, a discount clothing and wares store, and a Christian bookstore. The little people, who are like sailors, move between the shops, some with bags sauntering lazily, some without rushing madly.

Everything is in constant motion.

The sky is beginning to blacken. It is a warm day in my city, although a brief storm passes through.

A mosquito flits past, distracting me. I lose sight of the people, the sailors, the captains, each guiding their own destiny, each navigating blindly through the storms of their own lives. I turn my face away from the window, and glance across the table at the woman sitting with me.

“You can throw that away,” I tell her. She stands up with a quiet “okay” and a gentle smile. She walks to the trashcan and back. How I love her! She smiles gently at me as she sits back down. I look back out the window, and I am lost once again in my imagination.

The darkness deepens, and the people again become sailors, the blacktop an ocean, the cars, ships. They finish their business, and buy everything they think they might want. How I wish I could have what they have! I am drawn to them because of this desire. To purchase anything my heart desires! Oh, the bliss!

I see them dressed in all sorts of clothes, all of them much more extravagantly clothed than me. There are so many of them out there. If I could take the place of one of them for a moment, a day, how happy I would be! To control my own destiny….

There are too many people to notice the one person I would replace. But would anyone notice me disappearing?

A stray conversation reaches my ears. Some of the employees at the deli are having a relaxed conversation during a lull in their work. How carefree they seem to be! They have to work to live, while these sailors plunder the stores across the ocean, across the parking lot, never wondering when the next meal will come.

I cannot see anymore many of the sailors anymore. They slowly vanish, and are lost to me. But the idea of the sailors remains constant in my mind. That perception of never needing, only wanting, never being filled: this sticks to the walls of my mind.

I shift my gaze from the window, the illusion is lost. I look down at the white table, which I realize isn’t really white. It’s more of a milky off-white, yellowed slightly with age. I realize then that everything ages, even the people in the shops across the parking lot, the blacktop ocean. Even these people who need for nothing will one day die.

I glance up quickly at the deli’s counter.

No one’s there.

I look back at my date. She looks tired to me, but she looks happy. Even she can be happy when she is not like the people who buy anything just to have something.

I cast my gaze back out the window. The sailors have all left. The blacktop ocean stands empty and still. They have money, money that they spend on wealth. I long to be like them. I long to be not me.

There’s an older couple sitting to my right a few tables away, across the oak colored floors. They look content, happy even. They are together. They are like me. They need and cannot afford to want.

We finish the small $4.39 sandwich I bought for us. I feel every penny of what it cost me. It hurts every time. She holds the Styrofoam cup of water since she wanted a drink, since it saves me the little money I have.

She gives me a look that makes me think she’s sad, and my heart about breaks, but only just. And she isn’t sad.

“Are you happy,” she asks with a smile.

Can’t she see I want to be like the sailors with their ships that have four wheels cruising along the waveless blacktop, the calm ocean at fifty-five miles per hour? I don’t think she can. I’ve hid for so long that I am too good now at hiding my deepest desires from even those I love.

It’s dark now, but the deli’s light keeps the aged table alive, and the twenty-foot tall lampposts keep the blacktop sea lit, like stars shining from the heavens.

My ghost stares back at me with nearly eyeless sockets and a blurring outline. Then I realize that I am staring through the window again. There is no ghost, only my reflection. That’s who I really am, however: a ghost, a reflection, nothing more. I am hollow, I am worthless. I am unhappy.

I want to be like the sailors with money to spend in the shops. Money for goodness’ sake! It’s a marvelous thing! Do you understand? I feel that I am trying to describe a dream!

“Are you happy with a pen and paper,” she says again with a smile. No more than a heartbeat has passed since her first question. I think about what she said, and I offer her a faint almost-smile.

A pen? Some paper?

Then I remember the bookstore. Then I remember the pen in my hand, and the paper on the table in front of me. I see the words I wrote on the page. I then begin to understand that I don’t need to be like the sailors, the people who need for nothing and want everything, the people who are empty inside.

I realize that with a simple pen and a sheaf of paper I am happy, content, even filled.

For some reason, I don’t tell. Perhaps she already knows.

A Very Short Short

Andrew’s Letter
LeAnn Terrell

Mandy pulled her coat tighter as she ran down the steps of her apartment building. The night was cold and the rain continued to pour. She could not shake the chill that was building inside her, a chill that was from more than the cold, damp weather. She knew it came from her very soul. It was her fear, a fear that continuously haunted her and even now made her afraid to open the letter. She clutched the letter close to her as she ran down the street, uncertain of what she should do.

Mandy was the kind of girl that other women envied. Her long chestnut hair framed her ivory face and her blue eyes were framed by long lashes. Her petite and shapely frame turned many heads and men often stole a second glance. None of this mattered to Mandy because when she looked in the mirror she saw a woman who didn’t deserve happiness. She constantly doubted herself and feared the future. She was certain that her life would take a turn for the worst. The anxiety clouded her mind.

She ducked into a small café and slid into an isolated booth by the fireplace. Her hands trembled as she read the return address. After all these months Andrew had finally written. She remembered how he looked that day they met. He was in his military uniform and she had instantly fallen in love.

Their first year together was bliss. They spent every possible moment together and she knew she the he was the man she wanted to marry, but he never asked. He always seemed to hold back. Then Andrew was called to active duty and sent to Iraq. It was as if her world had turned dark.

At first he wrote often, called her and emailed her a work. She could hardly wait to arrive at her office to see if he had sent her a message.

Then he seemed to withdraw emotionally and she couldn’t find a way to reach him. Now months had passed without a word and she was terrified that this letter might be the final goodbye. Probably he had met someone else. Maybe a lady soldier.

Mandy was sure that the letter contained bad news. Her mind considered the possibilities. He was injured. His tour-of-duty was extended. He didn’t love her anymore. He had found someone else. The thought of losing him stirred panic. She felt as if the room were closing in and she wanted to flee.

As Mandy stared at the envelope she knew what she had to do. She was convinced that the news was bad and couldn’t bring herself to read it. She should never have hoped for a future with Andrew. She didn’t serve to be loved.

But she didn’t deserve words that would cut her heart to ribbons either! With fierce determination and tears streaming down her face she rose and tossed the unopened letter into the fire. As she ran out the door, the words “will you marry me” turned to ash in the engulfing flames.

Depicting Violence in Fiction

My students are required to write short shorts. This demanding unit has proven to be helpful to students because they go through the process as a fiction writer. (For more on how to encourage students to write short fiction, read Fiction: The Germ That Spreads published here in April 2007.)

The secret to writing good short shorts is to begin the story as close as possible to the climax and to begin with action. Many students begin with scenes of violence, but they need guidance and examples in order to learn how to do this well. Here are some tips to share with your students.

There are three ways to depict violence in short stories.

1. Pack the narrative with details and draw out the action so that it seems that the event is taking place in slow motion. The objective is to draw the reader into the action. To do this well the writer must be selective about which details to include. Not every detail is necessary.

Example: Carlito heard the shot after he had fallen. The gutter was splattered with red drops and the smell of blood filled his nostrils. It all felt like a dream. He was sure that he must be sleeping, only the warm redness was spreading. A scarlet stream against the hard gray of the asphalt, and in the background the sirens wailed.

The writer should begin by trying to visualize the event in the mind. Some students find it helpful to close their eyes. They keep their writing journals open so they can jot down details. In the example given important details would include the red splatters, the scarlet stream, the hard gray asphalt, the smell of blood and the wailing sirens as in a dream.

Provide students with examples that employ this approach to violent scenes. (The British novelist, Ruth Rendell, does this very well.)

2. Hide or bracket the violence between what precedes and what follows. For example: describe a normal day for the character and then because of something violent that has happened, his life is changed. You must provide enough information that it is clear to the reader that something has happened although you haven't described the event. You are inviting the reader to fill in the blanks using the imagination.

Example: Jake drove down the dusty lane with his favorite country station blaring and eager for a slice or two of his Aunt Sally's raspberry pie, but when he saw the vultures circling, their huge wings tilting as they made their descent, he knew that he would have to investigate.

3. Underplay the horror of the event by avoiding graphic description. Use short and simple sentences. Example: She heard the bone crack. She fell, stunned by the blow. Her stomach soured. She lay on the ground and looked at the cloudless blue sky, wondering who would find her and when.

Another way to downplay the horror is to use long sentences connected by a string of connectors. Example: Freddy took the shot below his left eye and felt the cheek bone splinter before his legs buckled and he fell to the ground, barely conscious.

Students today are exposed to so much violence that they can depict very gruesome scenes. The key to depicting violence in good fiction is to help the reader identify with what the character is experiencing, not with the gore.

Fiction: A Germ That Spreads

Asking students to write short stories is like sending them to the dentist. They don't want to go. And can we blame them? Fiction writing takes tremenous effort even for veteran authors.

Novelist Fanny Hurst said, "Writing is a chore. It cracks your bones and eats you, and yet it dominates you. You hate it while you love it."

To write fiction well, students must read the great classics: Hawthorne, Faulkner, Poe, Dickens and Dostoevsky, etc. As they read, they should study how the authors develop their plots. They should also read contemporary fiction to become familiar with the rules of paragraphing and dialogue. Most importantly, students need to reflect on the germ that infects their minds so that the germ can spread. The germ may be an image, a personal issue, or a plot idea. All this takes time and teachers don't seem to have enough time to help students develop into good fiction writers. Here are some suggestions to streamline the assignment:

Require each student to write a short short, i.e., a story of no more than 6 typed pages.

Give them a list of interesting characters and let them select the one that intrigues them most. I've had success with this list: a clown, an orphan, a soldier, a wizard, a spy, a hermit, a fairy, a sea captain, a bank robber, a talking cat, and an athlete. You may want to require everyone to select a different character or you will end up with 10 stories about aspiring professional athletes!

Help them to define the character's predicament. The predicament will drive the plot. In a short short, everything that happens must contribute to a satisfying resolution of the character's predicament.

Tell them to begin their stories as close as possible to the climax. This usually means slashing the opening paragraphs of the first draft and jumping into the action quickly.

Ask them to write a surprise ending.

Send me 2 or 3 of your best stories (with confirmation of student permission) and I'll publish them here!