Michael T. is a rising senior. He’s an aspiring artist who, in addition to visual arts, enjoys musical theatre, reading, and creative writing.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
"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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