Cliffhanger
By Bear Boeke Trevathan 9/27/23 (Just letting you know this is basically a Ghost Writer rip-off but thanks for reading!) January 23, 2022, Saratoga, NY “Yeah, and then he said that he was going to the bathroom which was a total lie.” The two girls in the line started laughing. Mr. Gregory, the cashier, handed me the receipt and the bowl with the ice cream. “Thanks.” I give him a polite nod and as if magically I’m out the door. It’s a cold January day in New York. Mamá might be mad that I’m not home yet. “Oh…” A wispy voice calls. “Hi, Carmen.” The same voice calls again. I dig my nails into my palm and drop my spoon into the bowl, but I still turn around. Luna. “Hi, Luna. How are you?” I muttered. Luna is my acquaintance, as I call her. Funnily enough, she is a lot like Luna Lovegood. She was wearing a short baby blue skirt, a green tank top, and a puffy white jacket. She couldn’t match colors to save herself. “How did you like the book I got you for Hanukkah?” Surprisingly, since it’s Luna, it was an amazing book. The book, Silverwing By Kenneth Oppel, was a great present, maybe one of my favorites. “Carmen? Are you there?” I look at her again. Her hand is on her hip and she stands at an interesting angle. “I absolutely loved it!” While I tried to show my real emotion, my voice cracked and Luna’s smile turned south quickly. “Loved it? Is that so?” Luna spoke, unconvinced. I could take it out of my backpack and show her where I’m in the book. I think I’ll do that. “Yeah look!” I take it out of my backpack and hand it to her. “Oh.” She flips the pages of the book to where my bookmark is. “Author's notes. I see.” She holds it up to the sky… thunder. “Ah, I knew it was going to rain! Come, Carmen, take the book back.” She holds the book out in my direction. Since I want my book back and she’s standing about two feet away from me, I stick out my hand and grip the book. Luna doesn't loosen her grasp. “Could I please have my book back?” The book was suddenly brightened by the sunlight. Or maybe it’s just my eyes playing tricks on me. “Come on Carmen take the book.” Luna teases. I don't reply, but instead, I focus on all the energy taking my book back. Now I know it's not my eyes, the book is definitely glowing. “You can do it, Carmen.” “Just let go!” bam! While the lightning and thunder came at the same time. I hadn't anticipated it to hit the book. “Where are we?” Luna moaned. My vision was still quite blurry but this wasn't New York. “What’s that?” Luna questioned while pointing to a tree. The tree looked oddly familiar, from what my blurry vision could make out. “Get up Carmen!” Luna takes two steps toward me then takes my hand and pulls me to my feet. “Carmen, do you know where we are?” Taking a closer look at the tree, I do know where we are. “I have a feeling, it’s unrealistic, but I think that’s Tree Haven,” I answered. “Tree what?” she questioned. “The exposition for Silverwing.” “Excuse me what?” Luna’s wispy voice had gotten lower and more skeptical. “I suppose… We've been sucked into a book? Specifically Silverwing by Kenneth Oppel.” Luna rolled her eyes. “Yeah, sure. That’s what happened.” She walked in a circle and started heading to the tree. “Are you coming, Carmen?” I shrug and walk toward her. Whoosh. Luna falls onto her face and I lose, then regain, my balance. “What was that?” Luna asked. I give a little chuckle and point “Bats.” Luna headed towards the tree and stopped once we came to the base. “Well, it makes sense why they’re talking now,” Luna said. “What do you mean by talking?” I personally couldn’t hear anything. “They’re talking… something about fire, owls, and—” she raised an eyebrow for a brief moment. “Shade? I mean it’s daytime so I guess there’s a lot of it.” “No, Shade’s the main character.” She gave a small oh and then put her ear back to the tree. “This is the catalyst of the book." Luna knocked on the trunk lightly and then looked at me. “Cata-what?” “The big event that changes the character… you would know all of this if you read… actually, I forget the name of the book.” She kept knocking until night came. “Maybe you should stop now… The catalyst is about to happen. We should go into the forest” “Will you stop saying catalyst? It's going to make my catalyst happen.” “Technically it already did. I mean the lightning striking the book is basically what pushed us out of our comfort zone.” “Ok, whatever.” Luna turned around and started to head for the forest; only for her to quickly cover her ears from a deafening screech. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of bats flooded out from the tree. The flaps of the wings muffled out Luna’s cries for me to do something… I suppose the reasonable thing to do is run. Hisssss. The part of Tree Haven behind me ignites in flames and its sudden burst sends me flying forwards. “Okay, time to go.” I scramble to my feet and start running the other way. Luna is somewhere in the forest already, probably watching me trip and stumble towards her. “Carmen.’ Her wispy voice called. It was as if water surrounded me. I could not, for the life of me, locate where it was. “Carmen. Carmen, where are you? Where am I?” Luna dropped down from a branch, seemingly floating upside down. “There you are.” A little squeal escaped from my mouth and Luna burst out laughing. “It’s not funny.” Luna hopped down from her branch and dusted off her skirt. She opened her mouth to say something, then decided against it. It was probably a snarky comment considering her record. “Do you want to make it out of this book or not?” She asked. For the next few minutes, we plan our escape. To get into the book it has to be struck by lightning. So to get back home, we have to get the book struck by lightning again. And since it’s my book I had read it. “So there’s going to be a storm, and that's how the main character gets separated from his family?” A quick nod of my head whisked us to our feet to start the long trek. About fifteen minutes of silence “Now I forgot where it takes place but I know it takes place after they get to the barn which should be about.” I look at my watch. “Five minutes ago.” Luna’s face made the sentence worse. It was a mix of disappointment, anger, and denial. “I’m sure we’ll just catch up. They sleep there during the day so we have some time.” That didn’t help. “Why can’t you just look in the book?” I hadn’t told Luna yet but because we were in the book, the book was blank. It’s like the Ghostwriter show, where the book characters get sent to the real world and because they are sent to the real world the book is turned blank, so with that logic, because we’re in the book, it hasn’t been written! “Also How’d you know that they got there five minutes ago?” “It was for a book report. I looked up how fast it takes for a bat to fly, then figured out the time they left, then calculated it. That’s all.” That’s a lie. I don’t know how long ago they got there. Bam! I gave a small laugh and Luna’s face brightened, revealing a toothy grin. “Thunder.” It turns out we were ahead of the barn. The storm was coming in very quickly, Luna decided that we should get shelter to figure out how we were to get home. “I’m putting out there that we do the same thing to get here.” Luna has been trying to turn down this option for a while. “But this isn’t our universe or whatever, it’s probably different!” A streak of light flashes across the leaves of the tree we’re under. 1… 2… 3… I know Luna is doing the same thing in her head. I can’t say four before the thunder sounds. “Three miles. We still have soooo much time.” she remarked, snarkily. Another flash of lightning. 1… and then the thunder. “Maybe not that much time.” “How did it go from three miles to one?” She yelled out, quite possibly nobody. “It’s a book, calm down.” She didn’t. She started pacing around the stump of the tree instead. I decided it would be best to let her calm down, by herself. She walked to the tip of the tree coverage, turned around to look at me, huffed, and then put her hand out. Splosh. “Hand me the book.” She demanded. I wasted no time standing up and giving it to her. “Thank you. Now, grab the book.” I carefully followed her instructions. “Now. Back up out of the tree.” I slowly do so while taking her along with me. “And then.” She holds it up to the sky. I’m short, so I have to stand on my toes to reach it. “Then this happens.” BAM! A flash of light blinds me and I cover my eyes. I can’t feel Luna anywhere around me, and that’s when panic starts to arise. What happened to Luna? What is the light? What’s going on? But then it stopped as abruptly as it started. It’s not raining anymore, and It’s slightly warmer. “Carmen! There you are!” Luna comes up to hug me, it’s warm and feels good, after spending a night in Canada everything is going to be warmer. “Hi, Luna. It’s sooo good to see you.” She laughs at this and starts pulling me along the sidewalk. It seems we’re in the same place we started. “Now. We should get home for supper, it’s probably very late.” We laugh as we walk on the sidewalk, Luna’s never been this much like a friend, or I guess… she always was. “Ooh hey look in there!” Luna points into a coffee shop and looks at a boy in our grade, I’m pretty sure his name is Henry Griff. He was reading a book, like any other person, but it was glowing, like when we were about to go into the book. “Should we be worried?” Luna laughed and replied with a shake of her head. “Nope.” The Magician and the Ghost
By Emma Pun 5/11/23 One of the sisters carried him up the stairs. That he can remember. He was gently set down on a bed tucked in the corner of the tower’s decrepit attic. Murmurs could be heard over his head. The sisters, unaware he was still awake, discussed what to do when morning came and the boy had inevitably stopped breathing. Their voices were hushed and cold, the same as always. But there was an air of desperation in their words. Oh, what to do, what to do? Despite his foolishness, this boy couldn’t possibly deserve what awaited him. He felt the tipping of cold liquid into his mouth. A cold hand brushed his neck, feeling for a pulse. Slowly, the voices flickered out. And then, one by one, footsteps receded down the stairs, until the only noise in the room was the dripping of water and the heavy blanket of cold silence. The boy’s eyes were shut, caked with ash and soot. His ragged inhales and exhales were slowly becoming fewer and fainter. And then the boy was drifting slowly into the starlit sky above. His little soul flew unmoored through the never ending universe. And with a gentle sigh, the world faded to black. The boy awoke in a room he didn’t recognize. The room was as small if not smaller than the garrett he had been left to die in just hours before, and empty of furniture other than the threadbare mattress he lay upon. It was dark and devoid of warmth. Moldering canvas drapes covered the windows, and a draft blew in through the floorboards. The boy sat up hesitantly. And then he remembered. He remembered them, calling his name. He remembered calloused hands, carrying him up the stairs. And he remembered the light, the sickening, terrifying light. And he had died. There was no other explanation. Yet he could no longer hear the roar in his ears or taste the blood in his mouth. He looked down at his hands. Back up again. Was it possible, somehow, that he was alive? He pressed his palms to his frail chest, hoping to feel the impossible. But underneath his hands, there was no telling thump-thump-thump of a heartbeat. He collapsed back onto the mattress. This wasn’t possible. And yet here he was, perfectly alive and perfectly dead all the same. He remembered the warmth from the day before. Did this have something to do with…what had Sister Agatha called it? The magic? He tried to call that same warmth to his fingertips again. It was dangerous of course, but when a ten year old is given that kind of power, it is very hard to refuse delving even deeper into it. Believe me. I would know. Thank the good stars, no heat flew to his fingers this time, and the room remained as stark and somber as before. He sighed. And then he looked to his left. And he yelled. Well, actually, it was more of a shriek. An unearthly being stood, or rather floated, in the corner, silent and unmoving. Had he been there a moment before? The boy didn’t believe it had been. The figure resembled…well, he wasn’t quite sure what. A human? A beast? No. This figure was made of nothing it seemed. That couldn’t be. ‘There is always something,’ Sister Agatha said. But no. This being truly was nothing. Or was it everything? Perhaps the two were the same. Either way, this was impossible. Then again, living without a beating heart is impossible as well. The Being remained still in his corner. The boy looked up at the creature. He cautiously pointed his quivering hand in the figure’s direction. “Who are you?” He enunciated each word carefully as he sized up The Being. The Being cocked his head. If he had an eyebrow, he would have raised it. “I,” he said, looking upon the boy, severe and disapproving. “Am everything.” A look of confusion passed across the boy’s face. “Yes,” he said. “I see.” The Being sighed. “I am life,” he said. “I am death. I am the sky and the stars and everything in between. And I am here for you. Your soul to be precise.” The boy inhaled, and breathed a shaky breath out. Despite this pronouncement, he seemed to have regained a fraction of his calm. He looked towards The Being again. Slowly, he gathered the courage to utter a single word. “Why?” The Being was taken aback, and rightfully so. Never before had a soul been this audacious. This was preposterous. And confusing. And odd. Nonetheless, a part of him was intrigued. “Because,” he said, trying for a lofty tone, and failing abysmally. “You are dead. And that is what I do.” The boy leaned forward now, growing bolder and more curious by the second. “I am dead?” The Being was losing patience. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You are dead.’ The boy grinned. ‘Am I?’ The Being knew the boy was just trying to push his buttons now. What little patience he had left evaporated. Nobody pushed his buttons. The boy had little time to register what came next. The Being surged forward, reaching out, closer and closer. He brushed the boy’s skin, stretching to grasp his arm. And the boy gasped, as an overwhelming sensation of cold burned through his body. his eyes rolled, as he was pulled towards The Being. Light, not unlike what had come from the boy’s own fingertips, moved towards him until it began to dig under his skin and fill his body with a frozen type of heat. The light seemed to be worming through his stomach, cutting down deep into his torso. The pain was almost unbearable. And then it was worse. Burning turned to scorching. He was turned inside out, over and over. He felt his life (death?) seeping from his body. His cries and the light around them converged into a swirling tempest of color and sheer brightness. The Being kept tugging at the boy’s fragile soul, and what little resistance he had left faded into the whirling cloud of burning light around the two. And just as all was seemingly lost, The Being pulled back, having just experienced the strangest sensation himself. The being had felt warmth. For the first time in centuries, the warmth of this boy penetrated his cold shell of nothingness. The boy’s screams were not unlike the screams of the other souls he had reaped, but hidden within them was a deep source of power, threatening to burst forth. The Being scrunched his forehead in consternation. ‘It cannot be,’ he said aloud. The boy doubled over, retching and hacking as The Being paced and muttered. When the boy finally sat up, fear shone in his eyes, having realized the full power of this Nothing Creature. ‘What was that?’ he said, his voice trembling. The Being looked down at the boy once more, this time with kindness rather than contempt. ‘I have made a grave mistake,’ he said. The boy was silent in bewilderment. The Being moved closer. ‘I am so very sorry my boy. You should never have come.’ The boy was petrified under The Creature’s gaze. He didn’t understand, and couldn’t force himself to try. He was absolutely terrified. The Being stretched his hand out. ‘Goodbye,’ he whispered. And then he touched the boy’s temple, and he was drifting again, again through the golden sky. And then, everything was alive. Don’t Look Back
By Emma Pun February 11, 1912 I would like to make one thing clear: I am not a positive person. I don’t focus on the silver lining, or what makes a bad thing “good.” There are better things to do than spend time fussing over the upsides of bad situations. Better to simply push through. Keep your head down, tuck in your shirt, and don’t look back, is practically the family motto, normally spoken in my mustached uncle’s gruff voice. Or it was, the family motto, until the day it all went wrong. The day where everything I knew was swept from under my legs in a blink of an eye and left me without family or a home. Five months to Monday of last week, October 11, 1911. After that day, I became the last of the Falkners, and the only girl in pants, a vest and a cap walking down the street towards the nearby police station. A boy waves a paper in front of me. I push it away and forge on through the piles of late winter slush. The heels of my shoes kick up ash colored ice as the police station comes into view. The grand building looms up above me and casts an ornate shadow on the passerby below. As I climb the steps, I see Ernie, a friend of my father’s lounging against a railing. His potbelly and leisurely grin are familiar from the games of poker played at our old apartment. What he might be doing here though… Generally, loitering near a police station isn’t the wisest decision, but Ernie isn’t exactly known for being wise or for that matter, sober. I give him a quick tentative smile. My lips twist up, and fall down just as quickly. It’s a motion I’m not used to making anymore. Don’t recognize me, don’t draw attention, I say with my eyes as I open the door. I cannot give myself away. “Ester!” He calls, his words somewhat slurred. “What’s going on?” I curse under my breath. As I pass, give him a slight nod, and a look. Don’t talk to me, and don’t you dare call me Ester again if you know what’s good for you. My name is a secret now, just like the rest of my past. I push past the doors and rush into the building. I glance over my shoulder and see him still smiling, but now in bewilderment. I waver, just for a moment, and then force myself to turn away. Don’t look back. I hunch my shoulders inside my vest and hurry along. My fiery determination envelopes my mind as I move quickly through the building. Plenty of people in the building eye me strangely as I push past them. I try to ignore them, brush them off, but I dig my nails into my palms and press my lips together as I climb the stairs. My heart pounds to the same steady rhythm as my footsteps as I make it to the second floor. I turn into a hallway, fairly sure I’m headed the right way. The lead investigator’s door is on the left I remember from the last time I visited. Its smooth polished wood is adorned only with a pane of frosted glass set into it and stylized letters that read, “Chief Investigator Gerson: New York Police Department.” I grab the knob and twist. The room is standard for an office. Papers are strewn about, and the majority of the room is filled with his desk. Dark wood and metal gleams, and the blinds are shut tightly. I slap my palms down on the desk and lean toward the detective. He glances upward from his newspaper, a single eyebrow raised, skeptically. “Ester,” he says. No question. Pure simple fact, cynical and hard. “Yes,” I say. “What brings you here?” “You already know.” He squints at me. “Yes, yes I do,” he says, leaning back in his armchair and setting the paper down. “Just as you know why I cannot share this information with you.” “I have a right to know. It’s my information after all. Just like the money taken by a group you refuse to look into was my money.” His calm and collected demeanor never flickers, never betrays any hint of emotion behind his hard shell of a face. He strokes his mustache. It’s slowly becoming streaked with gray. “You do have the right to know. But you must also be aware of this special situation we are in at the moment. The information you request must remain secret. This was your uncle’s wish.” I take off my cap and remove what’s inside. “What might this mean, then?” The scrap of paper in my uncle’s handwriting flutters onto the desk and lies stationary in between us. His eyes widen, and for once, his even facade slips away. He reaches towards the paper, trancelike, but I jerk it away, and he quickly retracts his hand. “This was my Uncle’s final wish. You know what it says.” “And…when did he give this to you?” he asks quietly, looking at me with his head tilted, like he’s a lion, waiting to pounce. Or perhaps, he thinks me the predator. “June 10, the last day I saw him and my father.” “Of course,” he breathes, finally breaking eye contact. He opens a drawer, and I hold my breath as he removes a thin file with the name Maxwell Falkner on the top. My uncle’s name. “I will share with you this one thing,” he says. “We had suspected that the day of the accident would hold a surprise, but no one knew just what, and no one expected anyone to harm Maxwell or William.” My chest tightens at the names of my uncle and father. “Nor did we expect anything to become as extreme as it did. But what is done is done, and I can say no more than that.” He closes the file cabinet, and I huff. “That’s it?” “I’m sorry.” I pull my cap back on. Burning rage fills my entire body. My hands shake, but I force them into fists at my sides. I blink back hot angry tears at the edge of my eyes, ready to pour down my face any moment. The fire filling me from the inside out threatens to escape, to destroy anything and everything in reach. As I stare into his hard eyes, my fury settles in my throat, turning cold and hard. I plaster on a smile, as blank as the investigator’s expression. “Then I suppose we’re done here.” I turn and stride out the door. MASON: The Survivor
By Zach Brenden “Wha… Who… Where am I?” Mars mumbled aloud as he slowly regained consciousness. He rolled onto his back to find that the air was the closest thing to unbreathable. Mars tried to get to his feet, but winced in moving his left leg, so he had to crawl to a pile of rubble where he could sit down. He thought about what had happened, but alas, couldn’t remember. Should I try to find someone who can help me? Mars thought to himself. Then he looked down at his burned leg. Mars’ green eyes widened. Even if Mars wanted to, he couldn’t walk. Then something shiny caught his eye. He turned to see it closer. It looked like glass. Mars picked it up, examining it carefully, looking at every detail. It was a watch. Mars could tell since it had a lot of buttons on the sides and a metal back for the magnetic charging pad. There was something engraved on the silver backing, a message of some kind. Mars squinted. It was kind of scratched up, but he could almost make out the word “MASON”... Mars’ last name. That’s when it all clicked. “The War” Mars thought. There had been a nuclear war going on for five years now, and where Mars had lived, there were bombing raids every night. Bad memories filled Mars. The ear-piercing noise, the blinding light, the cloud of scorching green smoke, and then silence. Oh, how Mars had hated silence. He hated silence because silence was almost always what came before chaos, destruction. The screaming of his family, the collapse of his house, which had now been reduced to the rubble on which he was sitting. Mars couldn’t take it. He limped into the smoldering forest nearby, but he was quickly winded and fell to his knees about a mile from his old house. This couldn’t have been any good for his asthma. He knew he had to travel in short intervals now that his inhaler was buried deep under his house somewhere. Travel where…? He thought, trying to grasp a sense of direction in order to stop feeling lost in this ghost town that was his home. He leaned against the cleanest tree he could find and tried to fall asleep. He was drifting off, his black hair against the soft bark of the tree when he heard a “Twang!” on the tree to his right. He slowly walked towards it, careful not to make any noise. “Hey!” Yelled a woman in the distant trees. “There it is!” More footsteps. Mars started to break into a choppy run. He didn’t know what he was thinking- there was no way he could outrun these people. At least not with his limp. There were more “twangs” and arrows stuck into trees all around Mars. With each arrow he seemed to be closer and closer to death until he finally tripped and collapsed into a ditch. The last thing Mars could remember was the men picking him up and dragging him up and out of the ditch, beginning to carry him somewhere. And that’s when he passed out. The Toothbrush TP-er
By Max Richman Ring Ring Ring Ring! You get an urgent phone call from Bob Berverly, your local dentist. “Thank you so much for picking up,” he says. “Some teenager just toilet papered my house while I was at work.” “Okay, what’s your address?” you ask calmy. “71 Prosthodontic Lane,” he responded. “Okay, I’ll be on my way,” you respond, hanging up. You arrive at the “crime scene” and it’s worse than you thought; toilet paper covering every square inch with a big red ‘This is what you get for giving out toothbrushes on Halloween’ spray painted on the wall. “As you can see, my house is pretty isolated,” Bob said “I don’t like many visitors.” “Has anyone been near your house since you came home?” you inquire. “No one, besides my mom who came over to clean up, why?” Bob asked. “Well, I’m trying to collect as much information as possible. Anyway, who do you suspect?” you ask, getting to business. “Rick, Joe, and Simon. Those little buggers were the only ones that came to my house and they asked for candy. Even when I gave them perfectly good toothbrushes, for free, I may add, they glared at me like I ruined their whole stinkin’ holiday!” “Calm down, Mr. Berverly,” you say reassuringly. “Anyway, they all go to the Southford Academy Middle School. So if you take them during recess,” he said saying recess with a hint of disgust, “then you and I could interview them.” “Okay great,” you say. “I used to go there.” It is Sunday so you say goodbye to him and wait until tomorrow. On Monday morning you get up bright and early, and at noon you go over to Southford Academy Middle School. You notice how different it looks. You see Bob Berverly walking towards the school, and say hello to him. “So which ones are Rick, Joe, and Simon?” He points to a group of teenagers with bored expressions on their faces. You walk up to them. “Hello, you must be Rick, Joe, and Simon.” At first they just stared at you confused. Then Joe says dryly, “Oh, you’re the guy who our teacher told us was going to have meeting with us.” You try to get to know them but Bob Berverly, eager to get to the point, says,“One of you toilet papered my house.” They instantly burst into laughter. “It’s serious,” you say, “if one of you is proven guilty you could be fined for vandalism.” That shuts them up. You decide to describe what you saw. “There was toilet paper everywhere and the words ‘This is what you get for giving out toothbrushes on Halloween’ were spray painted on the wall.” They get a smug look on their faces. “Really, how long did it take you to clean that up, five minutes?” Simon snapped. “Seriously, red spray paint washes up instantly” Joe remarked. “I know,right!” Rick responded. They all burst out laughing. “Seriously dude, why did you give out toothbrushes for Halloween?” Rick asked. “That was just dumb.” After a few minutes you decide to drop your act and remark “I know what’ll wipe that smug look of your face, I know who is guilty!” Who’s guilty and how do you know? Answer: You noticed that the spray painted message was in red and that no one was near Bob Berverly’s house when it was TP-ed. So when Joe said that “red paint washes off easily” and you didn’t say it was red. You tell the police and Joe family is fined $100. He comes back to a very unhappy mom. The End. Smiles of Red
By L.L. I fix my eyes on the dancing specks of sunlight shimmering on the baby blue wall across from my bed. They flicker back and forth, here and there, golden gems just beyond my reach. They scamper carelessly over the wrinkled bedsheets, nearly lost in the folds, dancing and laughing. Leering. Teasing. Jeering. I watch them intently, the little golden irises squinting at me from under their canopy of beauty, their blanket of deception. I see their judgement. Their disapproval. Their hatred. Their scrutiny. I look away, slowly, carefully, and I turn my head so that the yellow sparks burn their distaste into the back of my neck instead of into my face. I can still hear their twinkling voices as I focus my eyes on the mirror above my bed. It is small and cheap, with rough glass and a plastic frame. But it is enough. I stare longingly into my dull gray eyes, searching for a hint of something sparkly, mystical, beautiful. But I see only gray. I sigh sadly as I observe the dull stoniness of what should be the windows to a beautiful, shining soul. I have long since wished to replace those windows, those matted glass panes, those rusted gems. I recall the countless times I have sat here, in this very spot, imagining a glistening blue river flowing around my pupils, roaring with life. But even after all that wishing, all that hoping, all I see is gray. I run my fingers over my pale, thin lips and across the crooked bridge of my large nose, staring blindly at my skin, stained with brown marks of stress and sun. My hands travel up to my forehead, creased prematurely and marked with freckles. I comb my fingers through my thin blond hair. I pinch a stringy lock between my thumb and forefinger, pulling at it, frustrated. A sigh escapes my lips, my breath vocalizing my defeat and spewing it into the air in front of me. But the air compresses around my voice, making it wither until it is nothing but a dead leaf in the wind, wavering at the slightest movement, crumbling at the slightest touch. My despair is lost in forgotten in the rays of sunlight and the patches of shadow. I open the polished wood drawer of my dresser, peering at the neat rows of red tubes and black bottles. I reach for a small plastic disc filled with white powder at the center of the drawer. I hold between my fingers a fluffy black brush, the bristles browned at the ends from constant use. I swirl it around in the powder and brush it across my face. I paint over the anxiety and the pain, the strain and the stress. My brush smoothes out all unwanted marks and imperfections, painting over my nose and my cheeks. My face shines with glossy perfection, but only on the surface. Under the powder, I can still feel the freckles and the pimples burning holes in my skull. I brush my lashes with black until they are long and luxurious. I rub turquoise into my eyelids and red into my cheeks. The canvas of my face, pockmarked and discolored, is now a work of art. Beauty is forced upon my dull features and elegance is painted onto my skin. The painting becomes more and more elaborate, less and less familiar. Finally, I slather my lips with crimson and gloss them to perfection. They shine in the morning light as I look over my face and observe my masterpiece. My eyelids sparkle as I turn my head and my cheeks glow like roses at twilight. I admire my work without satisfaction. With a little bit of work, I can make my skin glow like porcelain, my hair shimmer like the surface of the sea. I can make my whole body in the image of Aphrodite herself. But there is always something missing. I throw my handbag over my shoulder and tie my hair into a loose ponytail. My hair falls across my chest as I pull it over my shoulder, perfectly in place. I push open the door to my bedroom, and step into the hallway with a fake red smile painted on my lips. Ghosts
By L.L. I am trapped in a dense forest of curling vines. The sun dapples through the leafy canopy, shining its yellow light on my blond head. I take no notice, and shiver despite the warmth. Goosebumps run up my arms, from my wrists to my shoulders as I step quietly through the ferns. The wildflowers bloom beside the path, clovers and buttercups. Morning dew covers them all, coating the forest with a pearly sheen. But still I take no heed. I continue on my way up the path, wandering mindlessly through the woods. I am lost in a stormcloud of thought. My mind swirls with an unseen wind, until I can no longer tell up from down or left from right. It feels proper to put my body where my mind is. In a dense maze of leafy regrets, blooming hopes, and dappled worries. Surrounded by golden sunlight, but trapped in a blackened cocoon. I touch my shoulder, feeling the hands of the ghosts gently caressing my thin, dull hair. They are not the ghosts of a lost mother or an estranged father. They are not the last siver memories of a grandparent, wisps of joy. They are not the ghosts of a best friend, lost to a tragic accident, but rather the ghosts of me. They are all my ghosts. The figure before me, colorful, but fading with age, is my child. My playful innocence, the little girl curled in her mother’s arms, begging for another bedtime story and a goodnight kiss. The little girl who would fly her kite into a tree, where it would stay until her older sister climbed up to pull it out. She is the least familiar now, a wisp of smoke in the distance. A short, thin child bounces behind me, speaking with her unseen friends. I smile back at her bobbing form, and she lifts her gleaming eyes to look at me. Holding her hand on my back, a careful figure gently glides behind me, her hair brushing my shoulder like a compassionate breath of wind. Passionate children whisper around me, flickering as I desperately reach out to them. The girl walking beside me, with her solemn face, wraps her hand in mine. She is a young, yet ancient soul, whose shoulder’s are crushed under the weight of a thousand books. She walks, slumped, dragging her feet. She cries quietly every night, her face buried in her pillow. Her mother tries to comfort her, but she turns her head away and rejects the warmth. Her eyes are rimmed with red, and she looks down at the path as her cold hand hangs limply in mine. I tug her along. I am her only guidance. This is the soul I wish to part from the most, but no matter how hard I tug, her hand stays frozen in mine. As I grasp urgently at the laughing, flickering forms floating about me, the small, thin hand stays firm. As the other ghosts disappear, I look, pleading, at the sad little girl to my right. Her eyes are pools of ice, dark and empty, boring into my soul. Her arms are thin and shaking. I can feel them trembling in my bones as she shakes her sad, little head no, damp bangs falling into her eyes. So I continue slowly on, kicking up brown, rotten leaves into the wind, her icy hand forever pinned to mine. Corn and Beads
By L.L. I stroll down the crowded streets, my feet bare, my thin body covered by a white piece of cloth. I walk into a narrow alley. The tan brick walls seem to close in around me. On the curb sits an expectant mother, whispering sad songs to the three young children sitting beside her. A single note cuts through the everyday bustle, loud and clear. An old man leans against the wall, holding a wooden flute. He blows again before slowly lowering his flute and bowing his head. I shuffle on, emerging into the marketplace. I set my handmade beaded bracelets on the curb and sit down next to them. I pull the corn cakes out of my basket, spreading a cloth on the sidewalk and placing the cakes on its surface. I watch as people go by, calling out occasionally to the crowd. “Seven rupees for a corn cake! Ten for a bracelet!” I yell. A young women, probably no older than fifteen, turns to me. She has a round, dark face, and wavy black hair cut off just above the shoulders. She hands me seven rupees, and I give her a corn cake. She walks away without a word. I sit there for a while, daydreaming. I think about what it would be like to live in another world, another country. When I turn sixteen, when I get married to my wife, I can take my family to a better place. Yes, I think, my eyes turning bright. I will find a way to get out of India. I am shaken out of my daydream as bony fingers grasp my arm, nearly causing me to fall over backward. an old lady bends down next to me, her hands wrapped tightly around my bicep. “Boy,” she croaks, her graying hair falling over her eyes. “Do not think like that. I know what you dream of. I tried it too, but these days they are no better off than we are. Keep your head, boy, or you may just lose it.” The woman turns away, hobbling across the cobblestone street. I rub my arm, quivering. She couldn’t be right. She was just another superstitious elder who didn’t know what she was talking about. I got up and paced back and forth. Maybe America isn’t doing so well these days. It has just as many economic problems as we do. But they do have something we don’t, I realize, as I look over the subdued crowd. They have hope. They have a purpose in life. I pack my belongings back into my basket. I stroll past another vendor, where a rich man sells milk for two hundred rupees. My head droops as I realize that I don’t even have enough money to buy a proper drink. How will I ever get to America if I can’t even buy milk? I sigh wistfully, and push my daydreams to the back of my head. I would never get to America. I was crazy to think I could. My feet clomp on the stone street. Why do I even keep moving forward? I wonder. I don’t have anything to hold on to. I serve no purpose in life. And so, as the sun sets over the city, spraying haunting streaks of gold into the pale pink sky, I lose my will to live. Silent Screams
By L.L. A wail pierces through the foggy morning air, accompanied by a terrible grinding sound. It travels towards me in wisps, waxing and waning, until it dies down to a slow whine. I wince, my brown eyes squinting as the noise disappears. I roll up my window to block out any more potential sounds. I turn on the radio, my hands trembling as I reach for the metal knob. I press it, and the air in front of me begins to shimmer. It slowly fades from translucent to opaque, and a large face appears in front of me. The jaw is square and the hair is swept back neatly over the firm skalp. The face begins to speak, looking directly into my eyes. “Welcome back to You Think You Can Cook!” says the face in a deep, smooth voice. “My name is Brian Hoover, and this is the special weekday addition. Today, we have with us a special guest. Let me introduce Linda, the famous Bulgarian chef!” A round of applause bursts from the radio as I jab desperately at the button. The air in front of me fades into its usual transparent state, exploding in bursts of color when the next channel pops up. “Welcome to-” “My name is-” “The weather-” Finally I reach the right station. I sit back in my chair as a slender female face materializes in front of me. Her hair is black, like the wall behind her. She wears a grim expression on her face, and her brown eyes are sad. “The ultimate countdown,” she begins, “is nearly complete. As of right now, there are one hundred other species living on this planet. They decrease as I speak. Some of these survivors include the German Shepherd Dog, the Silkie Chicken, and the Pot-Bellied Pig. Yesterday the Blue Whale, the Tabby Cat, the Boer Goat, and the Catfish went extinct. What will go today?” The radio voice is suddenly drowned out as a blood-curdling scream fills my ears. Behind me sits a large brown spider, its body contorted with pain. It twists and untwists its body, like a washcloth being ringed out and separated from all light, happiness, and life. Like a small child with no food and no water and no will to live. Like a sad puppy ripped from its mother, lost in the dark hopeless alleys of its mind and the deep cavern of its heart. The chip in my brain converts the sound, making it loud, clear, and terribly realistic. The spider’s scaly legs flail as I lift my hand and close my eyes, tears welling up between my eyelids as I bring my hand down on the animal. Everything becomes still. This was a terrible idea, I think. I thought that getting the chip would help me understand, but all it brings me is more pain and misery. I sit back and sigh. The environmentalists were wrong. The new technology will not change our minds or our style of life. All it will do is allow us to listen as we kill off everything else on Earth. We will listen as we destroy our food and our homes. We will listen as the sound becomes quieter and quieter, less and less, until there is nothing left to listen to. And then we will be truly alone. The Case of the Acting Assassin
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