Editors:
Gabrielle F. is serving her second year on the Literary Magazine staff. She is a dedicated member of Cave Spring High School's Dance Team, serving as Captain her senior year. Gabrielle has a great appreciation for the arts, taking part in various art classes throughout high school. She plans to attend University of Mary Washington in the fall.
Niki F.has been on the Literary Magazine staff since her sophomore year. She is Editor-in-Chief of Cave Spring High School's newspaper, the Knight Letter, and plans to continue studying mass communications at Virginia Commonwealth University in the fall.
Holly P. is a hair standing on edge; tripping over people tripping over shoe laces and face planting teenager who’s out of place and wears jeans covered in paint too often. She’ll always be a writer because she can never seem to pull the right words out of her brain at the right time. With out writing down her thoughts she’d probubly loose her mind.
Marissa S.
Banner Design:
Joey M.
Art Director:
Olivia M. is eager to attend James Madison University in the fall. She has a passion for fashion as well as anything else artistic. She is an optimistic, free spirit who embraces all the uncertainties the future holds and can’t wait to see where life will take her.
Teacher Sponsor:
Anne Pfeiffer apfeiffer@rcs.k12.va.us with special help from Pat Carr
Friday, June 18, 2010
Healing Flower, by Tyler W.
Tyler W. is a senior who spends all of her time at work. She spends too much time playling Tetris.
Devon W.
Devon W. is a rising junior interested in expanding and expressing his
talents. He loves to draw, sketch, write poetry, play video games, and bike on cool days. In addition to being an avid student and employee he strong pushes his belief in the aboliton of animal use, period. He’s been a vegan for coming up on two years and couldn’t be prouder of it.
No Runner-Up, by Garrette J.
A rhythmic tapping emanates from a closed, white room. Although the sound is hypnotic, a constant tensity is in the air. But, what is the cause of the feeling? It is nothing more than a mere white ball. A blur as it travels back and forth. It touches the table for just a second, as if it was a kiss, and then leaves again.
Flying through the air, it is struck back down, skimming the table yet again before it leaves. Constantly this pattern repeats hit, table, air, hit, table, air, until suddenly the hit becomes a striking blow. The pattern is changed, but the rhythm remains the same slam, table, air, slam, table, air. Seconds turn into minutes as the ball continues its travel unaware of any higher motives until suddenly, with a flick of a wrist, it spins off course. This time the pattern is broken; this time there is only table and air. The ball bounces to the ground no longer it’s pale white but instead a burning pink. After a few minutes, the lights turn off leaving nothing more than a glowing pink ball in the darkness. Outside the room there are no words only a single handshake, and why? Because in ping-pong, there is no prize for the runner-up.
Garrette J. can be defined by one word: Fedora. He’s suave and totally at ease with himself and everyone around him. His classic style is crisscrossed with moments of brilliance, utter hilarity, and deep conjectural thought. Garrette is the epitome of casual and formal, meshed together into something not quite ordinary.
Flying through the air, it is struck back down, skimming the table yet again before it leaves. Constantly this pattern repeats hit, table, air, hit, table, air, until suddenly the hit becomes a striking blow. The pattern is changed, but the rhythm remains the same slam, table, air, slam, table, air. Seconds turn into minutes as the ball continues its travel unaware of any higher motives until suddenly, with a flick of a wrist, it spins off course. This time the pattern is broken; this time there is only table and air. The ball bounces to the ground no longer it’s pale white but instead a burning pink. After a few minutes, the lights turn off leaving nothing more than a glowing pink ball in the darkness. Outside the room there are no words only a single handshake, and why? Because in ping-pong, there is no prize for the runner-up.
Garrette J. can be defined by one word: Fedora. He’s suave and totally at ease with himself and everyone around him. His classic style is crisscrossed with moments of brilliance, utter hilarity, and deep conjectural thought. Garrette is the epitome of casual and formal, meshed together into something not quite ordinary.
By the Sea, by Anna A.
From my bedroom widow I see,
Hidden and cloaked in night.
A glowing city by the sea
Where I shall be by light
Never shall my fantasy be,
So distant from my sight
My life in boxes, I am free,
To leave here if I might
The lights like guides calling me home,
Tapping on my windows,
I feel that I must surely roam,
When the morning sun shows
All that is left, a memory
I fear it is too late.
Where I should be is by the sea
Till light I watch and wait
Hidden and cloaked in night.
A glowing city by the sea
Where I shall be by light
Never shall my fantasy be,
So distant from my sight
My life in boxes, I am free,
To leave here if I might
The lights like guides calling me home,
Tapping on my windows,
I feel that I must surely roam,
When the morning sun shows
All that is left, a memory
I fear it is too late.
Where I should be is by the sea
Till light I watch and wait
What Happens When You Notice Everything, by Holly P.
Stare at the table,
Listening to the scribbling
The clicks of misguided fingers
Writing
The sound of shattering
I watch the clear glass,
Liquid splashing over the sides as
It tilts,
Crashing to the ground
In a violent beautiful way
Like writing
Words spilling on to page
Thought after thought
Word after conspicuous word
Because you can not rest
Until your mind quiets
Lulling you with the dull hum of nothing
My parchment
Is ruined
Ink smeared
Running
Look out the window,
Snowing for days and days
Has finally stopped itself
But the cold
Expectant
Air
Grips
Like a blanket
Something needs to happen
A storm
Blizzard
Explosion of
Sound
A pen drops
And my thoughts are interrupted
I stare surprised
And watch as the pen rolls away from me
What are we doing?
We should be writing,
But writing revolves around thinking
And that I can not do.
Listening to the scribbling
The clicks of misguided fingers
Writing
The sound of shattering
I watch the clear glass,
Liquid splashing over the sides as
It tilts,
Crashing to the ground
In a violent beautiful way
Like writing
Words spilling on to page
Thought after thought
Word after conspicuous word
Because you can not rest
Until your mind quiets
Lulling you with the dull hum of nothing
My parchment
Is ruined
Ink smeared
Running
Look out the window,
Snowing for days and days
Has finally stopped itself
But the cold
Expectant
Air
Grips
Like a blanket
Something needs to happen
A storm
Blizzard
Explosion of
Sound
A pen drops
And my thoughts are interrupted
I stare surprised
And watch as the pen rolls away from me
What are we doing?
We should be writing,
But writing revolves around thinking
And that I can not do.
Holly P. is a hair standing on edge; tripping over people tripping over shoe laces and face planting teenager who’s out of place and wears jeans covered in paint too often. She’ll always be a writer because she can never seem to pull the right words out of her brain at the right time. With out writing down her thoughts she’d probubly loose her mind.
Plastic Cups, by Tyler W.
Tyler W.is a senior who spends all of her time at work. She spends too much time playling Tetris.
Little Lion, by Zoe N.
Hands, slender, free of flaws,
Occasional bruise.
Velvet skin wrapping bones
Structured fine.
Smoothly sifting through hair
Searching for no end.
Moving from fingers to scalp
To fingers to flesh.
Fingertips of Little Lion
Prowling through a jungle
Of tangled hair
And consumed thoughts.
Downward, to a freckled back,
Grazing shoulders, wracked
With the dull pains of the day
Hands will mend.
If I could
Let these hands, Go
Infinite. Never stopping.
Please?
A loosened grip, my plea denied.
Hands resume, casually.
My Little Lion
Answers.
Occasional bruise.
Velvet skin wrapping bones
Structured fine.
Smoothly sifting through hair
Searching for no end.
Moving from fingers to scalp
To fingers to flesh.
Fingertips of Little Lion
Prowling through a jungle
Of tangled hair
And consumed thoughts.
Downward, to a freckled back,
Grazing shoulders, wracked
With the dull pains of the day
Hands will mend.
If I could
Let these hands, Go
Infinite. Never stopping.
Please?
A loosened grip, my plea denied.
Hands resume, casually.
My Little Lion
Answers.
Beneath the Pier, by Morgan R.
Beneath the pier,
the water is different.
It isn’t unending,
or a beautiful cerulean blue.
It doesn’t rise and crash
the same as the others.
A greenish tinge colors it,
jade seaweed is abundant.
The crabs take shelter here,
away from human trespassers,
for no person dares to come.
It all seems shoved away,
Beneath the pier.
Morgan R. was born in Indianapolis but has lived in several different cities. She just moved here last July from Chicago, and is a member of the Cave Spring Tennis team.
the water is different.
It isn’t unending,
or a beautiful cerulean blue.
It doesn’t rise and crash
the same as the others.
A greenish tinge colors it,
jade seaweed is abundant.
The crabs take shelter here,
away from human trespassers,
for no person dares to come.
It all seems shoved away,
Beneath the pier.
Morgan R. was born in Indianapolis but has lived in several different cities. She just moved here last July from Chicago, and is a member of the Cave Spring Tennis team.
Sarah I.
Sarah I. is a junior who loves running dangerous track events like hurdles and pole vault. She plans on living in Montana where she can paint, run and become an archaeologist.
Untitled, by Melissa S.
The sky steals you softly tonight,
Tomorrow, please be back.
You left, and I was with a fright,
Indeed you’re all I lack.
Although you are not here right now,
I’ll wake and find you near.
Dreams tonight? I don’t see how,
Cause I just need you here.
Tomorrow, please be back.
You left, and I was with a fright,
Indeed you’re all I lack.
Although you are not here right now,
I’ll wake and find you near.
Dreams tonight? I don’t see how,
Cause I just need you here.
The Childlike Tendencies of an Exhausted Academic Mind, by Deb L.
It came down on me like a ton of bricks,
With the heavy fist of gravity helping its 9.8m/s/s descent
And inertia was celebrating opposite day.
So I let my nose wander through the botanical gardens on an eventful Friday afternoon
There was nothing else to do.
The echoes of laughs and carnival bells playing on to the edge of a memory as I trotted through the rows of flowers.
So, here I am now
Where am I, again?
Can you smell the clown faces, peeking up from below the petals? Can you taste the cotton candy blooms puffing up from the green sweet-stems?
That would be my imagination, dancing like a three year old up and down these vibrant aisles.
Green plants, red plants, tall plants, Smarty Pants
With Albert’s hair and Vincent’s eyes.
It’s hot out here
Don’t tell, but I think I’m melting
My warm, wool sweater itches but I can’t take it off because it’s soft and Mommy said not to
Frosty the Snowman is tapping on the glass windowpane because he’s lonely and my inner child has been in timeout for so long
They want to sneak off to Neverland and play with Peter and the Boys.
I feel like singing,
“You are old and decrepit, but I am young and spry”
The floor is upside down
The sky is tilting sideways
And I am somewhere in between, climbing the beanstalk that will take me to a place just left of insanity and just right of the funfair.
The Great Butterflies of Creativity are flying by me in solar-powered airplanes
I wish I could fly
That way, I could smell patriotic like that American flag at the top of the pole
Fly like the eagle it stands for
The world would be a better place
Se conzoni sono state pronunciate
The pen is eliminating my argument, erasing my words,
Maybe they don’t want to be told, they like secrets
Curiosity killed the Cat, after all
It killed me, too
Its waves have overtaken me and now sweep me away,
To somewhere extraordinarily lawless.
With the heavy fist of gravity helping its 9.8m/s/s descent
And inertia was celebrating opposite day.
So I let my nose wander through the botanical gardens on an eventful Friday afternoon
There was nothing else to do.
The echoes of laughs and carnival bells playing on to the edge of a memory as I trotted through the rows of flowers.
So, here I am now
Where am I, again?
Can you smell the clown faces, peeking up from below the petals? Can you taste the cotton candy blooms puffing up from the green sweet-stems?
That would be my imagination, dancing like a three year old up and down these vibrant aisles.
Green plants, red plants, tall plants, Smarty Pants
With Albert’s hair and Vincent’s eyes.
It’s hot out here
Don’t tell, but I think I’m melting
My warm, wool sweater itches but I can’t take it off because it’s soft and Mommy said not to
Frosty the Snowman is tapping on the glass windowpane because he’s lonely and my inner child has been in timeout for so long
They want to sneak off to Neverland and play with Peter and the Boys.
I feel like singing,
“You are old and decrepit, but I am young and spry”
The floor is upside down
The sky is tilting sideways
And I am somewhere in between, climbing the beanstalk that will take me to a place just left of insanity and just right of the funfair.
The Great Butterflies of Creativity are flying by me in solar-powered airplanes
I wish I could fly
That way, I could smell patriotic like that American flag at the top of the pole
Fly like the eagle it stands for
The world would be a better place
Se conzoni sono state pronunciate
The pen is eliminating my argument, erasing my words,
Maybe they don’t want to be told, they like secrets
Curiosity killed the Cat, after all
It killed me, too
Its waves have overtaken me and now sweep me away,
To somewhere extraordinarily lawless.
Deb L. a rat-loving schizoid with a knack for weirdness. There have been many nights this year when she's gotten negative hours of sleep and the resulting giggle fests are a constant source of raised eyebrows for her teachers. Nonetheless, she's found that such situations define her high school career; who says blondes have the most fun?
Ray J.
Ray J. is very serene in all that he does. He’s content to just sit down, read a book, listen to some tunes, and watch the world from his window.
Above and Below, by Marissa S.
Climbing above the trees, my love soars, see?
Anticipation high, I wait for thee
Never shown still, hidden in my heart
Expression like this, not taken as smart
Flying away my self flees from the known
Disappointed now, in a corner, thrown
I gain courage and thrust forward in two
I pull together. I was torn, now new.
Anticipation high, I wait for thee
Never shown still, hidden in my heart
Expression like this, not taken as smart
Flying away my self flees from the known
Disappointed now, in a corner, thrown
I gain courage and thrust forward in two
I pull together. I was torn, now new.
Enchanted, by Isabel C.
I lay you down below a tree
Your heart was caving in.
Under her spell you could not see
That she would be your end.
She cast that arrow from her bow
It struck you through the chest.
She wanted you to be her own-
Put our love to the test.
Enchanted, you cast me aside
I pleaded that you stay.
You wanted her to be your bride
But you were just her slave.
When finally she let us be-
And left you there to die-
I lay you down below a tree
And not once left your side.
Your heart was caving in.
Under her spell you could not see
That she would be your end.
She cast that arrow from her bow
It struck you through the chest.
She wanted you to be her own-
Put our love to the test.
Enchanted, you cast me aside
I pleaded that you stay.
You wanted her to be your bride
But you were just her slave.
When finally she let us be-
And left you there to die-
I lay you down below a tree
And not once left your side.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Buck, by Eddie R.
Eddie R. is a senior at Cave Spring High School and at the Center for Visual Arts at Burton Center for Arts and Technology. He is a Columbian Jew with a strange imagination. He likes to put cold objects on his eyebrows.
Keep Your Head Up, by Joshua B.
LIFE IS HARD IS PAINFUL BUT KEEP YOUR HEAD UP TO THE SKY THINK ABOUT YOU.
THERE IS A HEART WITHIN EVERY CHEST THERE IS HURT WITHIN EVERY LOVE.
THERE IS ARGUING IN EVERY PIECE OF MIND.
WHEN LOVE AND HURT MIX THEY CAN BE CATASTROPHIC.
KEEP YOUR HEAD TO THE SKY LOOK UP TO LOVE IN EVERY WAY.
PEOPLE HURT PEOPLE LOVE BUT NEVER FORGET THE ONE YOU’RE ABOVE.
SOMETIMES WE SPEAK HURTFULLY SOMETIMES WE CRY AT NIGHT BUT REMEMBER THE WAY WE FIGHT.
IN EVERY WORD IN EVERY BREATH COMES A PIECE OF OUR HURT THE WAY YOU JUDGE THE WAY YOU LEAVE CAN ONLY HURT THE ONE YOU PERCEIVE.
THE LOVE FOR ME THE LOVE FOR YOU CAN ONLY EXPLAIN HOW WE FEEL TOGETHER I THINK OF WAYS TO EXPRESS MY FEELINGS YOU EXPRESS YOUR ANGER.
YOU’RE LOVE IS A ROSE ON A BUMPY OCEAN YOUR ANGER IS A RAGING SEA.
THE WAY WE BOND THE ANGEL YOU ARE I THINK OF THE WAY YOU COME WITH ME AS OPPSED TO HURT YOU CAN RECEIVE.
JUDGE ME HURT ME BUT LEAN ON ME WHEN YOU CRY I’M YOUR SHELTER WHEN YOU’RE DOWN I’M YOUR LOVE IN EVERY WORD.
MY WAY IS DIFFERENT FROM YOUR WAY MY LOVE IS DIFFERENT FORM YOUR LOVE BUT PERCEIVE ME NOT IN A WAY OF PAIN BUT PERCEIVE ME IN A WAY OF JOY.
DON’T BE GREEDY DON’T HURT I LOVE YOU WHEN YOUR AT YOUR WEAKEST.
LIFE IS ABOUT THE JOY YOU SHARE AND THE LOVE YOU GIVE CARRY ME NOT THROUGH PAIN BUT THROUGH LOVE CARE AND NURTURE.
LOOK DOWN ON ME I LOOK UP TO YOU.
YOU HURT ME I LOVE YOU DON’T LET YOUR HURT GET IN THE WAY OF YOUR LOVE. JOY AND HAPPINESS.
Joshua B. is 18 years old and he loves poetry and singing and dancing and writing. He has the best friends in the world that he loves with a passion. He’s been writing poetry since he was 7 and he is originally from South Dakota. He has a biological little brother and about 3 half brothers.
THERE IS A HEART WITHIN EVERY CHEST THERE IS HURT WITHIN EVERY LOVE.
THERE IS ARGUING IN EVERY PIECE OF MIND.
WHEN LOVE AND HURT MIX THEY CAN BE CATASTROPHIC.
KEEP YOUR HEAD TO THE SKY LOOK UP TO LOVE IN EVERY WAY.
PEOPLE HURT PEOPLE LOVE BUT NEVER FORGET THE ONE YOU’RE ABOVE.
SOMETIMES WE SPEAK HURTFULLY SOMETIMES WE CRY AT NIGHT BUT REMEMBER THE WAY WE FIGHT.
IN EVERY WORD IN EVERY BREATH COMES A PIECE OF OUR HURT THE WAY YOU JUDGE THE WAY YOU LEAVE CAN ONLY HURT THE ONE YOU PERCEIVE.
THE LOVE FOR ME THE LOVE FOR YOU CAN ONLY EXPLAIN HOW WE FEEL TOGETHER I THINK OF WAYS TO EXPRESS MY FEELINGS YOU EXPRESS YOUR ANGER.
YOU’RE LOVE IS A ROSE ON A BUMPY OCEAN YOUR ANGER IS A RAGING SEA.
THE WAY WE BOND THE ANGEL YOU ARE I THINK OF THE WAY YOU COME WITH ME AS OPPSED TO HURT YOU CAN RECEIVE.
JUDGE ME HURT ME BUT LEAN ON ME WHEN YOU CRY I’M YOUR SHELTER WHEN YOU’RE DOWN I’M YOUR LOVE IN EVERY WORD.
MY WAY IS DIFFERENT FROM YOUR WAY MY LOVE IS DIFFERENT FORM YOUR LOVE BUT PERCEIVE ME NOT IN A WAY OF PAIN BUT PERCEIVE ME IN A WAY OF JOY.
DON’T BE GREEDY DON’T HURT I LOVE YOU WHEN YOUR AT YOUR WEAKEST.
LIFE IS ABOUT THE JOY YOU SHARE AND THE LOVE YOU GIVE CARRY ME NOT THROUGH PAIN BUT THROUGH LOVE CARE AND NURTURE.
LOOK DOWN ON ME I LOOK UP TO YOU.
YOU HURT ME I LOVE YOU DON’T LET YOUR HURT GET IN THE WAY OF YOUR LOVE. JOY AND HAPPINESS.
Joshua B. is 18 years old and he loves poetry and singing and dancing and writing. He has the best friends in the world that he loves with a passion. He’s been writing poetry since he was 7 and he is originally from South Dakota. He has a biological little brother and about 3 half brothers.
Canopy, by Mike T.
Michael T. is a rising senior. He’s an aspiring artist who, in addition to visual arts, enjoys musical theatre, reading, and creative writing.
The Gift of a Clock, by Kelsey S.
He rubbed his glasses against his dusted apron and slowly put them back on, the rims were large, somewhat bent to where the nose arch was a little crooked to the left. He sat with one elbow on the table, his hand stroking his curvy gray mustache while he shot a pondering stare at a grandfather clock, lying on the work table in front of him. Even though the stars were out that night he started and kept working through the dimness of candle light. Around him were hundreds of clocks, small clocks, coo-coo clocks, foreign clocks, and grandfather clocks. He always knew the time and in his workshop harmonious dings and chimes were the usual tune.
Eventually he stopped pondering the grandfather clock and dissected it. First he tugged at the jammed door until finally he found the strength to pry it open. Clouds of dust shot from within, covering his wrinkled red cheeks and large nose. He quickly swiped away the dust from his glasses and set to work on all the stray gizmos and gadgets, instantly injecting life back into the clock. He pried, painted, molded, sawed, screwed, and perfected the old grandfather clock. Like an elf at the North Pole he worked diligently all through the night until he drifted to sleep on his work stool resting his head in his arms, covered with filthy dust and beautiful dreams of a grandfather clock.
“Hello? Mr. Tuner?” His head sprung up from inside his folded arms and quickly his hands went to work on his glasses. His eyes frantically searched his workshop. “Hello? Mr. Turner, are you alright?” He stepped down from his work stool and slowly started towards the front door still yawning from his deep sleep. He had plump rosy cheeks and a belly to match while his once full head of hair was left with a large bald circle on top and curly fine whiteness surrounding it. His ears were large and he had a curly mustache that hung above his always giddy smile.
“Hello my boy, you’ve come for your clock right?” He smile and patted him on the back. The much younger man studied the room with an odd look of amusement on his face and a crooked smile, obviously astounded by the amount of clocks the old man had collected. He listened, in great amazement, to all the clocks harmoniously sing to the morning.
“Um, yes, I’m here to pick up a large grandfather clock. I dropped it by here about, say two days ago?” The boy licked his lips in deep thought while he looked up to the ceiling; there was a large hole with several birds’ nests and a ray of sunshine. He wondered why the old man hadn’t fixed the gapped hole or shooed the birds out, instead he just placed a pail below it.
“Yes sonny, you’re correct. I’ll be right back with your clock, you stay put,” he said as he pushed his glasses back up his nose. He pointed to where the boy was standing still stained with his giddy smile; he was obviously excited about his masterpiece. The happy old man waddled out from behind the register, his back tilted from the massive stomach he carried.
A large crash came a few seconds after he had left and then came several coo-coos and chimes of different tones from an explosion of dust and busted clock parts. “Mr. Turner, do you need some help?” The boy called back to him as he watched a cloud of dust rise from the back room, worried about his clock.
“No, no sonny, stay put and watch my clocks, he called from the back room. After several grunts and muttered curses the elderly man came back rolling the grandfather clock in without a scratch to spare. The clock glowed with effulgence. The hand painted scenery, newly molded time hands, and even a new ticker were Mr. Turner’s outstanding show of his hard work and diligence.
“Well, here you go sonny. Take care of ‘er I worked too hard for you to ruin ‘er so be watchful when you leave.” He smiled and chuckled to himself as he patted his belly which was shaking with glee.
The young boy walked over to him and even though he was dusty and dirty he hugged the old man and said, “Thanks dad.”
Kelsey S’s favorite color is orange. She loves writing about any crazy idea that strikes her. Her favorite hobby is dancing to techno with her friends.
Eventually he stopped pondering the grandfather clock and dissected it. First he tugged at the jammed door until finally he found the strength to pry it open. Clouds of dust shot from within, covering his wrinkled red cheeks and large nose. He quickly swiped away the dust from his glasses and set to work on all the stray gizmos and gadgets, instantly injecting life back into the clock. He pried, painted, molded, sawed, screwed, and perfected the old grandfather clock. Like an elf at the North Pole he worked diligently all through the night until he drifted to sleep on his work stool resting his head in his arms, covered with filthy dust and beautiful dreams of a grandfather clock.
“Hello? Mr. Tuner?” His head sprung up from inside his folded arms and quickly his hands went to work on his glasses. His eyes frantically searched his workshop. “Hello? Mr. Turner, are you alright?” He stepped down from his work stool and slowly started towards the front door still yawning from his deep sleep. He had plump rosy cheeks and a belly to match while his once full head of hair was left with a large bald circle on top and curly fine whiteness surrounding it. His ears were large and he had a curly mustache that hung above his always giddy smile.
“Hello my boy, you’ve come for your clock right?” He smile and patted him on the back. The much younger man studied the room with an odd look of amusement on his face and a crooked smile, obviously astounded by the amount of clocks the old man had collected. He listened, in great amazement, to all the clocks harmoniously sing to the morning.
“Um, yes, I’m here to pick up a large grandfather clock. I dropped it by here about, say two days ago?” The boy licked his lips in deep thought while he looked up to the ceiling; there was a large hole with several birds’ nests and a ray of sunshine. He wondered why the old man hadn’t fixed the gapped hole or shooed the birds out, instead he just placed a pail below it.
“Yes sonny, you’re correct. I’ll be right back with your clock, you stay put,” he said as he pushed his glasses back up his nose. He pointed to where the boy was standing still stained with his giddy smile; he was obviously excited about his masterpiece. The happy old man waddled out from behind the register, his back tilted from the massive stomach he carried.
A large crash came a few seconds after he had left and then came several coo-coos and chimes of different tones from an explosion of dust and busted clock parts. “Mr. Turner, do you need some help?” The boy called back to him as he watched a cloud of dust rise from the back room, worried about his clock.
“No, no sonny, stay put and watch my clocks, he called from the back room. After several grunts and muttered curses the elderly man came back rolling the grandfather clock in without a scratch to spare. The clock glowed with effulgence. The hand painted scenery, newly molded time hands, and even a new ticker were Mr. Turner’s outstanding show of his hard work and diligence.
“Well, here you go sonny. Take care of ‘er I worked too hard for you to ruin ‘er so be watchful when you leave.” He smiled and chuckled to himself as he patted his belly which was shaking with glee.
The young boy walked over to him and even though he was dusty and dirty he hugged the old man and said, “Thanks dad.”
Kelsey S’s favorite color is orange. She loves writing about any crazy idea that strikes her. Her favorite hobby is dancing to techno with her friends.
"Tomas" by Mike T.
Michael T. is a rising senior. He’s an aspiring artist who, in addition to visual arts, enjoys musical theatre, reading, and creative writing.
The Asylum, by J.D.G.
I am sick, sick with the luxury of mental abomination, sick with hopelessness and misunderstanding of reality. I am alone with no one to guide me back to safety.
Confusion haunts me and fear clouds my thoughts and senses. My nerves shake in every limb as they drag me down a darkened hallway. There is a slimy-dampness on the concrete floor as I am thrown to the ground. I try not to move for fear of torment by the guards. The drugs, oh the paralyzing drugs from the doctors, swiftly rush through my veins. I hear my cell door slam shut, and steadily I attempt to move. Behind shut doors I hear the screams of the insane, whether they are screams of hopelessness, fear, or torture, I do not know. However, it is clear that something is terribly wrong with this place. Something has taken over the souls of the doctors in this dark and broken asylum. If there is anyone out there, help me. My name is R.J. I am not alone.
My Past
I was nine years of age when I was diagnosed with schizophrenia. I would see and hear things that weren’t really there. The first time I knew something was wrong was when I had my first hallucination. I was at home in Peachtree City, Georgia when I saw a boar walking on its hind legs as though it was human. Some of the things I’ve seen were extraordinarily beautiful, as if I had guardian angels watching over me. Others, however, were extraordinarily horrifying, as if Satan himself were standing before me.
Hallucinations of demons would hide behind walls waiting to grab me. These demons had faces identical to a rotting boar with tusks as long as five inches. Even though I was awake, nightmares would come to life and haunt my every move. For this reason, I felt frightened and alone. As nine more years passed, my condition worsened. At age twelve, I had a vision of something powerfully frightening. Soon I kept having the same vision over and over. At the age of fifteen all the beautiful hallucinations seemed to fade away and all that was left was the horrid vision of death. At the age of eighteen I almost reached the breaking point; and to a degree, I went insane just thinking about my horrible vision. That’s when I decided I must get help.
My Vision
I am twenty years old in my vision. I have just met one of the most famous doctors in America who says he can help me. His name is Dr. Vanderbelt, who was also known as a good person in general. I took his advice and admitted myself to his mental institution for help.
Suddenly, my vision skips forward and I find myself sitting naked and bleeding on a slimy-damp concrete floor. My back is to a coarse stone wall. I am behind bars in what looks like an old asylum. Screams of pain come from behind closed doors and fear overwhelms me. Again my vision skips forward and I see myself being dragged toward a table connected to several generator boxes. I assumed it was originally made for shock therapy. However, too many screams came from behind this door so I knew what was in store for me: death. The doctors often used this table to make the building’s electricity more efficient, therefore prolonging the agony. Though these doctors spoke in my vision, I couldn’t hear all the details; I could only hear that I was their sacrifice for their god. It was unclear whether I was inside Vanderbelt Mental Institution or if I had unknowingly slipped into some limbo of hell. I was frightened to the core. I saw them pull on boar faced masks, the same type face I hallucinated on the demons as a child. After that it was clear that evil had taken over this place. I knew these doctors were possessed. As the masked doctors strap me to the table I rapidly find strength. But it seems I see no more of the vision after that. I knew this vision couldn’t be true, how could it?
The Days of Admission
I am twenty years old and it is December 15, 1989. I have arrived at the government owned Vanderbelt Mental Institution. According to my watch it’s twelve midnight. The place seems deserted except for the admission check-in. I walk to the check-in only to find nothing and no one there but a straw dummy at the window. Then I hear footsteps behind me. Next thing I know I have a black cloth bag over my head and I am unconscious. I wake up without clothes and a headache that split my skull in half. It is cold, dark, and wet. The heavy stench of dried blood swells in my nostrils. I am locked in a cell, and I’ve gone without food and water for many hours. There are no windows anywhere, just the weak flashing overhead lights. The loud screams of the insane come from every room.
Unexpectedly, the lights become steady and powerfully brighter and a scream that overlaps all others suddenly leaps through all the cells. Immediately I am filled with fear. In tears I try to sleep, though I am only successful for a few hours.
I wake to stale bread beside my weakened body. The time is unknown to me. Once again the stench of a thousand rotting corpses hits my nostrils like a nuclear bomb. The stench is so powerful it fogs my mouth, throat, and lungs; I feel like vomiting just because of it. To the next cell over I hear a man crying in pain and I ask him, “What is going on here?” The man replied with news that could make the heart stop. Yet my attention quickly switched from the news to the man’s familiar voice. The voice I slowly deciphered to be the same man that invited me to this dark institution, Dr. Vanderbelt. “Dr. Vanderbelt?” He replied with a yes. I try to continue the conversation but the guards are drawing near. Dr. Vanderbelt reached his arm around the wall between our cells and dropped a syringe. The syringe contained a cloudy liquid. I asked Dr. Vanderbelt, “What is this?” He replied with a loud whisper, “steroids.” Quickly I hid the syringe inside a gap in the spring mattress. My cell door opens and I see the masked doctors, the same masked doctors that were in my vision. The guards drag me down the hallway. I look toward Dr. Vanderbelt’s cell. He says good luck but no one is in the cell. There has to be a connection between my vision and now. Before I had time to say wait, I was strapped on to a chair with a bag over my head. I cannot see passed the coarse fabric scraping my eyeballs.
Suddenly, I am hit with extreme force. Bruises, cuts, and small stab wounds start to overrun my body. The process is continuous. I feel myself being beaten with sharp objects. I sit there helpless and bleeding. I cannot move. The doctors are overcome with laughter as I am consumed by agony. I scream hopelessly.
After all the pain and suffering these doctors caused me, they finally brought me back to my cell. To prove to myself that Dr. Vanderbelt was just a hallucination, I look for the syringe in my mattress. I did not expect to find it. I reached into the gap in the mattress and I felt something cold and hard. At first I thought it was just part of a spring however it was too big. It is cylinder shaped. “It can’t be” I thought. I pull it out of the mattress. I am speechless with awe. I found the syringe. “I know I didn’t have this with me” I thought. “How did this get here?” I thought to myself, “No doctor put this here and no patient could have ether.” In disbelief, I tap the needle against the coarse stone wall. “It’s real” I said. Loud in the dark I hear a whispering voice echo “use it now!” Frightened I stay silent and still. “Use it now!” said the voice again. Immediately I use the syringe and inject the steroids. I feel a surge run through my body. My cell door opens and the guards drag me to a place unknown to me. I saw a table with wire connections to several generator boxes. I remembered the lights and the scream that overlapped all the rest and I knew this was it, the shock therapy table from my vision. The doctors are setting up the electrical sacrifice that is my end. I am being strapped to the very thing most feared by the other prisoners. The masked doctors inject me with the paralyzing drugs and I feel death’s grip. But the drugs have a reverse effect. I found strength where others did not. Straining every limb I broke out and started to run. I ran faster and faster and neither the guards nor the doctors could stop me. As I am running I hear the whispering voice say “Wait, look here.” I stop and stand before a map of the asylum. I found my whereabouts to be four stories underground, so I look for a staircase leading up. I found the staircase and my hope is restored. I ran up the staircase and for the first time in decades it seems, I found daylight. I am free. The date is December 18, 1989. I had been there for three long days.
The Aftermath
Ten years after my imprisonment at Vanderbelt Mental Institution, I told the police about the asylum. The police and government officials investigated and raided the institution. Shocked by what they saw and heard the police and other officials arrested all those responsible. They were sentenced in a court of law to life in prison. But even in prison the demons never left their bodies. All of the captured insane were placed in appropriate mental institutions for help. For years I had been under the delusion that I had schizophrenia. Though all I was really seeing was bits and pieces of what was to come. The fact that demons had possessed these doctors did not surprise me. But what did surprise me, was that it was God’s voice I heard echoing through the halls of the asylum. To this day I cannot thank Dr. Vanderbelt enough. For six months after my imprisonment, I wondered if Dr. Vanderbelt had ever really existed. Later, I found out that Dr. Vanderbelt died ten years before my birth. When I heard this, I went to see his grave. On the way, everything, from my vision to what happened in the asylum finally came together. It was God all along warning me of what was to come. He used me and Dr. Vanderbelt to end the evil in the asylum. But why use Dr. Vanderbelt? And for that matter, what happened to him? I looked at the tombstone and I was shocked by what I read and saw. His tombstone read “Here lies Dr. Vanderbelt, A great man who died for his asylum 1909-1959.” Stuck in the ground in front of his tombstone was the syringe I had left in my cell. Dr. Vanderbelt had died by the hands of the masked doctors.
Confusion haunts me and fear clouds my thoughts and senses. My nerves shake in every limb as they drag me down a darkened hallway. There is a slimy-dampness on the concrete floor as I am thrown to the ground. I try not to move for fear of torment by the guards. The drugs, oh the paralyzing drugs from the doctors, swiftly rush through my veins. I hear my cell door slam shut, and steadily I attempt to move. Behind shut doors I hear the screams of the insane, whether they are screams of hopelessness, fear, or torture, I do not know. However, it is clear that something is terribly wrong with this place. Something has taken over the souls of the doctors in this dark and broken asylum. If there is anyone out there, help me. My name is R.J. I am not alone.
My Past
I was nine years of age when I was diagnosed with schizophrenia. I would see and hear things that weren’t really there. The first time I knew something was wrong was when I had my first hallucination. I was at home in Peachtree City, Georgia when I saw a boar walking on its hind legs as though it was human. Some of the things I’ve seen were extraordinarily beautiful, as if I had guardian angels watching over me. Others, however, were extraordinarily horrifying, as if Satan himself were standing before me.
Hallucinations of demons would hide behind walls waiting to grab me. These demons had faces identical to a rotting boar with tusks as long as five inches. Even though I was awake, nightmares would come to life and haunt my every move. For this reason, I felt frightened and alone. As nine more years passed, my condition worsened. At age twelve, I had a vision of something powerfully frightening. Soon I kept having the same vision over and over. At the age of fifteen all the beautiful hallucinations seemed to fade away and all that was left was the horrid vision of death. At the age of eighteen I almost reached the breaking point; and to a degree, I went insane just thinking about my horrible vision. That’s when I decided I must get help.
My Vision
I am twenty years old in my vision. I have just met one of the most famous doctors in America who says he can help me. His name is Dr. Vanderbelt, who was also known as a good person in general. I took his advice and admitted myself to his mental institution for help.
Suddenly, my vision skips forward and I find myself sitting naked and bleeding on a slimy-damp concrete floor. My back is to a coarse stone wall. I am behind bars in what looks like an old asylum. Screams of pain come from behind closed doors and fear overwhelms me. Again my vision skips forward and I see myself being dragged toward a table connected to several generator boxes. I assumed it was originally made for shock therapy. However, too many screams came from behind this door so I knew what was in store for me: death. The doctors often used this table to make the building’s electricity more efficient, therefore prolonging the agony. Though these doctors spoke in my vision, I couldn’t hear all the details; I could only hear that I was their sacrifice for their god. It was unclear whether I was inside Vanderbelt Mental Institution or if I had unknowingly slipped into some limbo of hell. I was frightened to the core. I saw them pull on boar faced masks, the same type face I hallucinated on the demons as a child. After that it was clear that evil had taken over this place. I knew these doctors were possessed. As the masked doctors strap me to the table I rapidly find strength. But it seems I see no more of the vision after that. I knew this vision couldn’t be true, how could it?
The Days of Admission
I am twenty years old and it is December 15, 1989. I have arrived at the government owned Vanderbelt Mental Institution. According to my watch it’s twelve midnight. The place seems deserted except for the admission check-in. I walk to the check-in only to find nothing and no one there but a straw dummy at the window. Then I hear footsteps behind me. Next thing I know I have a black cloth bag over my head and I am unconscious. I wake up without clothes and a headache that split my skull in half. It is cold, dark, and wet. The heavy stench of dried blood swells in my nostrils. I am locked in a cell, and I’ve gone without food and water for many hours. There are no windows anywhere, just the weak flashing overhead lights. The loud screams of the insane come from every room.
Unexpectedly, the lights become steady and powerfully brighter and a scream that overlaps all others suddenly leaps through all the cells. Immediately I am filled with fear. In tears I try to sleep, though I am only successful for a few hours.
I wake to stale bread beside my weakened body. The time is unknown to me. Once again the stench of a thousand rotting corpses hits my nostrils like a nuclear bomb. The stench is so powerful it fogs my mouth, throat, and lungs; I feel like vomiting just because of it. To the next cell over I hear a man crying in pain and I ask him, “What is going on here?” The man replied with news that could make the heart stop. Yet my attention quickly switched from the news to the man’s familiar voice. The voice I slowly deciphered to be the same man that invited me to this dark institution, Dr. Vanderbelt. “Dr. Vanderbelt?” He replied with a yes. I try to continue the conversation but the guards are drawing near. Dr. Vanderbelt reached his arm around the wall between our cells and dropped a syringe. The syringe contained a cloudy liquid. I asked Dr. Vanderbelt, “What is this?” He replied with a loud whisper, “steroids.” Quickly I hid the syringe inside a gap in the spring mattress. My cell door opens and I see the masked doctors, the same masked doctors that were in my vision. The guards drag me down the hallway. I look toward Dr. Vanderbelt’s cell. He says good luck but no one is in the cell. There has to be a connection between my vision and now. Before I had time to say wait, I was strapped on to a chair with a bag over my head. I cannot see passed the coarse fabric scraping my eyeballs.
Suddenly, I am hit with extreme force. Bruises, cuts, and small stab wounds start to overrun my body. The process is continuous. I feel myself being beaten with sharp objects. I sit there helpless and bleeding. I cannot move. The doctors are overcome with laughter as I am consumed by agony. I scream hopelessly.
After all the pain and suffering these doctors caused me, they finally brought me back to my cell. To prove to myself that Dr. Vanderbelt was just a hallucination, I look for the syringe in my mattress. I did not expect to find it. I reached into the gap in the mattress and I felt something cold and hard. At first I thought it was just part of a spring however it was too big. It is cylinder shaped. “It can’t be” I thought. I pull it out of the mattress. I am speechless with awe. I found the syringe. “I know I didn’t have this with me” I thought. “How did this get here?” I thought to myself, “No doctor put this here and no patient could have ether.” In disbelief, I tap the needle against the coarse stone wall. “It’s real” I said. Loud in the dark I hear a whispering voice echo “use it now!” Frightened I stay silent and still. “Use it now!” said the voice again. Immediately I use the syringe and inject the steroids. I feel a surge run through my body. My cell door opens and the guards drag me to a place unknown to me. I saw a table with wire connections to several generator boxes. I remembered the lights and the scream that overlapped all the rest and I knew this was it, the shock therapy table from my vision. The doctors are setting up the electrical sacrifice that is my end. I am being strapped to the very thing most feared by the other prisoners. The masked doctors inject me with the paralyzing drugs and I feel death’s grip. But the drugs have a reverse effect. I found strength where others did not. Straining every limb I broke out and started to run. I ran faster and faster and neither the guards nor the doctors could stop me. As I am running I hear the whispering voice say “Wait, look here.” I stop and stand before a map of the asylum. I found my whereabouts to be four stories underground, so I look for a staircase leading up. I found the staircase and my hope is restored. I ran up the staircase and for the first time in decades it seems, I found daylight. I am free. The date is December 18, 1989. I had been there for three long days.
The Aftermath
Ten years after my imprisonment at Vanderbelt Mental Institution, I told the police about the asylum. The police and government officials investigated and raided the institution. Shocked by what they saw and heard the police and other officials arrested all those responsible. They were sentenced in a court of law to life in prison. But even in prison the demons never left their bodies. All of the captured insane were placed in appropriate mental institutions for help. For years I had been under the delusion that I had schizophrenia. Though all I was really seeing was bits and pieces of what was to come. The fact that demons had possessed these doctors did not surprise me. But what did surprise me, was that it was God’s voice I heard echoing through the halls of the asylum. To this day I cannot thank Dr. Vanderbelt enough. For six months after my imprisonment, I wondered if Dr. Vanderbelt had ever really existed. Later, I found out that Dr. Vanderbelt died ten years before my birth. When I heard this, I went to see his grave. On the way, everything, from my vision to what happened in the asylum finally came together. It was God all along warning me of what was to come. He used me and Dr. Vanderbelt to end the evil in the asylum. But why use Dr. Vanderbelt? And for that matter, what happened to him? I looked at the tombstone and I was shocked by what I read and saw. His tombstone read “Here lies Dr. Vanderbelt, A great man who died for his asylum 1909-1959.” Stuck in the ground in front of his tombstone was the syringe I had left in my cell. Dr. Vanderbelt had died by the hands of the masked doctors.
Ray J.
Ray J. is very serene in all that he does. He’s content to just sit down, read a book, listen to some tunes, and watch the world from his window.
Emily L.
Emily L. enjoys reading, hiking and making art. She will attend Duke University in the fall and plans to study biology.
The Chronicles of S-Mart: Part the First, by Garrette J.
There was a silent truce between them as they tore open the door to S-Mart. The man stood stock still holding the door open mockingly holding his hand to usher in the lady, the glare on his face stating all that needed to be said. The lady briskly walked past the man not breaking stride or looking at him, as if he wasn’t even there. Heads quickly turned towards their direction and murmurs quickly followed. The man snatched up a small basket, nearly knocking over the whole stack, and continued on his warpath towards the snack isles. The lady walked by him, plowing through him with her left shoulder as she continued on her way towards the drink isle.
On the snack isle the man began to ravage the defenseless snack cakes and bags of chips, ripping them from their sorted isle and hurdling them towards his basket. He acted with nothing but barely masked primal rage, showing his complete and utter discontentment while at the same time wearing an oddly happy smile on his face. Each snack, each bag was utterly abused, some became unrecognizable after their impact with the basket, others were mortally wounded and fell apart only a few minutes after being in the man’s crushing grip. There was one snack, however, that he treated with the upmost care and those were his Twinkies.
Meanwhile the lady was having herself a jolly time depleting the once endless supply of drinks. The once proud refrigerators which boasted complete inventories of the most refreshing drinks now stood depraved of all honor. Arms already full of drinks she saw his favorite drink Yahoos; she grabbed only one and vigorously shook it. Quickly she strutted over to the man half-dropping half-throwing the drinks into the basket until she hit her target, his once proud but now decimated Twinkies.
In a silent argument they arrived at the counter, neither acknowledging that the other was even alive. Unfortunately this led the man to not notice the fact that the lady was no longer near his side or anywhere in the store. Suddenly an almost patterned series of tires stopping told him where she was. Looking out the window he could see his car lurching and stopping across the parking lot. Smirking, he calmly strutted out to his car and peered into the window at the lady.
After a few minutes of bickering she refuses to give him the keys and he refuses to teach her how to drive a standard, they each call their own taxi and part their ways.
Garrette J. can be defined by one word: Fedora. He’s suave and totally at ease with himself and everyone around him. His classic style is crisscrossed with moments of brilliance, utter hilarity, and deep conjectural thought. Garrette is the epitome of casual and formal, meshed together into something not quite ordinary.
On the snack isle the man began to ravage the defenseless snack cakes and bags of chips, ripping them from their sorted isle and hurdling them towards his basket. He acted with nothing but barely masked primal rage, showing his complete and utter discontentment while at the same time wearing an oddly happy smile on his face. Each snack, each bag was utterly abused, some became unrecognizable after their impact with the basket, others were mortally wounded and fell apart only a few minutes after being in the man’s crushing grip. There was one snack, however, that he treated with the upmost care and those were his Twinkies.
Meanwhile the lady was having herself a jolly time depleting the once endless supply of drinks. The once proud refrigerators which boasted complete inventories of the most refreshing drinks now stood depraved of all honor. Arms already full of drinks she saw his favorite drink Yahoos; she grabbed only one and vigorously shook it. Quickly she strutted over to the man half-dropping half-throwing the drinks into the basket until she hit her target, his once proud but now decimated Twinkies.
In a silent argument they arrived at the counter, neither acknowledging that the other was even alive. Unfortunately this led the man to not notice the fact that the lady was no longer near his side or anywhere in the store. Suddenly an almost patterned series of tires stopping told him where she was. Looking out the window he could see his car lurching and stopping across the parking lot. Smirking, he calmly strutted out to his car and peered into the window at the lady.
After a few minutes of bickering she refuses to give him the keys and he refuses to teach her how to drive a standard, they each call their own taxi and part their ways.
Garrette J. can be defined by one word: Fedora. He’s suave and totally at ease with himself and everyone around him. His classic style is crisscrossed with moments of brilliance, utter hilarity, and deep conjectural thought. Garrette is the epitome of casual and formal, meshed together into something not quite ordinary.
The Restaurant, by Ellie T.
Looking over the oversized menu, I can see them talking. Discreetly seated in the back of the restaurant, they talk in almost whispers, so as to not draw attention to themselves.
Two men, dressed in business suits, sit at the small table. One, who is holding a cigar, has one hand placed on the table as the other holds the cigar in midair.
“Tony,” he said, blowing a cloud of smoke in his face. “Both of us know you need to pay up at some point. It’s just a question of when.”
His head is bent towards Tony like he’s about to yell directly in his face. He has his hands folded across his chest, signaling his defensiveness towards the cigar holding man. What I learned in Psychology about body language was playing out before me in real life.
“Gordy, I just need more time.” Tony glanced behind him at the next table, relieved to find no one there. “A job like this takes planning, strategy, and discretion. If you want the job done right, then you’ll have to give me the time.”
Gordy squinted at Tony, his hand reaching for his inside jacket pocket.
“Well, Tony,” he chuckled, a menacing expression forming on his face. “You may have all the time in the world, but I don’t. And neither does the Don. And if the Don isn’t happy, none of us are happy, and you’ll be the first of your gang on the noose.”
A waitress came by their table, at which the two men ceased their threatening gestures. After she left though, they opened their menus, watching the other with a look of suspicion. Would the other make the first move?
I didn’t get the chance to see, for the waitress came by with my food. I ate my lunch as I sat, watching the intense negotiation continue.
Tony kept his hands closed around the edges of the menu, watching Gordy continue to puff the gray smoke around the restaurant.
“Look, you and the Don don’t have to do a thing; me and my men are doing all the work here. Just give me another week is all. In just one week, Lou will be sitting pretty in a jail cell and wasting his trust fund on his appeal.”
Gordy paused his smoking and laid his menu on the table. A quizzical look of intrigue twinkled in his tiny black eyes, and I knew that Tony was about to buy more time.
“What about the others?” He coughed into his sleeve. “Arty, Jimmy, and the rest of those pick-pocketers?”
“Rotting in the city morgue is where they’ll be.” Tony crossed his arms over his chest, his fearful, hostile look replaced with one of confidence and savoir-faire.
Gordy finally gave in, twisting his cigar in the ashtray with his greasy fingers.
“All right, we’ll give you another week. But it’d better be clean.” He wiped his mouth with a little white handkerchief that had been previously sitting in his pocket.
“Gordy, trust me,” Tony laughed. “It’ll be as clean as holy water. Now, are we gonna eat, or are we gonna eat?”
“As much as I enjoy the food here, Tony,” Gordy stood from his chair. “I’m afraid I must go. I have…business that I have to attend to.” He acknowledged this with a small wink.
I didn’t get a chance to hear the good byes, as my waitress came yet again, asking for the check. By the time I looked back over, Gordy was gone, leaving Tony sitting by himself, eating his pasta with the smile of a runner that just won a marathon.
Ellie T. is a junior at Cave Spring High School. When not writing, she plays on the Academic Team using her knowledge of 19th century Russian literature and is president of the creative writing club Easily A Muse. Inspired by her love of graphic novels, she is amidst a new project that will be pertaining to the superhero genre.
Two men, dressed in business suits, sit at the small table. One, who is holding a cigar, has one hand placed on the table as the other holds the cigar in midair.
“Tony,” he said, blowing a cloud of smoke in his face. “Both of us know you need to pay up at some point. It’s just a question of when.”
His head is bent towards Tony like he’s about to yell directly in his face. He has his hands folded across his chest, signaling his defensiveness towards the cigar holding man. What I learned in Psychology about body language was playing out before me in real life.
“Gordy, I just need more time.” Tony glanced behind him at the next table, relieved to find no one there. “A job like this takes planning, strategy, and discretion. If you want the job done right, then you’ll have to give me the time.”
Gordy squinted at Tony, his hand reaching for his inside jacket pocket.
“Well, Tony,” he chuckled, a menacing expression forming on his face. “You may have all the time in the world, but I don’t. And neither does the Don. And if the Don isn’t happy, none of us are happy, and you’ll be the first of your gang on the noose.”
A waitress came by their table, at which the two men ceased their threatening gestures. After she left though, they opened their menus, watching the other with a look of suspicion. Would the other make the first move?
I didn’t get the chance to see, for the waitress came by with my food. I ate my lunch as I sat, watching the intense negotiation continue.
Tony kept his hands closed around the edges of the menu, watching Gordy continue to puff the gray smoke around the restaurant.
“Look, you and the Don don’t have to do a thing; me and my men are doing all the work here. Just give me another week is all. In just one week, Lou will be sitting pretty in a jail cell and wasting his trust fund on his appeal.”
Gordy paused his smoking and laid his menu on the table. A quizzical look of intrigue twinkled in his tiny black eyes, and I knew that Tony was about to buy more time.
“What about the others?” He coughed into his sleeve. “Arty, Jimmy, and the rest of those pick-pocketers?”
“Rotting in the city morgue is where they’ll be.” Tony crossed his arms over his chest, his fearful, hostile look replaced with one of confidence and savoir-faire.
Gordy finally gave in, twisting his cigar in the ashtray with his greasy fingers.
“All right, we’ll give you another week. But it’d better be clean.” He wiped his mouth with a little white handkerchief that had been previously sitting in his pocket.
“Gordy, trust me,” Tony laughed. “It’ll be as clean as holy water. Now, are we gonna eat, or are we gonna eat?”
“As much as I enjoy the food here, Tony,” Gordy stood from his chair. “I’m afraid I must go. I have…business that I have to attend to.” He acknowledged this with a small wink.
I didn’t get a chance to hear the good byes, as my waitress came yet again, asking for the check. By the time I looked back over, Gordy was gone, leaving Tony sitting by himself, eating his pasta with the smile of a runner that just won a marathon.
Ellie T. is a junior at Cave Spring High School. When not writing, she plays on the Academic Team using her knowledge of 19th century Russian literature and is president of the creative writing club Easily A Muse. Inspired by her love of graphic novels, she is amidst a new project that will be pertaining to the superhero genre.
Devon W.
Devon W. is a rising junior interested in expanding and expressing his talents. He loves to draw, sketch, write poetry, play video games, and bike on cool days. In addition to being an avid student and employee, he strongly pushes his belief in the abolition of animal use, period. He’s been a vegan for almost two years and couldn’t be prouder of it.
Untitled, by Holly P.
He sat simply, long legs frayed at the edges following with dirty running shoes. His hands folded in front of him and staring out the window. A small frown played upon his features without appearing on his lips. “It’ll be ok, I’ll always be here.” He said his voice soothing not bothering to take his eyes from the window. Had he known I was there? He smelled like soap, nothing special but no one else would smell like it. His tee-shirt held no slogan, his stance had no substance. Don’t bother wondering what he’s thinking, he thinks the simple things. What’s for dinner, I have work to do. The light grayness of the walls simplified him. Little furniture adorned the room, a bed, a light, a bookshelf and a chair. All the same light brown. How can one be so? His hair cut short, his face little color or show of laughter wrinkles. The clock ticks 7 he goes to work. Clock ticks 5, he comes home. No time for play, foolish games, No time the world will surely end quite soon. He does not want what you have, he does not wish for change. Day by Day, it begins and ends, the simple life endures.
Holly P. is a hair standing on edge; tripping over people tripping over shoe laces and face planting teenager who’s out of place and wears jeans covered in paint too often. She’ll always be a writer because she can never seem to pull the right words out of her brain at the right time. With out writing down her thoughts she’d probubly loose her mind.
Holly P. is a hair standing on edge; tripping over people tripping over shoe laces and face planting teenager who’s out of place and wears jeans covered in paint too often. She’ll always be a writer because she can never seem to pull the right words out of her brain at the right time. With out writing down her thoughts she’d probubly loose her mind.
Emily R.
Emily R. is a Southern Belle and self-proclaimed professional bargain hunter. She makes and sells jewelry, but finds the most joy in attempting to dance.
Mike T.
Mike T. is a rising senior. He's an aspiring artist who, in addition to visual arts, enjoys musical theatre, reading and creative writing.
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