by Olive Lopez
Anna Armstrong jumped from the spaceship Apollo 22 and landed softly on Mars. Her best friend, Sofia, was right behind, and floated down next to her. They were here with her gymnastics team for a special summer camp. Girls all over the galaxy competed in The Inter-Galaxy Competition, as the director called it. There was one requirement: you had to be able to speak Martian. Upon arriving, Anna slowly took in Mars' rocks, holes, and moons.
"Come on, Anna!" Sophia's voice jolted her out of dream land.
"Coming," Anna muttered. She looked around for her bugs.
"They're above your head," Sophia said laughing, as Anna's face was registering shock since she saw her floating bugs above her.
~
Back in the oxygen-tight dorms, Anna's team, The Stars, started to setting in. Soon, the bell rang and they all went to dinner, not forgetting to zip up their spacesuits and turn off the solar-powered lights.
~
Xilobkyn the little martian was walking. He knew he should not have been out--but he was walking anyways. He saw a shadow of a crater (though he did not know this) and muttered, "Mycowylz," which is Martian for 'illusions'. He was wrong. Xilobkyn tripped over the "illusion" and fell into darkness.
~
Walking back from dinner, Anna too saw the shadow. She knew it was a crater but still tripped. Anna landed on the Martian with a bump. "Icckb!" screamed the Martian, saying something little Martians should not know, let alone say. Anna backed off into the side of the crator while the Martian whimpered.
(Anna and Xilobkyn's conversation was in Martian, so I shall translate.)
Xilobkyn started to cry and said, "I want to go home and I miss my nisssssa!" (Nisa is mother in Martian.) Anna was a bit startled, but said, "I'll take you home. Only, you have to tell me where you live." Xilo sniffled a bit and then
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Pre-Death
by Sara Chou
Life. It's so unfair. Why do things have to happen the way they do? Like in a raffle, when one person buys a thousand tickets, and another person buys just one, the person that just buys one wins the grand prize. Or when you're walking up on stage to do some important speech and you trip and fall flat on your face and everyone laughs. I was in the exact same situation, although, for me, it was slightly different.
Things were going so well with my cat fossil collection and my plan to become the most powerful paleontologist ever. I already had a sheep, a dog, and a coyote. Now I was working on finding the left foot, the ear, and the tail of a cat and my collection would be complete. I had found them in just seven years, which was pretty unbelievable, considering the fact that it took most experienced animal paleontologists about one year to find just a couple of bones even. But I guess my luck was too good to be true. Since Dr. Steven Dellmar had to show up and ruin my life. Paleontology was basically my life. It was all I ever did, besides eat and sleep.
My laboratory was in what used to be called "Puerto Rico" and lately, there were no new items to be stored there. Although I have found some horse legs, that's not what I'm looking for! So anyways, where were we? Oh yeah, Dr. Dellmar. He and I used to work for the same company, but things didn't work out, so I quit, and started my own very successful--if I can say so myself-- business. Before he quit, and started his own business, I was the most famous paleontologist in the world. The only real competition I had at the time was him--Dr. Steven Dellmar--and another paleontologist, Dr. James Harkins. But Dr. James Harkins died of leukemia because he didn't want to take the medication. So that left Dr. Dellmar. After James died, I found out from my sources that Dr. Dellmar (DD from now on) had a full cat, and some EXTRA bones, probably from another species of cat, and he had all the rest of the animals I had, except for the dog. He was missing half of the dog. I was first and DD was second. I kind of thought tha,t sooner or later, DD would win this contest. I just didn't know it would be sooner.
FIVE YEARS LATER
When they first told me that I was no longer the best, I was infuriated, enraged and basically an out of control lunatic since I was acting so unreasonably insane. I didn't know how this could have happened to me. I had spent so much time, so much money, so much effort on this project, and at the end it was all going to WASTE?! How bogus is that? Before DD had found everything, I had found everything except my/the tail. After February I hadn't found anything. And that was eight months ago. So anyways, one of my faithful employees, Dr. Ryan McIntire comes to me and tells me that my life is over (not exactly but you should know what I mean). Then, three days later I saw it for myself, pictures--everywhere, newspapers, cereal boxes, magazines, T.V., billboards, blimps, bus-ads, even on T-shirts!--of Dr. Steven Dellmar and his findings, which, basically remind me of what I loser I am. And one of the worst things is that the day after, I finally found the cat's tail. Even though it was too late.
THE END
Life. It's so unfair. Why do things have to happen the way they do? Like in a raffle, when one person buys a thousand tickets, and another person buys just one, the person that just buys one wins the grand prize. Or when you're walking up on stage to do some important speech and you trip and fall flat on your face and everyone laughs. I was in the exact same situation, although, for me, it was slightly different.
Things were going so well with my cat fossil collection and my plan to become the most powerful paleontologist ever. I already had a sheep, a dog, and a coyote. Now I was working on finding the left foot, the ear, and the tail of a cat and my collection would be complete. I had found them in just seven years, which was pretty unbelievable, considering the fact that it took most experienced animal paleontologists about one year to find just a couple of bones even. But I guess my luck was too good to be true. Since Dr. Steven Dellmar had to show up and ruin my life. Paleontology was basically my life. It was all I ever did, besides eat and sleep.
My laboratory was in what used to be called "Puerto Rico" and lately, there were no new items to be stored there. Although I have found some horse legs, that's not what I'm looking for! So anyways, where were we? Oh yeah, Dr. Dellmar. He and I used to work for the same company, but things didn't work out, so I quit, and started my own very successful--if I can say so myself-- business. Before he quit, and started his own business, I was the most famous paleontologist in the world. The only real competition I had at the time was him--Dr. Steven Dellmar--and another paleontologist, Dr. James Harkins. But Dr. James Harkins died of leukemia because he didn't want to take the medication. So that left Dr. Dellmar. After James died, I found out from my sources that Dr. Dellmar (DD from now on) had a full cat, and some EXTRA bones, probably from another species of cat, and he had all the rest of the animals I had, except for the dog. He was missing half of the dog. I was first and DD was second. I kind of thought tha,t sooner or later, DD would win this contest. I just didn't know it would be sooner.
FIVE YEARS LATER
When they first told me that I was no longer the best, I was infuriated, enraged and basically an out of control lunatic since I was acting so unreasonably insane. I didn't know how this could have happened to me. I had spent so much time, so much money, so much effort on this project, and at the end it was all going to WASTE?! How bogus is that? Before DD had found everything, I had found everything except my/the tail. After February I hadn't found anything. And that was eight months ago. So anyways, one of my faithful employees, Dr. Ryan McIntire comes to me and tells me that my life is over (not exactly but you should know what I mean). Then, three days later I saw it for myself, pictures--everywhere, newspapers, cereal boxes, magazines, T.V., billboards, blimps, bus-ads, even on T-shirts!--of Dr. Steven Dellmar and his findings, which, basically remind me of what I loser I am. And one of the worst things is that the day after, I finally found the cat's tail. Even though it was too late.
THE END
Mirror
By Mia Shackelford
Rachel and I stopped in the doorway for a moment longer than necessary. She would rather give up her signature silver nail polish rather than admit it, but we're both going to miss Roosevelt High School.
My stomach turned—partly from the odor wafting out of the bathroom & partly from the fact that we were graduating (graduating!) on Friday.
"I think we're even going to miss the bathroom," I said. It came out more sorrowfully than I had meant it to be.
"I won't," Rachel said, but I can tell when she's lying. She loves this school, definitely more than I do. Rachel gets straight A's. She always says the trick is to pretend constantly, always to smile, to dress right, not to bring things up they don't want brought up. Rachel is by nature a truthful person, but she's also intelligent enough to get by anywhere.
We squeezed between the wall and the trashcan to the Senior Girls Mirrors. Well, the ones who are like, normal. The band geeks, sluts and weird artsy people use the same mirrors as the freshmen. But there are hardly enough of the "abnormals" as Cindy calls them, to bother mentioning.
With one final heave, Rachel pushed away the trashcan far enough to slither into the mirror nook and I followed.
I looked up to see how my hair was in the mirror. I gasped. Snaking over and around the mirror were five red, raging words.
'RACHEL NELSON IS A LESBO'
"Weird," I thought, "everyone loves Rachel." Who would write something so obviously wrong on the bathroom—" I looked over at her, started by the sound of someone crying. It was Rachel!
"Oh, come on, don't cry over something so stupid."
"Yeah, silly, right?" she asked with an odd note in her voice.
The school was buzzing though. Cindy didn't acknowledge Rachel as we passed. Lara didn't either, but Lara always copied Cindy, so it wasn't exactly a surprise. I was surprised with all the seemingly suspicious people. It was so idiotic! Rachel had had five boyfriends! Sure, none of them lasted very long, but she was picky. It wasn't like Sonoma had SUCH a huge group of cute, eligible guys.
I waited for Rachel at her locker, after school, but she wasn't there. "Maybe she's in the bathroom," I thought. I walked past Cindy and Lara and Mary and a bunch of attentive girls.
"I saw her kissing a GIRL in Calistoga," said Mary. I froze. Rachel had gone to Calistoga over Memorial Day weekend, but so what? I couldn't believe Mary was lying so straight-faced.
"Did you write it, then?" asked Lara, wide-mouthed.
"No, of course not!" Mary exclaimed defensively. "But I told plenty of people…anyone might've."
I was fuming as I thundered past them, right into the familiarity of the reeking bathroom. The trashcan was completely pushed aside, so I walked right in. The scare felt eerily familiar. I gasped once again at sprawling letters near the mirror. Except they spelled out:
So what if I am?
In silver nail polish. Rachel stood there hurriedly capping the polish, and in the process, partially smearing the question mark. My mind was blank as I pushed past her out of the bathroom, through the hallways, out of the school. But as I walked home, the tree-dappled sunlight playing over the sidewalk, my thoughts returned, all in a rush. What? She's really? I mean, it's true?!?"
Rachel is a lesbian. She kissed a girl in Calistoga.
~
I couldn't face her on Tuesday. I didn't wait near her locker so we could walk to homeroom together. I ignored her looks until lunchtime. I sat with Cindy and Mary and Lara not to mention half the rest of our tiny class of '82. Rachel came up holding two Tabs like every other day. Cindy stood up deliberately and walked away. I watched, speechless, as every other girl followed. Why were they so weirded out, even the ones who didn't tend to follow Cindy? I looked again at Rachel until I—how did I miss the giant rainbow flag on her t-shirt? As if to reinforce the point, "OUT AND PROUD" was boldly emblazoned across her chest. Rachel was giving me no choice! She knew how to go along with the system. Why was she bucking it now. Couldn't she wear a blouse or sweater like any other day. I followed Cindy.
A girl named Susan with a giant flannel shirt and crazily curly hair waved. From the artsy, wanna-be-in-San Francisco table. How did Rachel even know her? She must, otherwise why would she plunk down and hand the second Tab—my Tab—over to Lizzie.
During seventh period, we all heard the PA System moan, "Rachel Nelson, please report to the office immediately!"
I raised my hand, "Ms. Gruik, can I go to the bathroom." The teacher absentmindedly replied yes.
I went straight to the office. The junior secretary assumed I was a TA and didn't look up from her book. I entered the room. I ducked behind the copying machine and put my ear to the air duct into Mr. Fox, the principal's, office.
"I'm sorry, Ms. Nelson, but we need to stress that your shirt is, frankly inappropriate."
"Don't I have the right to freedom of expression, sir?"
"If you came in here with a violent shirt, no. And this is no different. This is a school, we make the dress code."
"But Linda Harris wore a shirt today that says, "Christian Student Association-Jesus Rocks!" on it. That expresses an opinion, too, that not everyone has. My friend Julia is jewish."
"Yes but…that's religion. This is about suspect morality. Many people believe that, uh…, homosexuality is merely a mental disorder. Anyway, your shirt is not the kind of thing we want at Roosevelt. And really, you're so close to graduation. Why stir things up?" That last sentiment echoed in my mind.
I walked back. I stopped near the bathroom. Why not go in after all. I strode almost fearfully into the Senior's spot. Different handwriting than the first message, this time in black sharpie:
GET OUT OF THIS SCHOOL!
And another in wild purple:
Oh shut up, get your heads out of the Dark Ages already.
I wondered if Lizzie or one of her friends wrote the latter. Probably, I doubt anyone else would.
~
On Wednesday Rachel showed up in a hot pink tee bearing the message, "We're here, we're queer, get over it!" I didn't understand how she had magically turned into this hardened radical Rachel I barely recognized. Our homeroom teacher ignored the shirt, but Rachel was summoned by the Principal yet again during first period. I didn't eavesdrop this time, but the gossip was circulating by lunch.
"They won't let her graduate if she continue to be all defiant!" said Cindy.
"Rachel told them she'll wear one of those awful t-shirts to graduation. They're threatened her with no diploma."
I heard snippets of conversation about her everywhere. I walked away from the group, sickened by how ferociously gleeful they were about the news. It didn't make sense that the school wouldn't let her graduate. Her grades were perfect. My feet moved automatically to the senior mirrors. More red writing said:
RACHEL NELSON SHOULD DIE AND BURN IN HELL
SHE SHOULD SHUT UP WHILE SHE STILL CAN.
I shivered. Why was the school so hung up about some silly t-shirt when kids were writing death threats in the bathroom? I didn't realize I had said it out loud until I heard a voice next to me say, "I know." It was Amy, a quiet girl who normally sat with me, Rachel and a couple other standard, sweet, normal girls. It was usually hard to even distinguish us, I realized. We were all just a blur of good grades, soft smiles, and makeup. Until Rachel.
"I think I might go sit with her," I said.
"No need to specify who her is," said Amy.
She walked with me to the table of people I used to label abnormals. I tried to plop my bag down casually, like this was my dull, everyday environment. My acting skills have always been pitiful.
"It's okay," said Rachel. I knew she had accepted my unspoken apology.
"So," said Susan, as if we were continuing a conversation. "Mary has her whole church rallied against this school's "tolerance for perversion."
"They're not exactly tolerant," said Rachel, dryly, "I mean, they haven't killed me yet, if that's what they mean by tolerance."
"They're having a protest tomorrow night. We should counter-protest then, too," continued Susan.
I reluctantly decided to drive them—nobody else had their own car, or license—but not, I stressed, to "join this radical thing!"
~
There were more death threats and swearing aimed at Rachel in the bathroom on Thursday. But Susan and her friends were attacking the stall with purple nail polish, writing things like, "Love has no bounds," while I watched for teachers and tried to quiet everything down.
I couldn't understand why my whole world had changed in three days. It was confusing and dizzying and scary. I wasn't sure if I could stay in this tentative new friendship. Of course, whenever you're dreading something, time rushes along like scared freshman. And I was dreading the protest, or counter protest, or whatever it was. Why was Rachel risking her diploma, her safety and her entire future to be herself. She used to say never to be yourself, to work around the system, never to say anything bothersome or confrontational.
I was still trying to persuade Rachel, Susan and the others to give up as I was driving them to the site of the protest. "You could get expelled, Rachel's already facing no graduation, we could all just simmer down till graduation tomorrow!" They didn't listen. I think Amy agreed with me, but she was quiet about this like many other things.
We unloaded ourselves confidently (them, if not me, anyways.)
But when we gazed around, we were shocked. We had expected a self-righteous grove of "concerned citizens" most likely dressed all in pastels. And there were some of those types. But there were people there who looked, well, scary. Someone held up a sign that said, "God Hates Fags!"
My stomach was doing uncomfortably gymnastic flips. My head was spinning.
Then, someone recognized Rachel.
All was silent for one blissful moment, then, as if the volume on the scene was abruptly turned up, the parking lot was engulfed in a dull roar. People were yelling at us, violently, angrily, terrifyingly.
(There was also a small group of embarrassed PTA members who stood to the side awkwardly. They hadn't expected us, nor the rough intolerance of the protestors.)
Liz and the more determined members of our group were yelling undecipherable things about peace, love and equality, but I just stood there in terror. I felt like a coward, hiding behind the car as the rest of them were slowly surrounded.
I saw a sunlight flash off a sliver of metal in the crowd, blinding me. I yelped and rubbed my eyes, sorry that I had peeked from behind the hood.
A piercing scream filled the air. The crowd parted in shocked silence. Rachel came out, her blanched face stuck in a grimace, holding on tightly to Liz's arm. I rose to my feet unconsciously, and when they reached the car I grabbed Rachel. "What's wrong?" Rachel seemed too stunned or in pain to make a sound. Liz gently turned her around so I could see Rachel's back. There was a bloodstain contrasting sharply against her white halter-top. In some detached part of my brain, I realized I was sobbing.
~
Rachel was rushed to the emergency room. I wanted to stay with her but my mother came to hurry me home.
Rachel and I stopped in the doorway for a moment longer than necessary. She would rather give up her signature silver nail polish rather than admit it, but we're both going to miss Roosevelt High School.
My stomach turned—partly from the odor wafting out of the bathroom & partly from the fact that we were graduating (graduating!) on Friday.
"I think we're even going to miss the bathroom," I said. It came out more sorrowfully than I had meant it to be.
"I won't," Rachel said, but I can tell when she's lying. She loves this school, definitely more than I do. Rachel gets straight A's. She always says the trick is to pretend constantly, always to smile, to dress right, not to bring things up they don't want brought up. Rachel is by nature a truthful person, but she's also intelligent enough to get by anywhere.
We squeezed between the wall and the trashcan to the Senior Girls Mirrors. Well, the ones who are like, normal. The band geeks, sluts and weird artsy people use the same mirrors as the freshmen. But there are hardly enough of the "abnormals" as Cindy calls them, to bother mentioning.
With one final heave, Rachel pushed away the trashcan far enough to slither into the mirror nook and I followed.
I looked up to see how my hair was in the mirror. I gasped. Snaking over and around the mirror were five red, raging words.
'RACHEL NELSON IS A LESBO'
"Weird," I thought, "everyone loves Rachel." Who would write something so obviously wrong on the bathroom—" I looked over at her, started by the sound of someone crying. It was Rachel!
"Oh, come on, don't cry over something so stupid."
"Yeah, silly, right?" she asked with an odd note in her voice.
The school was buzzing though. Cindy didn't acknowledge Rachel as we passed. Lara didn't either, but Lara always copied Cindy, so it wasn't exactly a surprise. I was surprised with all the seemingly suspicious people. It was so idiotic! Rachel had had five boyfriends! Sure, none of them lasted very long, but she was picky. It wasn't like Sonoma had SUCH a huge group of cute, eligible guys.
I waited for Rachel at her locker, after school, but she wasn't there. "Maybe she's in the bathroom," I thought. I walked past Cindy and Lara and Mary and a bunch of attentive girls.
"I saw her kissing a GIRL in Calistoga," said Mary. I froze. Rachel had gone to Calistoga over Memorial Day weekend, but so what? I couldn't believe Mary was lying so straight-faced.
"Did you write it, then?" asked Lara, wide-mouthed.
"No, of course not!" Mary exclaimed defensively. "But I told plenty of people…anyone might've."
I was fuming as I thundered past them, right into the familiarity of the reeking bathroom. The trashcan was completely pushed aside, so I walked right in. The scare felt eerily familiar. I gasped once again at sprawling letters near the mirror. Except they spelled out:
So what if I am?
In silver nail polish. Rachel stood there hurriedly capping the polish, and in the process, partially smearing the question mark. My mind was blank as I pushed past her out of the bathroom, through the hallways, out of the school. But as I walked home, the tree-dappled sunlight playing over the sidewalk, my thoughts returned, all in a rush. What? She's really? I mean, it's true?!?"
Rachel is a lesbian. She kissed a girl in Calistoga.
~
I couldn't face her on Tuesday. I didn't wait near her locker so we could walk to homeroom together. I ignored her looks until lunchtime. I sat with Cindy and Mary and Lara not to mention half the rest of our tiny class of '82. Rachel came up holding two Tabs like every other day. Cindy stood up deliberately and walked away. I watched, speechless, as every other girl followed. Why were they so weirded out, even the ones who didn't tend to follow Cindy? I looked again at Rachel until I—how did I miss the giant rainbow flag on her t-shirt? As if to reinforce the point, "OUT AND PROUD" was boldly emblazoned across her chest. Rachel was giving me no choice! She knew how to go along with the system. Why was she bucking it now. Couldn't she wear a blouse or sweater like any other day. I followed Cindy.
A girl named Susan with a giant flannel shirt and crazily curly hair waved. From the artsy, wanna-be-in-San Francisco table. How did Rachel even know her? She must, otherwise why would she plunk down and hand the second Tab—my Tab—over to Lizzie.
During seventh period, we all heard the PA System moan, "Rachel Nelson, please report to the office immediately!"
I raised my hand, "Ms. Gruik, can I go to the bathroom." The teacher absentmindedly replied yes.
I went straight to the office. The junior secretary assumed I was a TA and didn't look up from her book. I entered the room. I ducked behind the copying machine and put my ear to the air duct into Mr. Fox, the principal's, office.
"I'm sorry, Ms. Nelson, but we need to stress that your shirt is, frankly inappropriate."
"Don't I have the right to freedom of expression, sir?"
"If you came in here with a violent shirt, no. And this is no different. This is a school, we make the dress code."
"But Linda Harris wore a shirt today that says, "Christian Student Association-Jesus Rocks!" on it. That expresses an opinion, too, that not everyone has. My friend Julia is jewish."
"Yes but…that's religion. This is about suspect morality. Many people believe that, uh…, homosexuality is merely a mental disorder. Anyway, your shirt is not the kind of thing we want at Roosevelt. And really, you're so close to graduation. Why stir things up?" That last sentiment echoed in my mind.
I walked back. I stopped near the bathroom. Why not go in after all. I strode almost fearfully into the Senior's spot. Different handwriting than the first message, this time in black sharpie:
GET OUT OF THIS SCHOOL!
And another in wild purple:
Oh shut up, get your heads out of the Dark Ages already.
I wondered if Lizzie or one of her friends wrote the latter. Probably, I doubt anyone else would.
~
On Wednesday Rachel showed up in a hot pink tee bearing the message, "We're here, we're queer, get over it!" I didn't understand how she had magically turned into this hardened radical Rachel I barely recognized. Our homeroom teacher ignored the shirt, but Rachel was summoned by the Principal yet again during first period. I didn't eavesdrop this time, but the gossip was circulating by lunch.
"They won't let her graduate if she continue to be all defiant!" said Cindy.
"Rachel told them she'll wear one of those awful t-shirts to graduation. They're threatened her with no diploma."
I heard snippets of conversation about her everywhere. I walked away from the group, sickened by how ferociously gleeful they were about the news. It didn't make sense that the school wouldn't let her graduate. Her grades were perfect. My feet moved automatically to the senior mirrors. More red writing said:
RACHEL NELSON SHOULD DIE AND BURN IN HELL
SHE SHOULD SHUT UP WHILE SHE STILL CAN.
I shivered. Why was the school so hung up about some silly t-shirt when kids were writing death threats in the bathroom? I didn't realize I had said it out loud until I heard a voice next to me say, "I know." It was Amy, a quiet girl who normally sat with me, Rachel and a couple other standard, sweet, normal girls. It was usually hard to even distinguish us, I realized. We were all just a blur of good grades, soft smiles, and makeup. Until Rachel.
"I think I might go sit with her," I said.
"No need to specify who her is," said Amy.
She walked with me to the table of people I used to label abnormals. I tried to plop my bag down casually, like this was my dull, everyday environment. My acting skills have always been pitiful.
"It's okay," said Rachel. I knew she had accepted my unspoken apology.
"So," said Susan, as if we were continuing a conversation. "Mary has her whole church rallied against this school's "tolerance for perversion."
"They're not exactly tolerant," said Rachel, dryly, "I mean, they haven't killed me yet, if that's what they mean by tolerance."
"They're having a protest tomorrow night. We should counter-protest then, too," continued Susan.
I reluctantly decided to drive them—nobody else had their own car, or license—but not, I stressed, to "join this radical thing!"
~
There were more death threats and swearing aimed at Rachel in the bathroom on Thursday. But Susan and her friends were attacking the stall with purple nail polish, writing things like, "Love has no bounds," while I watched for teachers and tried to quiet everything down.
I couldn't understand why my whole world had changed in three days. It was confusing and dizzying and scary. I wasn't sure if I could stay in this tentative new friendship. Of course, whenever you're dreading something, time rushes along like scared freshman. And I was dreading the protest, or counter protest, or whatever it was. Why was Rachel risking her diploma, her safety and her entire future to be herself. She used to say never to be yourself, to work around the system, never to say anything bothersome or confrontational.
I was still trying to persuade Rachel, Susan and the others to give up as I was driving them to the site of the protest. "You could get expelled, Rachel's already facing no graduation, we could all just simmer down till graduation tomorrow!" They didn't listen. I think Amy agreed with me, but she was quiet about this like many other things.
We unloaded ourselves confidently (them, if not me, anyways.)
But when we gazed around, we were shocked. We had expected a self-righteous grove of "concerned citizens" most likely dressed all in pastels. And there were some of those types. But there were people there who looked, well, scary. Someone held up a sign that said, "God Hates Fags!"
My stomach was doing uncomfortably gymnastic flips. My head was spinning.
Then, someone recognized Rachel.
All was silent for one blissful moment, then, as if the volume on the scene was abruptly turned up, the parking lot was engulfed in a dull roar. People were yelling at us, violently, angrily, terrifyingly.
(There was also a small group of embarrassed PTA members who stood to the side awkwardly. They hadn't expected us, nor the rough intolerance of the protestors.)
Liz and the more determined members of our group were yelling undecipherable things about peace, love and equality, but I just stood there in terror. I felt like a coward, hiding behind the car as the rest of them were slowly surrounded.
I saw a sunlight flash off a sliver of metal in the crowd, blinding me. I yelped and rubbed my eyes, sorry that I had peeked from behind the hood.
A piercing scream filled the air. The crowd parted in shocked silence. Rachel came out, her blanched face stuck in a grimace, holding on tightly to Liz's arm. I rose to my feet unconsciously, and when they reached the car I grabbed Rachel. "What's wrong?" Rachel seemed too stunned or in pain to make a sound. Liz gently turned her around so I could see Rachel's back. There was a bloodstain contrasting sharply against her white halter-top. In some detached part of my brain, I realized I was sobbing.
~
Rachel was rushed to the emergency room. I wanted to stay with her but my mother came to hurry me home.
Hell’s Love Hotel
By Zoe
It was a magical night. Max and I went on our first date. When he walked me home, he came upstairs and we watched MythBusters. We snuggled happily, like we were perfect for each other. We were, too. After we finished watching TV, he came into my room and we snuggled more. We fell asleep in each other's arms, and I figured I had to be dreaming. My alarm clock went off soon afterwards. I sat up for thirty seconds before burying my face back into my pillow.
I felt something tug gently on my sleeve. "Seriously dude, come on. Class is over. Time for Hell's Love Hotel."
I sat up slowly and grunted. Hell's Love Hotel was what Desmonde called math. Our regular teacher had some health problem and had been out for a few weeks. During that time, we'd had a younger rocker sub who Desmonde developed a crush on. Disturbing as the image was, I could completely imagine her in one of those awful fantasy hentais where the teacher would keep her after school and…have his way with her. When I told her this, she blushed and said nothing. I didn't bother to ask anything about what she thought, as she obviously had thought the same thing.
"Hey, I found some bubbles we forgot to use on my birthday. After school why don't you come over so we can play with them?"
"Whoa, we actually forgot to use some?"
"I know, right?"
"Bizarre. Is Shelly coming?"
"Yeah, I asked in gym today. Why, would you not come if she wasn't?"
"Of course I would. I would feel kind of bad if she couldn't though."
"Sure. And I got a new Trough Pigs album, so we can listen to it."
"Are they your favorite band or something?"
"They have been for a while now."
"Whatever. Sure, I guess I could stand another three hours of you babbling staff about your "observations" of TP, with their music playing continuously…"
"Screw you. What was Math homework?" She and Shelly ragged on me and my stupid obsession all the time, like liking the Jonas Brothers was my butter.
"Why do you want to know?"
"So I don't fail math, duh."
"You never do your homework. Why would you need to now?"
"Because God sent me a message saying that I'd burn in Hell if I didn't start doing my homework. Seriously, what the hell is it?"
"Page 69. Your lucky number, right?"
"You're mean."
"You're incompetent."
Ah. She got me there.
We walked into the dreary classroom with nothing on the white walls and the random notes of music doodled on the green chalkboard. A young man, maybe in his mid-twenties sat at a cushiony spinny chair behind the most drab desk ever. He was tall and shiny, but in a healthy way, with smooth brown hair that sat just past his shoulders, and he was doodling guitars. He wore a black and white shirt that read, "RAMONES," in big white lettering, and plain blue jeans with a rip on the knee—we often wondered it that was on purpose or not. We sat at our boring wooden desk where whoever sat there in third period had engrained, "When it speaks, magic sleeping power comes from its mouth." True, actually. With Ms. Wang, you could fall asleep immediately. Mr. Nescon seemed to keep us awake though, miraculously. He always played some cool music in the background while we worked, and he even played Trough Pigs a few times. That was more or less the only reason I liked him. Generally, though, he just played Green Day and They Might Be Giants. He was into alternative rock I guess. When we passed by his class, he was wearing huge headphones on his head. But the jack never seemed to be connected to anything, an IPod or Walkman.
It was a magical night. Max and I went on our first date. When he walked me home, he came upstairs and we watched MythBusters. We snuggled happily, like we were perfect for each other. We were, too. After we finished watching TV, he came into my room and we snuggled more. We fell asleep in each other's arms, and I figured I had to be dreaming. My alarm clock went off soon afterwards. I sat up for thirty seconds before burying my face back into my pillow.
I felt something tug gently on my sleeve. "Seriously dude, come on. Class is over. Time for Hell's Love Hotel."
I sat up slowly and grunted. Hell's Love Hotel was what Desmonde called math. Our regular teacher had some health problem and had been out for a few weeks. During that time, we'd had a younger rocker sub who Desmonde developed a crush on. Disturbing as the image was, I could completely imagine her in one of those awful fantasy hentais where the teacher would keep her after school and…have his way with her. When I told her this, she blushed and said nothing. I didn't bother to ask anything about what she thought, as she obviously had thought the same thing.
"Hey, I found some bubbles we forgot to use on my birthday. After school why don't you come over so we can play with them?"
"Whoa, we actually forgot to use some?"
"I know, right?"
"Bizarre. Is Shelly coming?"
"Yeah, I asked in gym today. Why, would you not come if she wasn't?"
"Of course I would. I would feel kind of bad if she couldn't though."
"Sure. And I got a new Trough Pigs album, so we can listen to it."
"Are they your favorite band or something?"
"They have been for a while now."
"Whatever. Sure, I guess I could stand another three hours of you babbling staff about your "observations" of TP, with their music playing continuously…"
"Screw you. What was Math homework?" She and Shelly ragged on me and my stupid obsession all the time, like liking the Jonas Brothers was my butter.
"Why do you want to know?"
"So I don't fail math, duh."
"You never do your homework. Why would you need to now?"
"Because God sent me a message saying that I'd burn in Hell if I didn't start doing my homework. Seriously, what the hell is it?"
"Page 69. Your lucky number, right?"
"You're mean."
"You're incompetent."
Ah. She got me there.
We walked into the dreary classroom with nothing on the white walls and the random notes of music doodled on the green chalkboard. A young man, maybe in his mid-twenties sat at a cushiony spinny chair behind the most drab desk ever. He was tall and shiny, but in a healthy way, with smooth brown hair that sat just past his shoulders, and he was doodling guitars. He wore a black and white shirt that read, "RAMONES," in big white lettering, and plain blue jeans with a rip on the knee—we often wondered it that was on purpose or not. We sat at our boring wooden desk where whoever sat there in third period had engrained, "When it speaks, magic sleeping power comes from its mouth." True, actually. With Ms. Wang, you could fall asleep immediately. Mr. Nescon seemed to keep us awake though, miraculously. He always played some cool music in the background while we worked, and he even played Trough Pigs a few times. That was more or less the only reason I liked him. Generally, though, he just played Green Day and They Might Be Giants. He was into alternative rock I guess. When we passed by his class, he was wearing huge headphones on his head. But the jack never seemed to be connected to anything, an IPod or Walkman.
CARBON WONDERLAND
By Giorgia Peckman
I glared defiantly up at the blond, smoke-smeared sky. It glowered back.
Behind me, I heard a young child murmur something before being silenced by their Dimfife.
"Hush! Don't say such rude things! The poor girl can't help if she's mubt!"
I felt a smother blanket of rage settle hotly on my shoulders, tucked in by my flushing cheeks. Mubt! How dare they call me that. Now it was apparent that the child had been talking about my wild mess of hair and large furry ears. Mubt! I was more pure than any of them! Mubt! The word they call the unfortunate survivors of Epop; the Pope's newest piece of warfare, a radioactive bomb cloaked with enhancement charms. Most victims died relatively quickly, but some managed to survive--even if that meant being horribly crippled and/or mutated.
The young boy whispered something more and I whipped around in my steel foldout chair. At the sight of my broad, tan face, with its full, dark lips, flattish nose, slanting green eyes and thin, arching eyebrows, he squeaked and hid behind his Dimfife.
"Oh good lord!" she gasped when her eyes finally took in my face. With a swish of her rumpled shirts, she picked the boy up and herded the rest of the assigned children to a cluster of seats in the front row.
I probably should have felt guilty or hurt, maybe even ashamed, but I was incapable of feeling anything after the explosion. To tell the truth, I was relieved they were gone--the children's endless chatter and the Dimfife's constant clucking like a hen at feeding time had been wearing thin on my already frayed nerves.
So I turned back right-ways and continued at the bleached sky while I waited to be called up to the rickety wooden stage that was normally used for hangings.
Sliding my gaze from the bleak expanse of sky above me, I eyed the slithery pack-leaders contemptuously.
They didn't want us. To them, we were just mooching strangers. An extra pair of workings hands, another hungry mouth to feed. They were only standing up there because of the gold the guards had discreetly passed them earlier.
The Hierarchy always told us we should be grateful that they were "kind" enough to give us another chance, but they never stopped to think that maybe we don't want to be here. That we don't want to be assigned to a new family, a new life; but that's the way things are now, and even though we Splendifonians are strong believers in the Anti-Bomb and the Long-Peace, I have to say that I sincerely doub that it well ever come. Even though the sleek chrome cylinder in my lap did match all the requirements.
You see, 300 years ago, King Galtor of the Verbicide Realm allied himself with the Minotaurs at Darkling Wood who had been banished from their home in the, now regretfully non-existant, Realm of Dactylozooid by Galtor's great-grandson.
This aroused a great wave of hostility and anger from the Zuebrachese who has been neighbors and bitter enemies of the Minotaurs since the age of Alchemy. They had also been so-called "allies" of the Vercidians for centuries. Even though no one is ever really an ally in Carbon--too many people, not enough space.
The rising hostility between the Verbicide Realm and the Real of Zuebracho caused the peaceful Zygodactilians to panic over whom to forge an alliance with; provoking a frenzied bombing in an attempt to silence the whole mess.
They were scammed however by the Popes (sellers of bombs and doomsday devices since 6304) and the missile well missed and hit the Splendiferous Realm instead.
Chief Quirthy (my great-great-great-great uncle's cousin, twice removed, in fact) took the unexpected attack as a sign that the Vercidians and Zuebrachese meant to include the Splendifonians in the discord and as a reply, he closed the Splendiferous borders, withdrew from the Council of Carbon and planted mines in all the major roads.
The Council of Carbon is the "group of equal representatives" that ensure democracy and manage all Carbonyte affairs relating to inter-Realm communication.
That is what they say.
The reality that we poorer folks know is that that is a lie. In the Carbon Code it actually states that no lesser Realms--Groundsfolk, Aquarium, Pinnacles, etc-- and no inferior species--Minotaurs, Popes, Businessmen, etc--may take part in the Council due to their savagery and lower intelligence.
That technically means I am a wanted criminal myself--being half Furcula (a lesser species).
So after Chief Quirthy closed off his Realm, a brief period of peace fell on the Realms of Carbon. This lasted, say, thiry years. Then the real trouble began.
The Minotaurs rebelled.
The Great Lugs had finally figured out that the harsh conditions they were shown were not the customary way that Galtor treated ally ambassadors.
It took long enough, sixty years and sixty thousand lives, but they finally became aware that King Galtor and his court of lying and cheating had only extended the small hand of friendship to acquire Minotaur guides in the labyrinthine mines of the Dwarves, an extinct species most likely wiped out when the Gruesome King Gasthrix poisoned their only water supply 800 years past. (If you haven't noticed, those Vercidian kings were violent, murderous fellows.)
Even though their lives had been improved considerably (from sleeping in mounds of dragon dung to keep warm to sleeping in filthy stables to keep warm), the Minotaurs went on a rampage back to Darkling Wood, enraged at Galtor's usage of them.
Full-fledged war began, and for those who were not under protection of the rulers of their Realm, life became a twisted game of kill or be killed.
Throughout these years of defenselessness, the Popes maintained a smug position of power, pulling on explosive puppet strings, as they propelled the Realms into further war.
In the midst of this, a Zuebrachese assassin sneakily killed Galtor and his son, Galtax--who was, quite impossibly, more awful than his late father--was put on the throne. Some say it was bribery, others say it was plain ignorance, while the most conspiratorial theory is that Galtax was actually a Pope himself. But every Carbonyte, no matter what Realm, knew this was the worst thing that had ever happened.
The Popes joined the Council of Carbon. It was as simple as that. One day the Popes were in hiding, silently wreaking havoc and the next they were broadcasting their admission ceremony to the Council.
Over the next five years, things changed drastically in Carbon. I was one of those changes.
My birth was a rarity, even among refugees. In the hubbub of the highway, crossbreed pregnancies were frequent, but more often that not, the Dimfifes lost the children and the mother--overcrowded, dirty dust-filled caravans weren't exactly the healthiest place to give birth.
My only flaw was that when I was born, I had breathing problems and was so small our pack's cat often mistook me for one of our other kittens. I did have a very catty look about me after all.
My parents were an odd pair, to say the least, but they raised me well and loved each other more than any couple you will ever find. My father, standing at four feet, eight inches was an educated, funny little man who hated when officials commented on his large catlike ears that protruded from his wild, scruffy mass of hair.
He was dwarfed, in comparison, by my mother, a willowy beauty distantly related to the Prime-Royals that towers over my Furcula father at a good six foot, three inches.
Nonetheless, my mixed blood was accepted by our pack, which loved my parents dearly. Even though our pack's cat liked me considerably more.
When I turned four I was large enough for the cat to pick up,
The way I am, cat ears and all. I never understood her words, but now they are carefully stored next to my heart.
"Fai, you are beautiful, whatever the Popes say, they may have taken the hand, but they will never take the people. You are NOT of a lesser species because so called "dirty" blood of the Furculas runs through your veins."
Two years after my thorough and rather unorthodox education began, the Popes brought another grand business venture into the fray. Alloy. All of a sudden everything was alloy this, alloy that. Everyone was clambering to get alloy replacements for perfectly good things they already had. Bombproof—that's what everyone wanted to be—bombproof. But alloy wasn't the answer, it wasn't bombproof—it was flammable. So, while the Popes tried to cover up the disastrous alloy incident, the businessmen made a stand. Anti-Bomb! Anti-Bomb! was cheap and effective. Soon all caravans were fitted with Anti-Bomb! skeletons and bottoms. Shockproof (up to 5,000 zwings!) for mines, bombproof, for grenades, and, of course, for nuclear weapons there was always that nifty force-field enforced with every shield spell used by magicians from necromancers to wizards—activated at the flick of a button.
No matter how you looked it at, Anti-Bomb! was great, only problem was, it got rusty. I don't mean the pretty red stuff that slowly dissolves mold, because usually things still work after that grating carpet of russet creeps over them, but with Anti-Bomb! This was not the case.
All of a sudden, all across Carbon, wagons were exploding once again. The businessmen, completely not in the tradition of their usual nature, felt awful for selling faulty wares to the war-stricken Carbonytes. This hardly mattered though, because even though the businessmen were offering Anti-Bomb! caravans for 75% off the marked price, it was still too expensive for most packs, who already spent several months' food money on their new Anti-Bomb! gear.
This was indeed when the true horror began.
I remember when I was ten—that delicate age where one is old enough to understand the horrors of the world yet still protected by the naïve innocence of youth—I would see the charred skeletal remains of Anti-Bomb! wagons that had gotten too rusty. My parents would see me staring at the sad gravemarkers as we pressed on in our own, protected wagon (one of the Dimfifes was of wizardly descent) and would usher me away, but not before I saw the burnt, mutilated corpses of what was once a scared homeless pack, just like us.
Our pack had stopped by the side of a small, pristine lake filled with clear, azure
I glared defiantly up at the blond, smoke-smeared sky. It glowered back.
Behind me, I heard a young child murmur something before being silenced by their Dimfife.
"Hush! Don't say such rude things! The poor girl can't help if she's mubt!"
I felt a smother blanket of rage settle hotly on my shoulders, tucked in by my flushing cheeks. Mubt! How dare they call me that. Now it was apparent that the child had been talking about my wild mess of hair and large furry ears. Mubt! I was more pure than any of them! Mubt! The word they call the unfortunate survivors of Epop; the Pope's newest piece of warfare, a radioactive bomb cloaked with enhancement charms. Most victims died relatively quickly, but some managed to survive--even if that meant being horribly crippled and/or mutated.
The young boy whispered something more and I whipped around in my steel foldout chair. At the sight of my broad, tan face, with its full, dark lips, flattish nose, slanting green eyes and thin, arching eyebrows, he squeaked and hid behind his Dimfife.
"Oh good lord!" she gasped when her eyes finally took in my face. With a swish of her rumpled shirts, she picked the boy up and herded the rest of the assigned children to a cluster of seats in the front row.
I probably should have felt guilty or hurt, maybe even ashamed, but I was incapable of feeling anything after the explosion. To tell the truth, I was relieved they were gone--the children's endless chatter and the Dimfife's constant clucking like a hen at feeding time had been wearing thin on my already frayed nerves.
So I turned back right-ways and continued at the bleached sky while I waited to be called up to the rickety wooden stage that was normally used for hangings.
Sliding my gaze from the bleak expanse of sky above me, I eyed the slithery pack-leaders contemptuously.
They didn't want us. To them, we were just mooching strangers. An extra pair of workings hands, another hungry mouth to feed. They were only standing up there because of the gold the guards had discreetly passed them earlier.
The Hierarchy always told us we should be grateful that they were "kind" enough to give us another chance, but they never stopped to think that maybe we don't want to be here. That we don't want to be assigned to a new family, a new life; but that's the way things are now, and even though we Splendifonians are strong believers in the Anti-Bomb and the Long-Peace, I have to say that I sincerely doub that it well ever come. Even though the sleek chrome cylinder in my lap did match all the requirements.
You see, 300 years ago, King Galtor of the Verbicide Realm allied himself with the Minotaurs at Darkling Wood who had been banished from their home in the, now regretfully non-existant, Realm of Dactylozooid by Galtor's great-grandson.
This aroused a great wave of hostility and anger from the Zuebrachese who has been neighbors and bitter enemies of the Minotaurs since the age of Alchemy. They had also been so-called "allies" of the Vercidians for centuries. Even though no one is ever really an ally in Carbon--too many people, not enough space.
The rising hostility between the Verbicide Realm and the Real of Zuebracho caused the peaceful Zygodactilians to panic over whom to forge an alliance with; provoking a frenzied bombing in an attempt to silence the whole mess.
They were scammed however by the Popes (sellers of bombs and doomsday devices since 6304) and the missile well missed and hit the Splendiferous Realm instead.
Chief Quirthy (my great-great-great-great uncle's cousin, twice removed, in fact) took the unexpected attack as a sign that the Vercidians and Zuebrachese meant to include the Splendifonians in the discord and as a reply, he closed the Splendiferous borders, withdrew from the Council of Carbon and planted mines in all the major roads.
The Council of Carbon is the "group of equal representatives" that ensure democracy and manage all Carbonyte affairs relating to inter-Realm communication.
That is what they say.
The reality that we poorer folks know is that that is a lie. In the Carbon Code it actually states that no lesser Realms--Groundsfolk, Aquarium, Pinnacles, etc-- and no inferior species--Minotaurs, Popes, Businessmen, etc--may take part in the Council due to their savagery and lower intelligence.
That technically means I am a wanted criminal myself--being half Furcula (a lesser species).
So after Chief Quirthy closed off his Realm, a brief period of peace fell on the Realms of Carbon. This lasted, say, thiry years. Then the real trouble began.
The Minotaurs rebelled.
The Great Lugs had finally figured out that the harsh conditions they were shown were not the customary way that Galtor treated ally ambassadors.
It took long enough, sixty years and sixty thousand lives, but they finally became aware that King Galtor and his court of lying and cheating had only extended the small hand of friendship to acquire Minotaur guides in the labyrinthine mines of the Dwarves, an extinct species most likely wiped out when the Gruesome King Gasthrix poisoned their only water supply 800 years past. (If you haven't noticed, those Vercidian kings were violent, murderous fellows.)
Even though their lives had been improved considerably (from sleeping in mounds of dragon dung to keep warm to sleeping in filthy stables to keep warm), the Minotaurs went on a rampage back to Darkling Wood, enraged at Galtor's usage of them.
Full-fledged war began, and for those who were not under protection of the rulers of their Realm, life became a twisted game of kill or be killed.
Throughout these years of defenselessness, the Popes maintained a smug position of power, pulling on explosive puppet strings, as they propelled the Realms into further war.
In the midst of this, a Zuebrachese assassin sneakily killed Galtor and his son, Galtax--who was, quite impossibly, more awful than his late father--was put on the throne. Some say it was bribery, others say it was plain ignorance, while the most conspiratorial theory is that Galtax was actually a Pope himself. But every Carbonyte, no matter what Realm, knew this was the worst thing that had ever happened.
The Popes joined the Council of Carbon. It was as simple as that. One day the Popes were in hiding, silently wreaking havoc and the next they were broadcasting their admission ceremony to the Council.
Over the next five years, things changed drastically in Carbon. I was one of those changes.
My birth was a rarity, even among refugees. In the hubbub of the highway, crossbreed pregnancies were frequent, but more often that not, the Dimfifes lost the children and the mother--overcrowded, dirty dust-filled caravans weren't exactly the healthiest place to give birth.
My only flaw was that when I was born, I had breathing problems and was so small our pack's cat often mistook me for one of our other kittens. I did have a very catty look about me after all.
My parents were an odd pair, to say the least, but they raised me well and loved each other more than any couple you will ever find. My father, standing at four feet, eight inches was an educated, funny little man who hated when officials commented on his large catlike ears that protruded from his wild, scruffy mass of hair.
He was dwarfed, in comparison, by my mother, a willowy beauty distantly related to the Prime-Royals that towers over my Furcula father at a good six foot, three inches.
Nonetheless, my mixed blood was accepted by our pack, which loved my parents dearly. Even though our pack's cat liked me considerably more.
When I turned four I was large enough for the cat to pick up,
The way I am, cat ears and all. I never understood her words, but now they are carefully stored next to my heart.
"Fai, you are beautiful, whatever the Popes say, they may have taken the hand, but they will never take the people. You are NOT of a lesser species because so called "dirty" blood of the Furculas runs through your veins."
Two years after my thorough and rather unorthodox education began, the Popes brought another grand business venture into the fray. Alloy. All of a sudden everything was alloy this, alloy that. Everyone was clambering to get alloy replacements for perfectly good things they already had. Bombproof—that's what everyone wanted to be—bombproof. But alloy wasn't the answer, it wasn't bombproof—it was flammable. So, while the Popes tried to cover up the disastrous alloy incident, the businessmen made a stand. Anti-Bomb! Anti-Bomb! was cheap and effective. Soon all caravans were fitted with Anti-Bomb! skeletons and bottoms. Shockproof (up to 5,000 zwings!) for mines, bombproof, for grenades, and, of course, for nuclear weapons there was always that nifty force-field enforced with every shield spell used by magicians from necromancers to wizards—activated at the flick of a button.
No matter how you looked it at, Anti-Bomb! was great, only problem was, it got rusty. I don't mean the pretty red stuff that slowly dissolves mold, because usually things still work after that grating carpet of russet creeps over them, but with Anti-Bomb! This was not the case.
All of a sudden, all across Carbon, wagons were exploding once again. The businessmen, completely not in the tradition of their usual nature, felt awful for selling faulty wares to the war-stricken Carbonytes. This hardly mattered though, because even though the businessmen were offering Anti-Bomb! caravans for 75% off the marked price, it was still too expensive for most packs, who already spent several months' food money on their new Anti-Bomb! gear.
This was indeed when the true horror began.
I remember when I was ten—that delicate age where one is old enough to understand the horrors of the world yet still protected by the naïve innocence of youth—I would see the charred skeletal remains of Anti-Bomb! wagons that had gotten too rusty. My parents would see me staring at the sad gravemarkers as we pressed on in our own, protected wagon (one of the Dimfifes was of wizardly descent) and would usher me away, but not before I saw the burnt, mutilated corpses of what was once a scared homeless pack, just like us.
Our pack had stopped by the side of a small, pristine lake filled with clear, azure
The Note
By Lina Miller
I looked dismally towards the ground. I look down at my watch. It reads 11:58, two more minutes before the mayor turns off all the lights in the city. More importantly, two more minutes to get home. My pace quickens, my heartbeat quickening with every step. Suddenly, I realize I'm running. My door seems to be sprinting towards me like I'm running on a treadmill. I look at my watch once again. This time it reads 11:59 and 58 seconds. I sprint towards the door, tears springing from my eyes. I reach for the door knob, then as suddenly as if someone had placed a black cloth over my face, it goes dark. This is the city of Awnina. I place where everything except us people and some food sources are battery operated or run on electricity. And this is where I, Delphia, live.
My parents, Ala (my mom) and Mo (dad), always say that Grandpa Standard (my dad's dad) could tell us what to do at a time like this in this screwed up world. I usually ask why I have never met Granda Standard and my mom looks into my eye with a glint of sadness and just says, "Now is not the time for a question like that." I try to give her a, "That's not an answer!" look but she always turns it into an, "Alright, I understand" look, which often leads to a "Good, I'm glad you understand" look from her. So, as usual, I slumped in my chair and sat there like a poor abandoned dog trying to understand human French instead of dog bark communication.
The next morning, I walked out side, the cool breeze blowing my hair in crazy different directions. A plump, puffed up robin flew down and promptly settled himself comfortably on my shoulder. It cooed softly and gracefully in my ear. I looked over at it and sacrificed my finger. It hopped on and I quickly reached under its chest, flipped the switch to OFF and slowly the bird's movements became extinct. I placed it down on a branch on an old white Layocoylie tree, its flowers almost awake from their winter rest and flipped the switch back to ON I walked on down the street, the ghostly silence surrounding me. I heard a crumple and a rip and looked what my foot had destroyed and saw a scrap of paper. I picked it up and looked at the crazy little scribbles on it. I ran home. I opened the wide broad front door and saw my dad hugging a portrait of my Grandpa Standard, mumbling to himself. "Hey, I'm home," I announced. "Hey honey," he answered. "Um, Dad, can you tell me what this is?" Sure," he said. I handed him the scrap of paper. He took the piece of paper and scanned over it, a sad but surprised expression on his face. He looked up, picked up the portrait of my Grandpa and stuffed the piece of paper in his pocket. "This belongs to me," and with that, he walked out of the room.
When I finally turned 17, my dad taught me how to read. A year later my dad passed away and after the funeral there was a reading of the will. To my lovely daughter Delphia: $200,000, and the note. Everyone there was confused by what that meant, but I knew perfectly well. After the ceremony, I ran to my house and looked on my dad's beside table. There lay the crumpled, chewed up note. I opened it and read:
The world is no longer safe. Pollution has gone too far to manage and the sky is turning dark gray. I'm writing this note because this is probably the last day of human existence. Please, if God gives us another chance, don't mess the world up or terrible things will happen.
P.S., Whoever finds this note, please find my son Mo Lalifey and read it out loud to him.
Sincerely,
Standard Y. Lalifey.
I looked dismally towards the ground. I look down at my watch. It reads 11:58, two more minutes before the mayor turns off all the lights in the city. More importantly, two more minutes to get home. My pace quickens, my heartbeat quickening with every step. Suddenly, I realize I'm running. My door seems to be sprinting towards me like I'm running on a treadmill. I look at my watch once again. This time it reads 11:59 and 58 seconds. I sprint towards the door, tears springing from my eyes. I reach for the door knob, then as suddenly as if someone had placed a black cloth over my face, it goes dark. This is the city of Awnina. I place where everything except us people and some food sources are battery operated or run on electricity. And this is where I, Delphia, live.
My parents, Ala (my mom) and Mo (dad), always say that Grandpa Standard (my dad's dad) could tell us what to do at a time like this in this screwed up world. I usually ask why I have never met Granda Standard and my mom looks into my eye with a glint of sadness and just says, "Now is not the time for a question like that." I try to give her a, "That's not an answer!" look but she always turns it into an, "Alright, I understand" look, which often leads to a "Good, I'm glad you understand" look from her. So, as usual, I slumped in my chair and sat there like a poor abandoned dog trying to understand human French instead of dog bark communication.
The next morning, I walked out side, the cool breeze blowing my hair in crazy different directions. A plump, puffed up robin flew down and promptly settled himself comfortably on my shoulder. It cooed softly and gracefully in my ear. I looked over at it and sacrificed my finger. It hopped on and I quickly reached under its chest, flipped the switch to OFF and slowly the bird's movements became extinct. I placed it down on a branch on an old white Layocoylie tree, its flowers almost awake from their winter rest and flipped the switch back to ON I walked on down the street, the ghostly silence surrounding me. I heard a crumple and a rip and looked what my foot had destroyed and saw a scrap of paper. I picked it up and looked at the crazy little scribbles on it. I ran home. I opened the wide broad front door and saw my dad hugging a portrait of my Grandpa Standard, mumbling to himself. "Hey, I'm home," I announced. "Hey honey," he answered. "Um, Dad, can you tell me what this is?" Sure," he said. I handed him the scrap of paper. He took the piece of paper and scanned over it, a sad but surprised expression on his face. He looked up, picked up the portrait of my Grandpa and stuffed the piece of paper in his pocket. "This belongs to me," and with that, he walked out of the room.
When I finally turned 17, my dad taught me how to read. A year later my dad passed away and after the funeral there was a reading of the will. To my lovely daughter Delphia: $200,000, and the note. Everyone there was confused by what that meant, but I knew perfectly well. After the ceremony, I ran to my house and looked on my dad's beside table. There lay the crumpled, chewed up note. I opened it and read:
The world is no longer safe. Pollution has gone too far to manage and the sky is turning dark gray. I'm writing this note because this is probably the last day of human existence. Please, if God gives us another chance, don't mess the world up or terrible things will happen.
P.S., Whoever finds this note, please find my son Mo Lalifey and read it out loud to him.
Sincerely,
Standard Y. Lalifey.
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