SHORT STORY: "The Confession of Mr. Klein" By Emily Waters

“The Confession of Mr. Klein”

By Emily Waters

January 15, 10:43 P.M, Deplim’s Mental Asylum         

            Rosemary shook her head and Dan grimaced. “He’s not making any progress. He won’t tell us a single thing about the night,” she said.

            Lilly sighed loudly and I peered through the single window that looked over the white-walled room.

            “Does he appear to be decreasing in progress or staying the same?” commented Riley, the head of the research. Rosemary shook her head.

            “I really have no clue. It seems like he’s rotting in his own mind, the memory of the night is making him go… insane.”

SHORT STORY: "Trippy Testing" by Glacys Agustin

"Trippy Testing"

By Glacys Agustin

For the past twelve years, I've been attending a boarding school that trains children to be in international espionage. I'm not allowed to tell you much about it, or I could disappear. I'm not exactly sure what happens to someone when they leak classified information, but I'm pretty sure that if I did that, they simply wouldn't expel me. There would be a more severe punishment. 

What I can tell you is that I've been living at the school since I was three. My parents don't stay home a lot- One, because my dad is kind of... well... dead. And two, because my mom is always out of the country. I don't know what she's doing. In fact, even if I did, I probably wouldn't be able to tell you. She calls me for video chats every other weekend. Otherwise, I don't see much of her. It's okay. I'm not really dependent on her, I've been raised to be the exact opposite. It's still nice to know I have a mother that checks in with me every now and then. Some kids here don't have parents. Others have them, but might as well not, since they never see them or anything. 

Anyway, the end of my twelfth term was coming to a close and it was time to see if I was ready to get into the field. It was time for the test. The test was actually a series of tests that take place inside a test itself. A test of concentration and our willpower. I've heard several things about the testing room. The stories alone made me nervous.

SHORT STORY: "Expected Endings" By Joshua Merchant

“Expected Endings”’

By Joshua Merchant

            I expected the phone call from my Papa. I didn’t ever want it to come, especially not this soon, but I knew it would. We knew she was sick, very sick. Momma said she was going to die soon, but that it was too complicated for me to understand. Every time I asked her to explain, all she would say was that Nanny was so sick that she was going to go to Heaven soon.

SHORT STORY: "Bubblegum Wrappers" By Joshua Merchant

"Bubblegum Wrappers"

By Joshua Merchant

            I walk, nonstop, along the side of this infinite highway. It’s just what I do, I know of nothing else. I have no friends, I have no family, for they all gave up on me a long time ago. All I’ve ever been good at is walking, so it’s what I do. Do I know where I’m going? No. Do I know if I will even make it to my destination? I most likely won’t. But what else do I have? I have nothing but this long stretch of endless Arizona highway.

SHORT STORY: "The Gentleman" By David Enicks

"The Ill-witted Gentleman"

By David Enicks

                "Yeh, we get around," Brian muttered, glaring at the cop rifling through the various trinkets, books, and other strange ornaments on Brians bookshelf.

            "That's nice, Brian. You know, I really like you. I hope we can make this nice and easy," said the cop. "That is, so long as you don't have anything to hide." The cop turned his head slightly and eyed Brian.

            "Nope, nuttin' I aware of," Brian said. The cop turned back to the bookshelf. Brian gripped a switchblade in his pocket and continued glaring at the cop.

            "You sure?" The cop said.

            "Positive."

            "You see, we've heard some complaints about loud noises, foul smells, and otherwise suspicious activity. This is all centered around your house, Brian, and-"

            "I ain't smell nothin."

            "-and we take very serious concern to this, Brian, because we care about you. Now get this, Brian: we did a little research and found out that the file for 'Brian McClellan' didn't exist until around ten years ago. How old are you?"

            "Twenny-sevuh," Brian said.

            "The file says 31." Brian gulped.

            "Das what I meant." The cop breathed loudly.

            "Ever hear the name Edward Cello?" He said.

            "Can't say I have." Brians eyebrows came closer together.

            "He was a famous criminal. Also known as 'The Gentleman'?"

            "Aw, yeh, I know, I know."

            "You see, this guy- real dummy- was a criminal at only age seventeen. Real queer kid. He had this obsession with strange, eccentric items. Kind of like what you have here, Brian."

            "Yeh." Brian pulled the switchblade from his pocket and held it behind him.

            "What?

            "I said yeah."

            "Well  anyway, the guy- like I said, an idiot- ended up giving away where he lived by- get this- calling one of our snitches from his home phone. How dumb is that, huh?" The cop turned around and smiled.

            "I guess he couldn't have known. Oney seventeen, I think that kid was pretty smart, to get so famous, you know?"

            "Yeah, seventeen," the cop said. "Well, anyway, stupid kid disappeared ten years ago when he realized what he'd done."

            "Stop callin' him stupid," Brian said.

            "He was a teenage criminal," the cop said.

            "He was gifted! Nobody understands, is all."

            "What do you mean?"

            "The cops are the ones that can't catch a goddamn seventeen year old. Either he's a genius or the cops are dumbasses."

            "You have a problem?" the cop said. His face said that whether or not he did it didn't matter. Brian began to sweat. Did the cop know? He opened the blade.

            "Naw, naw, it's just... childhood memories, you know? I guess I feel for him. Whatever happen'd tuh the guy?"

            "We think we found him. We can't be sure, though."

            " Yeah, ne'er can be, these days," Brian said.

            "So you remember the guy?" the cop asked.

            "Yeh, yeh. Genius."

            "I don't know, it seems like he's just making the same mistakes over and over again."

            "Maybe he wants you to find him." Brian said.

            "That's a curious way to look at it. What makes you say that?" Now the cop was sweating.

            "I don't think a guy that smart would let you find him unless he wanted to be found."

            "You sound different."

            "I'm smarter than people think, David Strey."

            "How do you know my name?" the cop said. Brian smiled. "Ha ha, well it's been nice talking to you Edwa- I mean Brian, it really has, I see nothing wrong here, we're all good, isn't that right?"

            "Sure is, Dave. Bye." The cop walked through the porch and climbed into his little black car. He reached for the ignition. He stopped and looked back at the house. Brian stood at the window, watching and grinning. He waved. David grimaced in fear and again gripped the key. Brian's smile grew wider. David clenched his eyes, and when he turned the keys...

            Bang! The car rumbled to life. David gasped for breath. Brian was laughing through the window. And for the first time in a long time, David was scared. He did not know who he was dealing with. He started for the station.

            He grabbed his walkie-talkie. Man, they are gonna shit themselves when they hear this, he thought. He was gripping the wheel so hard that his knuckles were white. He was driving past the speed limit. "Hey, Strey reporting back from Brian McClellan's place," he said into the radio.

            "Gotcha Dave, what's up?"

            "He's our guy. Hold on, I'm about to pull in to the lot-" Dave pulled into the department. Another officer approached his window.

            "He's our guy? Really?" the officer said.

            "Yeah, man, you guys are gonna' s*** yourselves when I tell you what just happen-"

            The car exploded.

SHORT STORY: "Tropic Sadness" by Shanice Skyers

"Tropic Sadness"
By Shanice Skyers 



              It’s a Saturday morning and the sun is shining through the windows that have been worn and swollen from the hurricane that finally past on last week. The hurricane was brutal, and I was scared that the windows would crack or the door would be ripped angrily from its crusty hinges, but it didn’t, and I was thankful that even though the hurricane had uprooted all the trees in my neighborhood, disconnected all the cable wires, and sent the rooftops of small zinc houses flying in the wind and rendering some homeless, my house was left mostly unharmed. The minor damages suffered a small crack could be seen now through the ugly brown swollen windows.
            The sunlight through the window is aggressive and refuses to set me free from the captivity of its assault on my eyes. This effort by the sun is successful as I sluggishly sit up in my bed. The first thing that catches my eye is the outfit my mother has chosen for me, which consists of a brown colored Capri and a green and white polka dotted top, that exudes youth and happiness. I scowl at this outfit, arose, then walk to the door where I knew I would find my mother pinning the clothes on the line she had just finished washing.
            “Shanice!” my mother called “get yourself out of bed, it’s your birthday so you have to get up and thank the Lord for the beautiful day, plus your party is this afternoon,” mother exclaimed.

I rolled my eyes, Ma has always been excited enough for both of us on past birthday’s but this time, I think my excitement nearly matches hers, but not quite.

            “If you don’t get up, I’m going to throw a bucket of cold water on you,” mother declared, I snort of course; she would use threats if I didn’t comply.
            I opened the also swollen wooden door with a firm pull and this proved useless as the door refused to move, I pulled again determined to see my mother, for I knew she would be happy, because my father was due home today from Guantanamo Bay for my birthday. After this effort the door finally swings open to reveal the bright, hot Jamaican morning I have become too used to. The sun hurts my unaccustomed eyes and I blinked rapidly waiting for them to become comfortable. When they grew accustomed I opened my eyes to the beauty now set before me, three butterflies were flying in a group, they all shared the common color of yellow but the biggest one had black spots snaking around its wings and the others had blue outlining around each wing, they looked spectacular as then flew together, as a family, and I imagined them having normal human conversations as they flew by and busily landed on various trees and flowers. I imagined they talked about common things, like what flower the like best, or the latest gossip regarding the new cocoon, and what the butterfly may look like.

SHORT STORY: "The Moral Death of Regal Sloan on a Neon City Night" By David Enicks

"The Moral Death of Regal Sloan on a Neon City Night"
By David Enicks

The rain fell in waves that illuminated the air around the innumerable neon signs and blanketed the city with a reflection of the night sky. It added a gentle static to the murmur of the crowd and busy street-shops and sheltered bazaars below. The air smelled of smoke and electricity and stung with a bitter cold. From the rooftops, one could get a view of the nighttime sky by both looking up or at its mirror image in the city streets; and could see the lights of the city by its reflection in the rainy nighttime air.
Regal Sloan was atop one of these rooftops, but he was not there for the view. He was there, in the wind and rain and cold, for business. He looked at his watch. 12:50.
Regal was a very average looking man- almost six feet, with short, black hair that hung just above the eyebrows, and a gut that protruded from the rest of his body. Money was his priority, and was one of the few things that he applied value to. Even the loss of human life, he found, could be justified by the exchange of monetary objects.
Nothing was personal.
Three years back, he had undergone a mid-life crisis of sorts. His wife suffered from dementia, her mother was dying from Alzheimer's disease, his own mother had been addicted to drugs, and his children were showing signs of depression. This simply would not do. Regal had a business to run.
He could not do much because his ever-growing wealth had created an ever-growing gap between himself and the rest of his family. When he realized that they were becoming a problem, he tried to help them by moving a bit of money around from his company to them.
He was charged with fraud.
Regal Sloan, president of Sloan's Neon Advertising and Appliances, was given a 14-year prison sentence.
After three years there he had come into contact with a man called Clear. He was well-built, not to heavy nor too thin. He was blonde, and wore a tight black shirt and spectacles. He looked very business-like.
Clear told Regal that he, in collaboration with Mrs. Sloan, had secured both the company and the family. He made it very clear that he was in control. He said, that in exchange for Regal's participation in the murder of four people, he would sneak Sloan out of jail, and return to him his company. His family, too.
When Clear said this, Regal wasn't listening. When he finished, Regal said:
'How much money will be there for me when I return?'
'Oh, don't worry, sir, very, very much. You will meet with your victims next Wednesday, on the roof of Abbeyson's Automobiles at approximately 12:50. A revolver will be provided for you.'

And so the deal was struck. Here, in the rain and wind and cold, was Regal Sloan, about to murder four people, and be given back all of his money. And his family, too.
He nearly forgot.
He checked his watch: 12: 53. He heard the clank of sole against metal, and in the mist of the heavy rain he could see the faint outline of a person. Regal covered his face behind his collar and sputtered, "Clear?! What's happening?"
"Your gun is under the garbage can," said the figure. It was very difficult to hear, and Sloan's vision was becoming blurred. Whoever it was, it was not Clear.
Regal found his gun and cocked it. He had fired a gun once, as a child, at his grandfather’s farm. He had been very good at it. He shot clay disks with his grandfather.
The red door leading down into the building blasted open, and Regal stumbled. He dropped his gun. He could not see; he was drenched in rainwater. Out of the door came a figure. It ran to Sloan, its arms were held wide open.
Regal’s eyes were wild, his mouth was sputtering and gaping, and he was trying to get a grip on the weapon. He held it up with a shaking hesitancy and fired. The body fell and slid across the ground. Regal let  out a breath, and it joined the smoke of gunfire and drifted away.
The other three people emerged, looked at the body, and froze. Regal would have cringed, but people die every day, he realized. What really mattered was the business. People depended on his company. He wanted his money back!
He fired again. Another figure fell. The other two figures were quite short. He shot one, and the other slipped and fell. Regal got up, dripping water, and limped over to the figure. He looked down, and saw the face of his son. His eyes wide with fear, the boy stumbled up, and tried to run away. He slipped and hit his head.
Regal grunted. He looked down at his hands, and then at the bodies. He ran to the other one. it was his wife's mother. He looked next to her. His other son. He limped over to the body of the person that ran at him. It was his own mother. He looked, then, at the figure who gave him the gun. The figure yelled at him.
"You get your riches now, Regal! They're all yours! That's all you ever cared about!" The figure came closer. "People die every day, right? People depend on you, right?" The voice was getting  louder, and the figure closer. The rain and the nighttime blinded Sloan. "You want your money!" The figure was Sloan's wife. Her face materialized out of the rain, and in front of his own. It was grim.
"You've got what you want, asshole." She grabbed his hand, pulled the gun to her chest, and fired. She fell, and tainted the reflection of the starlit sky and the neon lights with crimson.
"I'm sorry, Sloan. I had no choice, it's my job. I... I do things other people won't do." Sloan looked down at his hands. They were wet. He looked up at the voice. It was Clear.
"Its fine. All in the name of business, eh?"
"Um."
"I was just curious- how much money did you say I get again?"

POETRY: "The Beauty of Your Words" By Joshua Merchant

"The Beauty of Your Words"

By Joshua Merchant

Your looks are beyond comparison to any other.

Your smile draws out the happiness hidden within me.

Your eyes are a portal whose beautiful shade of blue

brings me to a place I like to call Euphoria.

But your words sing to me a sweet song of ecstasy.

POETRY: "Reminiscence of a Machine" By David Enicks

"Reminiscence of a Machine"

By david enicks 

When I was a young man,

I had legs for running and jumping.

When I was a young man,

I had hands for holding and touching.

When I turned 18,

they drafted me into the army.

When I turned 18

they took me away from my family.

As I got older,

I used my hands and legs for different things.

As I got older,

I used them for punching, kicking, and killing things.

After a few years there,

I forgot how to use my hands for playing.

After a few years there, I had become a killing machine.

By the time it was over,

they had taken my hands and feet.

By the time it was over

I had been nothing but a breathing hunk of meat.

Now I am an old man,

a rusty, broken killing machine.

Now I am an old man

and I watch as they turn my kids into the same thing.

 (c)davidenicks|2013

POETRY: "For the Flying Eagle" by David Enicks

"For the Flying Eagle"

By david enicks

All around, tears are heard

shed for the dying people.

All around, cheers are heard

sang for the flying eagle.

A wooden fence splitting the sounds,

one side with party and drink and joy

one side with bodies falling down

very few know it is all a ploy

The leaders, the generals

they neither sing nor cry

they just watch, seeing the falls

watching the people die

With an eagle disguise,

they hover above

giving men their knives

while the men cry 'enough'

and then the 'eagle' replies,

you are fighting for freedom

it is fine if you die

and so to battle they do run.

For the flying eagle.

(c)david enicks|2013

POETRY: "My New Beginning" By Joshua Merchant

"My New Beginning"

By Joshua Merchant

Most fear the concept of death, but not me.

Most shudder at the thought of eternal slumber,

yet, these are the thoughts that ease my mind.

The constant rhythmic beat of your pulse,

ticking like the watch of life, until, finally,

the watch just comes to a stop.

SHORT STORY: "Frozen Nights" By Zachary Velarde

 "Frozen Nights

By Zachary Velarde

 

            All was silent in the public park of Chicago, Illinois, on January 7th, 2004. The sun had set and the moon had rose and now hung in the sky, projecting its faint light for all to gaze in awe of. The snow had fallen already and it left the park covered in a fresh layer of snow, the type of fresh that was only found in zones without human contact. The park had many trails the led through it and a giant park near the end. the park had many all the average equipment; a seesaw, a swing set, some chairs, a bike rack, a play ground with mulch flooring. The only sound that could be hear, as faint as it was, was the shivering of the young boy who sat alone on the seesaw.


SHORT STORY: "Behind a Broken Smile" by Glacys Agustin

"Behind a Broken Smile"

By Glacys Agustin

As Adam rode down the sidewalk, his palms began to sweat in nervous anticipation. He hadn't been to Blue Star Book Shoppe in months, and since what happened had happened, he felt that now was the time to go. The coffee bean brown gable came into sight and Adam slowed his bike down to a stop. Staring at the happy cursive lettering on the sign, he leaned his bike against the stucco wall. Calm down, he told himself.

He wasn't really sure why he was so anxious. It wasn't like he was about to undergo a task where he could possibly crack under pressure. Adam lifted the hat off of his head and ran his fingers through his dark brown curls. It's because this is my first time here... without her. The beating of his heart was like the loud pulsing tempo of a bass drum. He set the hat back on his head and opened the heavy wooden door to the book store.

POETRY: "The Poor Frog" By Zachary Velarde

"The Poor Frog"
By Zachary Velarde

All morn the poor frog!
For he has lived through torture!

SHORT STORY: "Cold Days" By Zachary Velarde

“Cold Days”

By Zachary Velarde

                It was another windy winter morning in downtown Chicago. The grass was covered in a layer of frost that made the once green patches, a frozen brown. The sun hit the Sears Tower perfectly; a shining example of how Chicago was America’s architecture king. Traffic was already piling as people rushed around heading to whatever destination they had in mind. One such person, or rather two persons, were traveling towards the Sheraton Chicago Hotel, one smiling gleefully, her dream only a few blocks away, the other silently fuming as she twisted words in her mind to try and make her target hurt as much as possible.

POETRY: "The Kids" by Glacys Agustin

“The Kids”

By Glacys Agustin

This one’s for the kids who have it made-

The rich kids, the popular kids.

The one whose father is a CEO,

The one whose mother is a movie star.

The A-Listers and hotshots

Who were born in the spotlight.

This one’s for the kids who’ve lost their way-

The outcasts, the misfits.

To the ones who’ve fallen far from grace;

to the ones who think they’re far too flawed

for this world, let alone heaven.

SHORT STORY: "Aging True Distress" by Shanice Skyers

"Aging True Distress"
By Shanice Skyers

     ‘Welcome to Aging True’ the sign read, the building looked appealing, but of course there must be some positive aspect to this building of the soon dead. The building was located in the middle of the nowhere, with rich green grass, an automatic gate and a gushing water fountain that highlighted the light blue paint on the well manicured walls and clean reflective glass.
     "See Jeanie, this place isn't so bad, your grandmother would love it here; look how pretty the building is and how nice the people look," Claire commented as the greeters approached them with perfect, plastic smiles.
     "Ma I don't think we should leave Grandma here, this place creeps me out, first it's in the middle of nowhere, and second, I don't like the way those people are always smiling; It looks superficial, as if it took years of practice," Jeanie said.
     "Oh don't be ridiculous, this place is top notch and your grandmother is going to love it here, she has to love it here, because your father doesn't want her living with us anymore, he said it's either us or her, and frankly we need a place to live," Claire said.
     "He's not my father, he's your husband and..."
     “Welcome to Aging True, where the elderly are treasured and loved,” interrupted the owner, Mrs. Tanya Parks, as she outstretched her hand. She of course approached with a smile, but hers seemed more rehearsed, more believable. She wore a dark blue suit that accentuated her dark blue eyes and a sleek bun that exuded professionalism.
     “Thank you it’s a pleasure to be here, I’ve heard that ‘Aging True’ is one of the finest facilities in Ocala, Florida for the elderly,” Claire said
     “I’m sure you have, each day we work to maintain that reputation. I hope you choose to retire your loved one at Aging True, because we truly do look after them to the best of our abilities, with all our nurses and doctors being certified and trained to excellence. Well come inside and look around,” Mrs. Parks said.
     Jeanie and her mother Claire followed the woman as she walked uniformly towards the beautiful building.
     The inside tried harder to feel welcoming: the floors were spotless; the employees had fake, polished, smiles at all times and spoke to each elder in hushed condescending tones. Aging True seemed to be the home away from home, but then there was the ghastly look each person wore. Each look told bitter stories of regret, it seemed as though each was waiting for death and was disappointed with the fact that, each morning as they woke, death seemed so close, but, yet so far away.

POETRY: "Over and Over and Over" by Glacys Agustin

"Over and Over and Over"

By Glacys Agustin

"I promise. I really mean it this time."

You might as well be brandishing a knife,

telling me you're not dangerous.

Don't you think I know by now?

What are you?

A broken record?

A residual haunting?

No.

More like a serial murderer.

POETRY: "Ocean Eyes" By Christina Adepoju

 “Ocean Eyes” 
 By Christina Adepoju                                                            

                          

She says she doesn’t want to love anymore,

the pain is too much to bear.

I sit by her side and ask her why,

her mind drifts off, forgetting what was asked

But instead remembers the horrible memories of her past.

SHORT STORY: "Unlucky" By Christina Adepoju

  “Unlucky"

By Christina Adepoju

            At exactly 8:25am,  the school bell rang ,the sound of a death bell sounded through the hallways as the students sluggishly made their way to the auditorium to test for the next 3 ½ hours. Somewhere among the huge crowds of sophomores, Carlie and Shane managed to somehow find their way through the clump, making their way to the front of the massive group.

“Oh my gosh, how long is this going to take? Carlie exclaimed. “If people would just MOVE their feet instead of walking like penguins, then all of us would be able to get inside and take the stupid AP exam. Gosh, I can’t even breathe with all these people rubbing their skin against me.”

The shoving, the pushing and the clamoring were really irritating to Carlie and she found it annoying, but Shane found it amusing to poke fun at her claustrophobia.

“Wow, Carlie! It’s not even that bad,” he said. “Stop overacting over the slightest things, it’s not that big of a deal.”

 Carlie rolled her eyes and pretended to ignore him for the time-being. The administrators finally came around and opened the double doors, kind of like how a zoo-keeper opens a cage to capture the animals. As they walked in through the doors, the school administrators and proctors handed each of the students a chiseled, wooden # 2 pencil, a scantron, and the AP test booklet.  The fear in each and every one of those students began to arise as they received their materials, and made their way to their assigned desk, prepared to take the exam of their life. The administrators thought it would be encouraging if they posted posters with quotes like “ACE THAT EXAM” or “YOU can do it” as a way to “boost the students confidence in the exam.” It was nice of them, but it didn’t calm their nerves down.  It was funny to see how easily people got lost trying to look for the seat, because they went by alphabetical order. They were running like chickens without their heads.  Carlie was able to find her seat within no time, while Shane was walking around with a bunch of other students like little lost children, trying to find their way. Everything was awful in the auditorium; they gave the students broken chairs to sit on, where the back of it was broken into pieces, piercing through the student’s back as they sat back. Carlie was playing around, fiddling with her pencil and playing on the table while waiting for the administrators to give the instructions, when she felt something stick and gooey under her fingertips.

When she removed her fingers from under the table, she saw a huge, moldy, sticky wad of watermelon-scented gum. The contents of the gum were now stuck under her fingernails, and she could see the teeth indents in the gum from the person who chewed it, and left it so graciously under the table, as she tried to peel it off with the top of her eraser.

            Shane was able to locate his seat after wandering for about two minutes. His seat was directly across from Carlie, and started scribbling little notes on the desk as he waited.

            “Good luck, you’re going to do great,” he said in a whisper as he gave a thumbs-up.

POETRY: "Mirrors" by Erin Burrows

"Mirrors"
by Erin Burrows

She had the faith in her heart.
Faiths. Both of them.
The one bursting with love to do anything for Him,
because even so small, she knew her mission in life.
But somewhere along the way, her smile got chips because she realized
that maybe she put her trust in the wrong people.

SHORT STORY: "How To Satisfy Your Parents Completely" By Ynden Lizardo

"How to Satisfy Your Parents Completely"

By Ynden Lizardo

All A’s and a sixty-three.

All A’s and a sixty-three.

Kevin Li sat on his bus and stared at his progress report in utter disbelief. If he was smart enough to receive excellent grades in the rest of his classes, then why was he struggling to pass calculus?

He never imagined his grade could ever be that low. His mom was a math teacher at another high school, but he never asked her for help because he didn’t want her to know he needed it. Why couldn’t he have inherited her “good at math” gene? A sixty-seven meant that Mrs. Li would make him do an hour of calculus practice every morning and night until he could raise his grade at least twenty points higher.

SHORT STORY: "Uncanny" By Kassidy Grant

"Uncanny"

By Kassidy Grant

From the moment you walk in, you are unpleasantly greeted by the eerie feeling of the muddy brown-black sand. It devours your feet, capturing every inch of skin from you ankles to the tip of your toes. The air is moist and sticky, and part of you feels like there is no more oxygen left, and if there was, it wasn’t something you wanted to breathe in. The mud make it hard to walk and explore the rest of the land. It was almost like the clouds fell rapidly into eye level and amalgamated into one another. The clammy grey water gave off a reflection of what looked to be like giant sticks of cotton candy, but with a closer look, reveals trees that have been overcome by the homes of spiders. There wasn’t just one or a few, instead there will millions. The webs would remind you of an older woman’s hair that hadn’t been combed for years. The webs laid there matted and tangled upon one another. It was rare that the true beauty of the emerald green trees shined through.The further you went the more webs you ran into. The thought of the spiders could send a tingly chill down the toughest person’s back. What seemed to be a beautiful day before soon turned into a opaque place that was meant only for the unfortunate. The grounds were filled with spiders, brown one with fat bottoms filled with the juices of their victims who couldn’t get away in time. The flowers were no more, the spiders seemed to have imbibed them in one sitting. Only God could explain the smell coming from the elongated creatures. It was fun to make out the patterns of the different spiders. They crept along the ground leaving footsteps that were almost invisible to the human eye. It was only a matter of time before they in the hands of someone dangerous... 

SHORT STORY: "Scatterbrain" By Kassidy Grant

"Scatterbrain"
By Kassidy Grant 

The floors were covered in yards of dusty tarp to keep the floors nice and polished as if a million students that had stepped in dog “poop” and hardened gum spit out my an older lady who had gum disease, weren’t going to frolic around on it after the tarp was ripped up. The royal blue chairs were cold and uncomfortable, stripping you of every piece of hair in your head and shocking the back of your thigh muscle. The balls of the chair, supporting the agitating seat was camouflaged in hair and particles that had been sucked up by the dirty tarp. The cold legs of the table would brush against the skin and transmit a bleak shiver through your entire body. It made it uncomfortable to move during the entire test.  The weathered ash like grey table tops were bumpy and were accompanied by gum that was tucked underneath them. I wont ever understand what logic was behind putting a rigid table top for people taking exams was. The bisque number two pencil stood there with the Paper Mate writing pen that was never as good as it needed to be. There wasn’t enough room in the cramped space they provided. Your elbows could only stretch so far before being bombarded by the dull brown cardboard that stood between you and your partner. They were hard and covered in profanity and phrases like”I hate this exam” that were faded and worn out from where people attempted to erase it. Looking down the row the tables seemed everlasting. Almost as if they would never end, continuing perpetually down the gym. Getting lost in the rows, it wasn’t hard to snap back into reality when the exam was slapped down in front of your face. Dozens of pale white papers with Time New Roman font that read the name of the exam in bold letters and the school emblem fixated in the middle. The pages were thick and sharp, almost guaranteeing a paper cut. Over the paper lay slippery plastic that was meant to protect the exam from any harm they felt posed a threat to the exam the rest of us couldn't give a crap about.

I sat there, waiting for the start of the four agonizing hours to began. I was incredibly unfocused. Looking around, anxious for the test to be slapped down onto dull table in front of me. I reached I. My pocket and pulled out the pill, grabbing balls of lint and old gum that had been sitting there from the last time I wore those pants. Marveling at the purple and teal pill, I attempted to put it in my mouth. I was stopped by proctor with long gray hair she wore in a ponytail with frizzy bangs.

"What's that you have in your hand sir?"

"Its nothing." I answered back quickly, trying my hardest to slip the pill back into my pocket. 

"Give it here. You aren't allowed to have anything in your possession during the exam except your--"

"Okay I get it." I cut her nagging off as soon as I possible could. I couldn't take much more of her speaking. Her breath smelled of coffee and cigarettes and her teeth revealed it all. It didn't help much that she talked in a whisper. I pull the pill  out and placed it into her badly lotions hands. She walked away scrapping her feet against the dusty tarp floor. I watched her walk making sure it was safe to pull out the other pill. It said to have the same affect: I would be focused the entire test. I wouldn't even so much look up from my paper. I felt around for the rounded lump in my pocket and slid it out. This one was different. It wasn't purple and teal instead it was all pink with a sun and the number "one thousand" engraved in its center. I was skeptical but I got over it and threw the pill into my mouth quicker than I had done before. I felt nothing. He said it would kick in immediately but I felt nothing. A proctor with waddled down the rows handing each of us the dreaded test. I looked up at the ceiling moaning in utter despair. The ceiling seemed to expand, and expand, and expand until I could no longer see it. It was a tiny dot now. I looked back at the proctor who handed me a purple packet covered in purged writing that seemed to pop out of the page. 

"What is this?" I asked, pushing the questioning piece of paper out of my site. 

"It's your exam. Goodness look at your pupils. Please come with me"

I attempt to get up and walk with the proctor to the back of the gym. 

“Your pupils are large” She felt the top of my forehead

“Why is you head so hot? Your heart is racing out of control! Someone take him to the hospital now!”

“Its fine. I’ll be fine” Thats the last thing I remember before I passed out, and now this is where I am. I must be having an out of body experience because I don’t ever remember seeing myself this vividly.

SHORT STORY: "Old Betsie" By Kassidy Grant

"Old Betsie"
By Kassidy Grant

The car was a 1989 cyan blue Volkswagen with black tires and shiny silver hubcaps. The antenna was rusted and flapping in the wind. One of the headlights was shattered and broken on the left had side. The front bumper was thick and had a red and white striped bar over it. It was almost like a candy cane. The paint job was shiny and glistened in the sun, giving a look that made it seem as if there was glitter in the paint. The door handles were brighter than aluminum and were hot to the touch if left out in the sun too long. Getting into the car, lead to a fall of about one foot that was broken by the cushion of the hot leather seats. The seats were tall and red with indented stripes along the back and butt. White lining followed the seat and hugged the entire car. The door walls all had ridges and the color went on and off. Blue to white, and blue to white and back to blue again. Next to the seat stood a long white emergency break that was a different texture from everything else in the car. It was bumpy and had grips, almost like they wanted to stand out. The gear shot straight from the heather grey plush like floors, and had a ball as a handle. The steering wheel was white and thin with the Volkswagen emblem staring at whoever is driving. Behind that sat the gas meter that would light up a bright orange when the headlights were turned on. The air vent took up the entire dashboard. It was lustrous silver just like the handles and the hub caps.

Her fingers slid across the steel part of the dashboard as she adjusted the air conditioning in the old car she drove. She manually rolled the windows down to let the crisp wind of the hot day caress her Carmel colored skin which was covered freckles. A beautiful girl she was, with curly hair that was long and beach sand brown. Her father a well rounded black man, and her mother a hard working white female married, leaving them with such a beauty. Her destination was just a car ride from Tampa to Miami to gather a few things from the college she attended the previous year. She was relaxed and at peace while driving. Before she knew it she was logged between the dull wooden pole of a street light and the grill of a Dodge truck. She lies face to face with front of the car watching the blood drip slowly down onto her car. Blood that she knew wasn't hers. The car backed up and made a sharp turn to the right and then stopped. She began to pick up her phone to call 911 but she was then frenzied by something far worse. Her heart began to beat against the scarlet red heart walk t-shirt. She starred down the barrel of LC9 Lightweight Compact 9mm gun.

POETRY: "Cryptic" By Kassidy Grant

Lets sail away to a place that only you

and I can recall. A place where there

are no mistakes or lasting regrets. 

We’ll live and make a fool of ourselves,

just to say we did it.

With that said. Lets escape

we’ll laugh until our intestines plead

for us to stop. We’ll look each other

in the eyes and let the mysteries

of our individual selves merge

SHORT STORY: "True Story"

“True Story”

By Kassidy Grant 

10:50 pm. January 26, 2013. Her father comes home after a long day of work to, only to find his daughter wrapped up in his covers wedged between the end of his bed. She was dead. He begins to panic, knocking on every door in the bleakness of the cold silent night.  Her mother was in New York at the time. She had just finished a long day of relaxation. Manicures and pedicures and a well needed luncheon with her sister. Nothing could have prepared her for the news she had to come. After six long months of boot camp in Rhode Island, she couldn't even come home to the comfort of her own child's arms. She gets the news and becomes weak and unstable, unable to even walk on her own. At exactly 3:44 am we get the call that Kyla has passed away. 

My mother wakes me up from a dead sleep and informs me of what has happened. I sat there just thinking why bad things happen to good people. Or if I had been there, would any of this have happened? We sit on the bed and cry and cry, but we do not say anything. SIlence is the great healer. The date is now February 1st, the day of the viewing. We walked passed the shiny purple casket. Purple was her favorite color. Her dress was purple and she wore a white shawl with white roses all around it. He her hair was swept to one side with a flower on the other. We watched as she lay there in peace. No words, just silence. We were crying but somewhere in Heaven she was sharing her beautiful smile. Sometimes saying nothing says everything, so I cry silently. 

SHORT STORY: "Dismount" By Kassidy Grant

"Dismount"

By Kassidy Grant

Her heart beats as she stands there waiting for the judge’s approval. One man with thick glasses nods his head and tightens the grip on his pen. She breathes, and in that split second she remembers everything she was ever taught: Pointed toes, focused eyes, and a pose that says ‘I am finished, and I have won.’ She begins to run, or at least she thinks she’s running. The bottoms of her feet are filled with nerve endings that are no longer functioning. In her mind she is floating, but in their eyes, she is giving it all she’s got. Everything seems slow motion as the tips if her finger finally meet the rubber bar.

The beam is filled with dust and powder of those who went before her. She climbs to the top, breathless,  she looks at the crowd and refocuses? Pulling her hands up in the the air. Now, cameras are flashing an people stare, still astonished by what was happening. She already had her mind on the next move. She spots the beam and lands safely. Quickly, she runs, throws and aerial And cautiously touches the other end of the beam. Kneeling down, she soon jumps off revealing the beauty of an air-born twist. Opening her eyes, she finally finds herself on the safety of the royal blue mat. She strikes and pose and she is successful. 

POETRY: "Poetry" By Shanice Skyers

“Poetry”
 By Shanice Skyers 

The brilliance of this fiend,
is as a condescending paradox. Poetry is seductive,
poetry is offending,
poetry is vile.

POETRY: "A Lost Paradise" By Kaylyn Koutz

"A Lost Paradise"
By Kaylyn Koutz

Time slowly passes every second,

every hour of every day;

it’s a barrier

leaving us lost-

we can’t reach our destination.

Cars and airplanes leading people to their destination,

Their pre-planned places, 

every friend, friends of friends born in different places-

America, England, Australia, China,

POETRY: "Our Unbreakable Bond" By Kaylyn Koutz

"Our Unbreakable Bond"

By Kaylyn Koutz

We were like sisters,

Spending hours upon hours together

“attached at the hip;” 

We were inseparable from the start.

No one could break the bond formed

from the moment we met; I knew our bond was unbreakable,

like the beat that flowed around us,

the rhythm taking control over our bodies

SHORT STORY: "An Accident Waiting to Happen" By Kaylyn Koutz

"An Accident Waiting to Happen"

By Kaylyn Koutz 

         I remember that day, my mom had big plans. She was so happy that I was turning five she was taking me to the park. I was really excited because everything changed a few months before- my bigger brother had moved out of the house. It was just me and my mom in the house now. 

         As we walked to the garage the car was a sparkly white color. Mom unlocked the doors, and got in the driver side. I decided that I should sit in the front because it is my birthday and I’m going to be a big girl soon.

        “Honey, you need to get in the back seat now,” Mom said sternly.

        “But why? Today please! Just for today! Please!” I whined back.

        “No. Now get in the back seat or you will march your behind right back inside.” Mom said with force.

        “I’m a big girl,” I mumbled as I crawled to the back seat.