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One Day in the Life of

Betani Denisovich

Bethany Allen

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The sun streamed through the trees of the small grove. The warm summer day was beautiful but I was frustrated. I was supposed to choose a hero about which to write a report—a difficult thing for someone like me. I’m rather indecisive. I leaned over to Batya, the girl sitting next to me, and inquired who her hero was. “My father,” was her prompt response. Well, my father certainly had an impact on my life, was my thought as I spelled out my father’s name, Dr. Gove Allen. Then I heard something out of the ordinary…shouting. I looked behind me just as the shouting people ran into view. The people who entered the clearing moved with a purpose. They wore gray uniforms with red bands around their right upper arm. Two of them, a man and a woman, grabbed our mentor, a kindly old lady who was, as she put it, “here to help us learn about our heroes,” and they

(with apologies to Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn)

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dragged her away. “On your feet!” a man shouted at us. We all stood as directed. “Form a single file line!” he continued to shout. We did.

He marched us out of the grove and into the adjacent field. Following an order for silence, we watched as more uniformed men and women led in lines of youth. I looked around and saw a girl crying. Her friend, whose name I have lost in the river of time, was trying to comfort her with whispers and hugs. I thought of my little sister, Mattia. I hadn’t seen her since that morning and I wondered how she was handling things. Mattia is so emotional, I thought while watching the girl cry. She is probably having a hard time with this too. I worried for her; I didn’t want to worry. If only that girl would stop crying, then the sound of her fear couldn’t cause me to worry for my sister. I was not the only person who saw this disregard for the order of silence. A woman marched over and, grabbing the crying girl by the arm, pulled her out of line and away from her friend. The woman then marched the tearful girl over to another line on the other side of the field. A command was shouted; we began a long march toward a pavilion at the top of a distant hill. As we walked up the hill, still in a line, I saw my sister a little ways off. I was too far away to tell for sure, but it didn’t look as if she had been crying. The climb, relatively easy at first, became harder the farther we went. The sun, which felt nice earlier, now beat down angrily.

As I entered the pavilion, I was given a number and told to sit at table seven. I sat down at the table, idly watching as a line of boys were given their table numbers. One of the boys, about fourteen years old, stepped forward to tell a

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woman his name. Stillness overcame the confusion as more youth found their seats. Straining I could just make out the conversation.

“Name?” the woman asked. “Elisha Thames,” he responded, hands curling into tight

fists as he stared at the woman.She looked down the list of youth, searching, I supposed,

for his name. When her search came to an end her gaze returned to the boy, a scrutinizing look on her face. “Are you sure that that is your name?” she inquired sharply.

“Yes.” The boy looked away as he replied, hands still clenched.

The woman motioned a guard over and whispered some-thing to him. The man then walked around the table, laid a firm hand on the boy shoulder. “Come with me comrade, we need to find out why your name is not on the list, as it should be,” he said—not unkindly—and marched him behind the pavilion.

“Next,” the women called in a neutral voice. The incident involving the boy soon left my mind. A

man marched to the front of the pavilion and called out in a voice that demanded attention,“Comrades, you will all join us in reciting our new creed!” Indeed there was no reason not to. Copies of it had been secured to each of the pavilion’s pillars. I can now only remember the end of this creed that I recited, “working class of the world, unite!” At the word “unite” we lifted our fists into the air as if to say “Huzzah!” I saw that many of the youth did not do this. What was wrong with them that they could not obey so simple an order? Reciting a creed together would bring us, as individuals, into a much

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stronger whole. Things are safer when people are united as one after all. Once we had said this, another man stood at the front of pavilion. He had the air of one in authority and I was ready and willing to listen to what he said to us.

“Comrades,” he called, “many of you are probably won-dering why you are here.” A murmur of consent arose from the gathered youth, interrupting the speaker. I glared at the people next to me who had added to the distraction. How rude, I thought. Can’t these people be quiet long enough for me to hear about what it is we are to do?

“No talking,” a woman to the side of the man shouted. “Show respect.” The man turned his head to look at the woman and nodded his thanks.

“As I was saying, you have been brought here because you are the brightest minds of the rising generation. We see the potential that the youth of today and leaders of tomorrow have. Others feel that this potential should be dammed up and not released until you are much older, until you no longer have the same passion for your work as you do now. But we, we want your great ideas to come to fruition now!” He paused here to let the true weight of his words sink in. I could hardly believe what I was hearing. This was what I had been looking for for so long. A place where people would listen to my ideas and not set them aside because of my youth. I could feel the unease of the people around me, but I could not fathom why they would feel anything but joy and excitement, as I did, at the prospect of putting our minds to good use. “Thus we have gathered you all here,” the man restarted, “to begin your training and to let each of your voices be heard.”

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The man stepped back after this and the woman who had called for silence stepped forward; she too had the air of authority. “Each table has been assigned a task that they are to complete; once they have a solution for the problem each group will present their idea.” Although I cannot recall the assignments for the other groups, I remember the task for table seven well.

“Table seven,” the woman called, “how would you plan to end world hunger?” The moment I heard this I was ready to start talking with my table mates about it; before I could, the woman called out again. “We will now have silence for individual pondering upon these tasks.”

The silence persisted for about two minutes, a few blessed minutes when we were all united in a vast silence, before someone broke the spell by whistling quietly. This was not just a mindless sound someone might use to call their pet, it was a song—a song of rebellion. Rather than being moved I was annoyed that he or she had not followed the simple order, but more, I was angered that they interrupted our time for individual pondering.

Then it happened. Someone, I don’t know who, yelled “Run!” The youth scattered in all directions. I hesitated, unsure who had given the command. Gunfire roared in the pavilion and I bolted. I only ran about twenty feet before I looked back and saw a man with a red arm band tackle a fleeing boy. I stopped. I was running from the people who had given such security and purpose to me. I walked back to the man who was forcing the boy to his feet.

“Excuse me sir,” I said. “I thought that you had given the order to run. May I please come back?” I was so scared

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that he might say no, that I might not be allowed back to the place which gave me the chance to be heard and to make a difference in the world. I trembled; I was just so scared.

“Of course you can,” the man replied kindly as he dragged the boy toward the back of the pavilion. I almost skipped as I returned to the safety of the pavilion. Back to the safety of someone willing to listen to me, where there were clear ways to achieve a useful life and help others. I did not want to return to that dog-eat-dog world, and be trapped in the mad rat-race to the best paying job so that I could retire early and waste away the rest of my life.

As I quietly sat at table seven, I watched the men and women who were dedicated to unity. It did not bother me as they brought the youth back against their will. This was, once everything was said and done, the best place for anyone to be, especially for the future leaders of our world. Our group was now half the number it had been before. We shouted the creed about every ten minutes. Between each of these recitations a woman, striking in her gray uniform and red arm band, instructed us about our new roles as young communists. And once in a while we were given time to work on the tasks that were given to us earlier, though I was one of the few who were willing to do so. Every so often someone would run, only to be brought back quickly. Some didn’t return. But the ones who did were very loud, claiming that there was a group of rebels that was going to “free us from the evil hands of our captors.” To my relief, these obnoxious children were quickly escorted, by two of my comrades, behind the pavilion and would return a while later, much quieter than when they left. This was always

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followed by an announcement that the rebels did not exist, but if they did they would not try to rescue us, for we didn’t need rescuing, they would just kill us all.

An hour or more passed this way, then there was a blast of gunfire. The youth ducked for cover as communists began to fall to the ground. The gunfire stopped and people wear-ing blue emerged from the underbrush. Rebels! I thought. The rebels are real, they’ve come to kill us.

“Come with us,” a girl of about my age called. “We will take you to a safe place.” With that, the people wearing blue began to lead the “liberated” youth down the hill and across the field. I just sat in the exact spot I had been in when the shooting had started. I was stunned. Stunned beyond the ability to do anything other than sit and stare at the men and women lying at contorted angles in front of me. Two boys hurried up to me; one in blue, “you need to come with us.”

“No.” I said with such force they took a step back. “I will not go with you.”

“We just saved you from the communists! They were going to kill you; we stopped them!”

“By killing them?” I shouted. “Why should I go with you when you have killed the people trying to make the world a better, safer place? I would rather die here than go with you murderers.”

As the boys turned away one said, “Wow, I think that she is really a communist.”

There was one other girl still sitting in the pavilion. I walked over to her. “What should we do?” I asked.

“I don’t…I don’t know,” she stammered.

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A woman stepped into the pavilion. “You both need to go now,” she said in a very soothing voice. For some strange reason when this woman said to go I felt like doing it. “They are all gathering in the valley to the south.” She pointed; we went. We made the long trek down the hills, just the two of us, all alone, no more instructing voices that said what to do. In the valley, which was filled with lush green trees and soft grass, the girl and I heard the bad news. The rebels, in all their disorganized, hectic, uncontrolled confusion, had somehow launched a missile at the communist headquarters and we needed to get to an underground bunker before it struck. This news filled me with anger, which I released on a girl in blue, a girl who I faintly recognized. I felt that I should have known her name, and looking back I realize now that it was Batya.

“You rebels think you’re so much better than the com-munists. What have we done other than try to make the world a better place? And what have you rebels done? Noth-ing but launch a missile at a city full of innocent people.”

I never got to hear that girl’s reply, for at that moment I saw my little sister. Mattia, my wonderful sister, who I hadn’t seen since the first time that all the children had ran. Mattia, my only sibling on this Earth, was wearing blue. She wore the color of these murderers with pride, she was gladly part of their insane ideas, willing to take thousands of lives with a single blast. I started at my sister, no, my once sister. I would not see Mattia as anything but what she was: a rebel, a murderer, a monster. She walked towards me, but I turned my back on her.

I closed away. After this revelation, I talked to no one, I listened to no one. But when the rebels began to leave, I

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went with them. Even though I did not like the rebels and hated what they had done, I did not want to be left alone. Once we all reached the bunker I was not surprised to see that the bunker was in fact just another pavilion. The rebels had no organization whatsoever; it was just like them to take us to a place that had no shelter, a place where we would all die. As we sat down at the benches a woman stood before us and said, “Let’s debrief the communist simulation.”

So what did I learn from the communist simulation? While I sat stunned after the communists were killed, I realized how debilitated I was. I had let them tell me exactly what to do and I had done it without question. Like a lamb to slaughter, I had done what they said because it was easy and required no thought on my part. Even though I had no idea what these people wanted, I did what they said, because I liked the feeling that someone else was in control and that if something went wrong it would not be my fault. I would just be following orders.

When I spoke to the rebels, I realized how important it is to not become like (or worse than) the enemy you are trying to defeat. The rebels launched a missile at the com-munist headquarters. That really struck a nerve in my soul. The rebels thought that they were doing the right thing by blowing up the communist base, but did they stop to think about all of the people? The children and the elderly had no control over what was happening in the headquarters. Should these people die just because they lived in a city that the rebels determined to purge by fire? How often do we see only the good of our intentions and ignore other conse- quences of our actions?

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In a way, I did die when we reached that second pavilion. The part of me that thought that somehow I would be a hero in that sort of situation, that somehow I would just do the right thing, was gone. I still think that people can be good leaders and stand for right, but I know that at least for me, it will not just come. I am too willing to follow and live in security. But that illusion is gone, and now that it is I can work on fixing the problem that laid beneath it.

This simulation changed my life. I try to think about how my actions will negatively or positively affect others around me and if what I am doing is removing my power to act and think for myself.

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The house looked as though it had been built on stilts. Indeed, it lilted to one side, having been battered into the ground by years of harsh, incessant winds. Its paint was an odd, yellowish hue, with once-white shutters and a torn screened porch, which was utterly useless now against the hordes of mosquitoes. Four fluted columns rose from the giant, wrap-around porch, each rather lopsided and engulfed in fat, green vines that snaked up their middles and left only the Corinthian capitals visible. Crabgrass and creeper overran the front yard, and the only sign of life was a grey, brindled cat that prowled the estate at night.

In essence, no one had disturbed the grounds for ages —that was until a 1952 red pickup veered off the main road, bumping and shuttering noisily down the shaded gravel drive. When it stopped in front of the large, yellow house, it gave a few last queer sputters before slipping quietly to sleep. With

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a holler and a grunt, three odd and very colorful people toppled from the truck’s interior, cracking backs and rubbing arses. There was a general sense of weariness about the group —low grumbles passed between its members as the raw condition of the estate was viewed in full.

The grass needed mowing, the bushes trimming; the screens on the windows needed patching, the shutters paint-ing. The well beside the house had run dry years ago, and there seemed to be no irrigation system for the garden out back. It hadn’t occurred to the father that the term “unrestored but has promise” used by his distant uncle eager to sell the property indeed meant, “needs work—and a lot of it.” With a rueful tip of his hat, he rolled up his cornstarch sleeves and opened the tailgate of the pickup. He would have the house tidied before dusk.

His wife on the other hand, with her milky white hands and strings of pearls, crinkled her nose and sat stiffly in the front of the pickup. She had been born and raised a city girl and would have none of it. Why her husband had decided to move to the country was beyond her. Steel mills and shopping malls seemed far better options than moss-covered swamps and withered haystacks that smelled of dung. Rath-er perplexed, she took off her heels and put them on the dash, hollered something at her son who had already found his way into a mud pile beneath the porch, and proceeded to inspect the anterior of the house.

The son, who was almost twelve, was a large boy with ruddy cheeks and ample thighs. Content to scuff up his shoes and tear holes in the knees of his trousers, he had always been held in his mother’s contempt. As he explored the

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patches beneath the porch and garden’s fence, he found he rather liked this new house with its secret places. He could stay here awhile.

As the first three members of the family milled about the house’s exterior, doing this and doing that, they neglected to notice the fourth wandering off on her own. Her name was Hollis. She was the youngest of the family—scarcely nine years old with flaxen curls and a rather pinched, cherry nose. To an outside observer, she looked the least absurd of the whole family; she gazed keenly around at trees and squirrels as she meandered down the little wooded path, blue-white dress swaying about her legs.

Sometime down the lane, when her arms were filled with sprigs and graying dandelions, the little girl noticed a small hut off to the right. The middle was sunken into the earth; moss and vines creeped about its innards. The only happy thing about the mess was a gathering of tiny pink flowers blooming from beneath the hut’s wooden planks. Before Hollis could move closer to pick some, she heard her mother’s voice.

“Holly!” A warning, harsh and sharp, like the clanging of a steeple bell. With an indignant huff, Hollis tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, stuck out a sullen tongue. She was not about to answer to that blaring voice, even if it did mean no supper when she arrived home. No, she had made up her mind. She needed to finish her collection.

Just as she was bending to retrieve one of the pink buds, a small brown face peeked from behind the hut. Mid-reach, Hollis froze. The face blinked, wide-almond eyes regarding her with curiosity.

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“W-who are you?” Holly nearly shouted. She was beside herself at this point and had to rouse all her faculties to keep her wits about her.

“Jane,” the face blinked again. Before Holly could respond, a girl no taller than herself came to stand in front of her. She wore her hair in two braids tied at the ends with bits of bald string, as well as an ill fitting apron that hung over her dirty linen dress. Her stockings were torn in several places, and her boots were nearly worn through. Her face, oddly enough, was clean, though Holly noted several dirt marks—no, bruises—that ran up her arms and a long, sickle-shaped scar that spread lengthwise from mouth to ear. It was rather distracting and crinkled every time the girl spoke. But Holly kept that to herself. It was impolite to point out such things.

“Jane.” She repeated, tasting the word on her tongue.“Thas’ right.”“Is that all? Don’t you have a last name? Mine is Palmer.

Hollis Palmer.” Holly informed, presenting her hand. Jane looked bewildered by her comment. Her eyebrows furrowed.

“Why, I’s never had one a’ those.” She spoke in a peculiar way, her vowels engorged—consonants nearly indistinguish-able. Holly’s grandmother who lived outside of Charlotte, often spoke like that. The thought made Holly grin.

“It tells me apart from all the other Hollys. Don’t you have one to tell you apart from all the other Janes?”

“I’s the only Jane I know a’.”Holly felt like chuckling but knew it would be a vicious

thing to do to the poor girl. By the looks of her, she seemed very inexperienced about the world. How could she not know there was such a thing as last names!

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“Where is your family, Jane?”“I live with my Ma. She isn’t around during the day. She

goes to the yellow house and I with her sometimes. I help clean and cook and—”

“Don’t you ever go to school?”“What is school?” Jane’s eyes were wide. Holly was

utterly intrigued. A girl who had never heard of last names or school!

“It’s where they teach you about history and arithmetic,” Holly paused, thinking on the house Jane had mentioned before. “Jane, what did you mean by a yellow house?”

“That’s where Mr. Bailey lives. I don’t like him much. He’s mean. He yells and uses his whip a lot and he’s always takin’ Mama away—” She stopped, correcting herself. “But Mama says we should be grateful to him for lettin’ us live here.” Holly nodded, turning in the direction of the large, yellow house. Certainly the girl couldn’t mean her house, could she? The idea was absurd. As she turned back to Jane, she couldn’t shake a sudden feeling of taciturn trep-idation. The bruises and marks that ran along Jane’s arms seemed ominous to Holly now, the crescent-shaped scar on her cheek a stark reminder of the cruel man who used his whip a lot. Sobered by the thought, she held out her hand to Jane.

“Take it,” she said. “It means we’re friends.” Jane looked doubtful at first, but when Holly insisted, she placed her hand in Holly’s. Milk white against chestnut brown. Jane smiled and a peculiar warmth spread from Holly’s core. It felt as though someone had fastened an invisible string to each of the girls’ tiny chests and connected the two. It was a

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rather odd sensation—feeling akin to someone she hardly knew. It both thrilled and terrified her.

“I like you, Jane,” she announced, looking toward the setting sun. “Will you be here tomorrow? It’s getting late, and I must get home for dinner.”

“Oh yes! I’s never had a friend before.” She bent down and plucked a handful of buds for Holly.

“These is for you, Hollis,” she said, placing them in the palm of Holly’s hand. Rather touched by the tenderness of the gesture, she nodded her head, smoothed her blue- white dress.

“Thank you very much. I’ll meet you here tomorrow afternoon, just after the sun reaches the top of that tree.” She pointed to a giant white ash, which stood behind the hut. Jane’s head swiveled and she clapped her hands. The two girls hugged, which only seemed appropriate, and with that, Holly started back toward the giant, yellow house.

The setting sun made a red dome over the trees, turning their tops a nutty brown and reducing their frames to flat, black silhouettes. The way back to the house was much longer than Holly remembered, the path narrower and ob-scured by dimming shadows. Had she taken a right at the fork or a left? She couldn’t remember. With fists clenched around her pink flowers, she trudged on, determined to make it home to tell her mother about the odd girl named Jane.

Some time later, after much wandering, she came upon the large, yellow house. Nearly dusk, fireflies were beginning to venture in the front yard, languidly blinking in and out of existence. Holly’s mother sat on the porch in a large rocker, a piece of needlepoint in her lap.

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“Where have you been?” She gesticulated. Her arms looked like pale ash in the twilight.

“I was picking flowers. I met someone—”“That was very irresponsible of you, Hollis. You had us

worried sick.” Gathering the little girl in her arms, she brushed back her hair. “Come inside now.”

“But Mom—I met a girl. She lives by the hut in the woods.” Holly tore herself from her mother.

“That’s nonsense, dear. Nobody has lived here in decades.” Crinkling her nose, Holly protested.

“But Mom, I just saw her.”Mrs. Palmer shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re

playing at Holly, but it’s time to wash up for supper. Go inside now.” Ushered into the house by soft but firm hands, Holly stuck out her bottom lip. If her mother would not listen, maybe she would ask her father…

Holly found her father in the kitchen working the old cook stove. A small pile of chopped wood that smelled faintly of sap sat half-used by the door, and Holly could hear the languid sound of humming coming from her father as he fed the fire.

Rather supine in nature—at least when it came to Holly’s mother—Mr. Palmer always tried to be amiable when it came to her requests. So the very rare times when Mrs. Palmer did not have the answer to one of their daughter’s profuse questions, Mrs. Palmer had made it quite clear it was his paternal duty to calm his daughter and set her fluttering mind at ease.

“Daddy, can I ask you something?” Mr. Palmer turned at the sound of his daughter’s voice and wiped his charcoaled

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hands on the washrag behind the sink. He assumed she had been sent to him by her mother and was therefore willing to comply with any request.

“What is it, sweetheart?”“Who is Mr. Bailey?” A pause: the only sound was the

crackle of the stove.“Why do you ask?”“I met a girl. Her name is Jane and she lives by the hut

in the woods and says she knows a mean Mr. Bailey who uses his whip a lot. She even says he lives in this very house.” Her father’s face darkened as she spoke, which only fueled Holly’s curiosity.

“She has a scar on her cheek and bruises on her arms.”“How do you know this?” He moved across the room to

where she stood by the balustrade. His thick brows were furrowed, and she could see the whites of his eyes.

“I saw her—”“Hollis, you are never to speak of this Jane or Mr. Bailey

again.” Clenching her fists, Holly stood her ground. She had not often seen her father like this. Gathering her wits, she bit her tongue. She would not tremble—she would not! Before she could give her father a smart-lipped retort, her brother came to the back window, dirt on his trousers and mud on his face.

“Holly, look-y here! Found these small stones—” he was saying, “with letters on ‘em!” It took a moment for Mr. Palmer to realize what his ruddy son was saying, but once the significance of the strange find had been noted, he turned on his daughter.

“Hollis, don’t you dare step outside.”

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Too late. There was no stopping the girl. On thin little legs that moved half-trembling, Holly fled the kitchen to the garden.

Just as her brother said, there was a small plot of graves behind the garden. Half eager, half terrified, Holly approached the spot where they stood.

She could make out two small headstones enclosed within a mottled, wrought iron gate. Cut from uneven slabs of stone that had been pounded crudely into the ground, each was inscribed with a name. Kneeling, Holly read the inscriptions with a fervid, reverent air. A mother, a daughter. She gazed at the one on the left. It read, Jane; 1850–1858.

There was no epitaph—no elegy, only those few rudi-mentary numbers. With quivering lips, Holly bit her cheeks. It took a moment before she heard her father behind her.

Eyes burning with indignant tears, Holly refused to turn her head.

“Why are they buried out here?” Before he spoke, Holly was sure she heard a catch in his voice.

“Mr. Bailey was your great-grandfather, Holly. My grand-father. He was a cruel man, but Jane and her mother were very special to him. One day he lost his temper and there was an accident—” he paused, lowered his eyes. “After their deaths, he couldn’t bear to stay here any longer so he packed his things and moved his wife and the rest of his slaves to Louisiana. The morning he left, he buried them here in the garden. As far as I know, he never looked back. Hollis, I’m not proud of the things he did, but I don’t feel right keeping his secret anymore. You deserve to know your family’s story.” Mind churning, Holly nodded faintly. She believed she

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understood what her father was trying to say. A veil had been lifted from her eyes, introducing her into the strange, new world of adulthood where horrible things happened to good people and blood was not always thicker than water. Perhaps that was why she had felt so close to Jane—they had both shared the inexplicable bond of childish innocence.

“It’s okay, Daddy. I think I understand.” Laying her flowers at the foot of Jane’s headstone, Holly gathered her blue-white dress in her hands and stood. They looked so withered, lying there. No words passed between them as Holly and her father started toward the house. The walk back was long, almost bleak, but thinking on those small, pink flowers, Holly came to a realization. Shame had kept her father quiet all these years, but he did not need to keep this secret anymore. What was done was done. Jane had shown Holly that by her simple gift—the peculiar yet precious gift of knowledge that bloomed from the dark like those small, pink flowers. A knowledge of family, of hope. A knowledge she could not trample underfoot. When they reached the steps to the porch, she sought her father’s hand and tugged at his cornstarch sleeve.

“Daddy, I don’t think Jane would want us to be sad for her. I think she would want us to be happy in this house—make it something Grandfather never could.”

Gazing down at his small daughter, Mr. Palmer nodded in amazement. It was in this moment he finally realized why he had decided to restore the house in the first place. Things had to be made right. And with the help of young Hollis, maybe they could. Taking her pallid little hand in his, he looked one more time at the little graves behind the garden fence and opened the door to the big, yellow house.

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Ring! Ring! Ring! Ring!The toll of the school bell groggily passed from the

speakers in the gym directly to my ears. It wasn’t a loud noise. I certainly was used to hearing that sort of noise. My second period was physical education. I was mixed with the eighth graders along with a lot of my new seventh grade friends since I’d switched from my old elementary school to this vast school riddled with people who did not have too much respect for each other. What else could you expect from junior high students?

A volleyball came hurtling at my face. Instinctually, my hands darted upward to guard me from any incoming bludgeon. But the ball was too quick, for it had been served by one of the stronger 8th graders, Derric. The ball nimbly swiped my fingers and landed smack! on my face. My hands were there already, so I covered my face as overwhelming waves of fresh

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pain went through my forehead. Humiliated, I uncovered my face and found Derric and his group of eighth grade friends giggling and whispering to each other about things I didn’t understand. I could easily infer  that they were about me, due to the fact that they were looking straight at me, piercing my eyes with sharp glares.

The ball lazily bounced away and I ran over to pick it up. I was a fast runner, as I had been since elementary school. But this was different. These other students at my school could easily speed past me without fail. I sighed and grasped the ball with my hands. No one really respected the seventh graders—including the seventh graders.

A few more people were making their way into the dressing room. I tossed the ball into the shopping cart the coach used to hold all of the volleyballs. Of course, it missed. One of the taller and more popular seventh graders stood by the shopping cart and watched with scorn as the ball bounced off of the shopping cart. I could easily see his expression. Words never said it, but his eyes screamed, Ha! Loser!

Ashamed, I walked into the noisy dressing room. As I went in, an 8th grader came up behind me and put one arm behind me in a sort of “bro-like” manner. I felt a bit assured that someone would actually do something like that, espe-cially to me. 8th graders and 7th graders doing something nice to each other in this school? Unheard of! It was all interrupted by a disappointing shove into the wall. He ran off, head bobbing, mouth laughing. My head had been hit lightly, but enough to cause some momentary throbbing. My face melted sadly as I walked over to my locker and changed into the clothes I came to school in.

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No one talked to me, which was not surprising. I could see all the other students looking around and chatting with each other, having a good time and playfully teasing one another. My sense of compassion burned as I thought, How could they do something like that?

Once I was back in the gym, one of my friends named Kasey walked up to me as I leaned against the wall, praying that the bell might ring soon. “Hey, Henry,” he said to me.

“Hey, Kasey,” I said glumly, hoping that he would notice and talk to me about it, possibly sorting out my problems.

“What’s your third period class?” he asked.It took me a little while to finally figure out again which

class I had third period . It was only around the beginning of a new school year, so I hadn’t necessarily memorized  what all my classes were. After a half-second of thinking and sorting, I answered, “Science.”

“Oh, cool,” he said. “I have guitar.”I raised my eyebrows. “Really? You play guitar?”He shrugged. “Yeah. It kinda sucks because our teacher

can be really strict.”The bell rang and rowdy kids began to shove their way

out of the gym like water gushing freely from a bottle.“Well, I’ll see you later,” I said as Kasey walked out the

door.He didn’t answer, but I didn’t expect him to.Keeping a frown, I grabbed my bag and walked alone

to 3rd period.

J

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In science, we watched a video about volcanoes.I couldn’t really concentrate. I still thought about the

disrespect that the 8th grader showed me earlier that day. Still, I was able to sit down in my chair and wait for the video to start.

I had a note page that I used to write notes in science whenever the teacher told us to. I couldn’t really watch the video though, lost in thought as to why someone would show another person such disrespect. So I pulled out the notepad and flipped to a random empty page. The volcano video blared in the background, but I couldn’t really focus on what it was saying, as my mind had driven off elsewhere.

Taking up my pencil, I lazily wrote at the top of the page:“Stereotypical Experiment”I sighed and simply stared at the page, bored out of my

mind. Though suddenly, revelation smacked me in the face. My eyes widened and I stared at that title. I thought about the disrespect of other students and one word came into my mind: bully.

This was it. How come I hadn’t figured this out before? Bullying was a problem at my school. This could show me a possible way to stop it! Excited, I scribbled out even more words onto the page, letting my creative juices flow through my arm, into the pencil, and onto the paper.

NERDS ARE NICE

Directions: Walk around the school in between periods and put people into different stereotypical groups. An-alyze emotions at the end of the week.

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I thought for a moment, thinking of what I would feel like after putting people into stereotypes. It didn’t seem like a very good thing to do, but I had to find out how they felt.

They… Them? What did I mean by that? Once I further analyzed the demeanors of the students at my school, I ac-tually found immature children. Not purely evil. I only found… “them”. People who were rude to each other and found joy in everything. Free-spirited people who didn’t care much about what people thought of them, and yet they did. I couldn’t figure out a name because “bully” didn’t seem to fit them. I decided that from now on, I would just say “them”.

I decided that this was going to be an interesting week.

For the rest of the week, my eyes darted about the halls of the school, examining the students as they talked, laughed, teased, and shoved each other. I saw people shoving each other, I called them “them.” I watched people laugh and giggle, I called them “gossipers”. I examined people with glasses walking alone down the hall and I simply called them “nerds”—or at least those types of people.

On Friday, I added to my notebook:

Results of Phase 1: I feel a strange depression, as though I’ve been f illed with freezing cold water; trapped in my own thoughts and feelings. Why do I feel this way? I’m bound to f ind out.

With that, I decided to be nicer for the rest of the week, returning to my old ways of being kind to everyone and somewhat allowing other students to be rude to me. I felt insecure, yet free. I felt as though my junior high experience

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could only get worse, but it had actually only returned to normal, thankfully.

My first class of the day, my homeroom, was CTE (Career and Technology Education). I went into the room and put my books under my desk. I always got to the class early, but I waited for the bell to ring before I read anyway.

A few students filed in after about five minutes, sitting down at their seats. I chatted with some of them, making sure I could pass the time.

Ring! Ring! Ring! Ring! The bell droned through the loudspeakers. In a matter of seconds, my classmates began to file into the classroom. One of the students, Aiden, walked around and sat in the chair in front of me, facing me. He looked at me and said, “You know what’s rude?”

“What?” I asked. I related to a ton of cases of rudeness in this school. I was instantly reminded of the 8th grader who shoved me into the wall in the locker room.

“Jake over there—” he pointed to a tall black-haired student over to my left—“sneaked behind my back and took my pencil.” He then stood up and hollered across the room, cupping both hands around his mouth, “Hey, Jake! Gimme back my pencil!”

I could relate easily. Fellow students were always going behind my back and taking my pencils and giving them back to me with a laugh as though to say, I took your pencil! That means you suck!

Jake quickly answered, “You still owe me a Skittles packet!”

“But now I don’t have anything to write with—” Aiden started.

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“Hey!” Mr. Payette cut in sharply. “No yelling in my class.” He made a hand gesture to a cheap little cup with pencils protruding from inside of it. “If you need a pencil, please feel free to take one from here.”

Embarrassed, Aiden got up. “Okay,” he mumbled.More students filled the classroom and occupied seats.

The room overflowed with unrelenting chatter, nearly hurting my ears. It was alright, though. I was used to it after tons of weeks piling up with thousands and millions of words to fill my head.

Aiden returned to his seat. I had no idea what to talk about—until I remembered the Stereotypical Experiment I’d started a week ago. My face brightened and I decided to tell Aiden about it. I told him about what I did the last week and how I felt. Soon, I got to the part where I told him about “them.” He slightly tilted his head and drew in his eyebrows. “‘Them?’ Hey, sorry to tell you this, but this ‘them’ is everyone. You might be one of ‘them’ as well.”

I didn’t want to agree, but I knew that this argument would have dragged on if I disagreed, so I simply answered, “Yeah, I guess so.”

Until I went to science, I thought about that. Maybe “they” thought that “they” were everyone. I easily could refute this. The “Nerds” seemed to be the nicest people I knew. Commonly, they were the targets of other people, most likely “them.”

Once I sat down in my seat in science, I pulled out my notes and a pencil. I thought momentarily before I finally lowered my pencil and scribbled out some more:

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NEW BREAKTHROUGH!

Apparently, “they” think “they” are everyone! Why would “they” think that? My hypothesis is that “they” are unobservant, forming a belief that “they” are the only ones who even go to the school.

I can refute this! “They” think that “they’re” being nice, when in reality, there are so many other cliques here! The school is really diverse.

Having written this down, I decided to listen to what the teacher had to say while a ton of the other students simply messed around. Boys crawled over to the girls in hopes that the teacher wouldn’t see them and others were simply chatting while the unfortunate teacher tried to teach a lesson.

Really? I thought. Do you people have no respect for someone who doesn’t get paid much?

“Hey!” the teacher shouted. “Get back to your seat. I’m trying to teach a lesson.”

A few of the guys giggled with the girls and walked to their seats. I looked at them with sadness. I wanted to walk up to them and say, You’re pathetic. Upon hearing this word, they may have taken it as an insult. But I knew better. In my English class, my teacher said that the word “pathetic” doesn’t mean that someone is dumb or stupid (contrary to popular junior high belief ). Instead, it means that someone has gone through something that causes them to feel bad, and that you feel bad for them.

“That makes sense,” I’d said, “because the word empa-thetic means that someone knows what is going on with the

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other person. We just stick that ‘em’ in the front of it to alter the meaning of the word.” Empathy didn’t seem to be a skill that many junior high students had (at least in my school).

Once the science teacher’s lesson was over and the bell had rung, I walked just a few paces down the hall and into my English class. I sat down at my desk and waited as a few more students came into the class. Once about ten or fifteen people were in, a boy named Mckay raised his voice over everyone and yelled, “Jason is gay!”

Jason, who sat behind me, retorted straight back to him: “Shut up, Mckay! You’re the gay one!” He then leaned forward to me and whispered, “One day, I’ll murder him.”

I could see what he meant, but I felt like he was going a bit extreme. I mean sure, Mckay had just made unfounded claim that Jason was homosexual, but it was common “them” behavior and vocabulary.

Mckay walked up next to me with a sort of serious and wry look, as though to say I’m funny, now laugh!

Instead, as he walked, I spoke in a serious tone, “You’re one of ‘them’.”

His wry smile twisted to a frown. He didn’t say anything, as though he had no idea how to react to that comment, and sat down.

I wondered if that could stop all of “them” from being “them”…

At lunch that day, I was behind one of the most popular kids in the seventh grade. Surprisingly, I didn’t know his name, but I could tell he was popular because of how his regal smile made him look like he thought he owned the place. I was

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beginning to see why eighth and ninth graders hated us so much.

I didn’t have a group that I would go into the lunch line with. I would just find a good lunch choice and get into line. The thing that infuriated me the most about junior high was when I would be in line and one person would instantly become about five… then ten… then around fifteen or so.

Since I was behind this really popular student, I braced for a nasty shock. “Hey, James!” he called. “Come here, quick!”

One of his friends came up and stood right in front of me. He wore baggy clothes and smelled like an old boys locker room. I won’t say anything, I thought.

But the next thing infuriated me even more. About five more kids randomly popped into the line without any regard for anyone behind them. They all pushed and shoved as though the lunch was chunks of gold. They stayed behind the people in front of them, but the people behind them? They simply hopped right into line as though there was no one behind them!

“Eric!” the popular student beckoned. “Harry! Nick! Over here!”

A trio of students’ faces brightened. Of course, they rounded the table and passed everyone—including me. They shuffled into line along with everyone else who cut in line.

A few of them pushed and shoved each other, arguing: “I was in front of you!”

I nearly laughed aloud, but instead a small, barely audible chuckle escaped my throat. Yeah… and I was in front of you—and you—and you—and you…

I decided to just not say anything. If these guys wanted

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to have no respect for anyone behind them, it was their choice and not mine.

After lunch, the rest of the day went by normally. The only thing that slightly creeped me out was after lunch when Mckay would give me suspicious looks, as though he had something planned that he wanted to do to me. I got suspicious, but luckily the bell rang before anything happened, and I went throughout the rest of my normal day until the final bell rang.

I walked casually down the hall to my bus while a ton of other students would dash past me. I went through the commons and out the exit doors.

I heaved in a sharp breath as an arm grabbed mine sharply and I was pulled in a different direction. I looked to my side and found Mckay and a group of five friends yanking me to the side. Was anyone seeing this? Was anyone going to do anything? Of course, they wouldn’t. Peoples’ average behavior at this school was just like what Mckay and his friends were doing to me right now.

“Get off!” I shouted frantically. I struggled against their grip, but it was like iron.

“Hey!” a seventh grader shouted to my right. “No bullying!”Mckay ignored this. Frantically, I struggled, my heart

pounding and my mind racing for different scenarios that could possibly save me. What were they trying to do anyways? Why were they trying to do it? I tried to ram my elbow into their stomachs, but they kept my arms locked tightly behind me. Instead, I thrashed my leg to the side and caught Mck-ay in the shin. He grunted slightly.

Soon, I was behind the school. They had my legs and arms controlled and there was nothing I could do at all.

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Soon, they shoved me up against the wall of the back of the school, no one around to see me. My stomach pounded with adrenaline. What did they want?

“What did you mean by ‘them’?” spat Mckay.I was helpless. Nothing could save me. Besides, if I were

to escape them, they could come after me. How could I even—?

A burning pain slapped me in the stomach and I felt like I wanted to vomit. I found a fist right  on my abdomen. My stomach burned. “What did you mean?!”

I didn’t know how exactly to explain it to him. How could I escape this? I couldn’t hit them all at the same time—even if I wasn’t subdued. How could I sock them all in the stomach at the same time…?

Words.“You’re nothing,” I spluttered.Mckay’s face melted into confusion--as did all of his

friends’ faces. “What?”My face went calm and limp with faith that everything

would be okay as long as I said the right thing. My head burned as I said the following words: “You’re nothing. You’re all you see other people as. You see me as no one. You see me as someone to mess with. Someone who has no worth to this entire world. You see me as no one. If you saw me as a successful and esteemed person, you yourself would be a successful and esteemed person. But you are not. You see me as someone with no worth, and you are wrong. If that’s how you see me, then that is who you are.”

He went speechless, as though he’d been struck by a blow to the stomach and was in shock. He croaked out,

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“You’re not nothing to us.”“Then what am I?” I hadn’t taken much attention to

Mckay’s friends. I scanned them and found some of his friends, but one of them shocked me a lot.

Kasey? Why was Kasey helping Mckay? I glared at him. His eyes fell down to the bright green grass.

“To us…” Mckay mused. “To us… you’re… uh…”I smiled slightly. “Nothing.”Suddenly, the feeling of my arms being pressed to the

wall came back to me. The arms that held me fast against the wall had loosened slightly as I gave my statement. My head pounded with a crazy idea, but it had to work.

I kicked against the force that pinned me to the wall. Mckay and his friends’ expressions went confused as I flicked my arms. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to break free. Mckay screamed, “Get him!” and I sprinted off around the school.

To my dismay, there weren’t as many people out in front of the school now. In fact, nearly all of the buses had left. As I sprinted off with my pursuers clambering after me, I flipped through the numbers on the couple of buses still there. Neither of them were mine.

My bus was gone. My stomach twisted with nervousness. Shaking it off, I sorted through everything I could have for-gotten. With a sudden jolt, I realized I’d forgotten my books. I had them when I exited the school, but I must have dropped them when I was dragged off around the school. As I sprint-ed, my head flicked everywhere to find my books. Where had they gone? I couldn’t find them lying in the grass. The only other possibility was that one of my captors had my books…

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Oh, no. I had to get my books! My bus had already left, so there wasn’t any rush to be made. How would I get my books? These guys were much stronger than I could ever be. How would I retrieve something they intentionally stole?

I stopped and turned around. I heard Mckay saying to his friends, “Surround him!”

Faster than I could run, they had me in a ring of people. I was only a single dot in the middle of the circle. My head flooded with possible scenarios, but none of them seemed to work. What would I do?

“I want one more shot at him before we finally leave him alone,” one of Mckay’s friends said, gritting his teeth and grinding his knuckles. I gulped. This guy was so much stronger than Mckay. If he were to punch me or do anything to me, I would need to to go a hospital.

Mckay gave a cool nod—a signal that it was time for me to get pummeled. “Yup.” Before the big guy could come up to me, Mckay quickly added, “Keep this kids’ books, Kasey.”

I knew it! Kasey was definitely not my friend anymore. I could even see him holding my binder and my reading book under one armpit. He didn’t give me any menacing looks. In fact, he was only staring at the strong guy who slowly walked up to me. My eyes darted between Kasey, Mckay, and this big guy.

I noticed Kasey’s hand movements. They were holding the books as though he wanted to… do something with them. Right as this realization was made, Kasey yelled quickly to me, “Catch, Henry!”

My binder was thrown into the air. It reminded me of when the volleyball hit me square in the face. My forehead

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still slightly throbbed just thinking about it. Now, I had a ten pound bundle of paper and calculator being hurled toward my face. It came down into my waiting hands as the big guy was seemingly right in front of me.

With the binder firmly in my grasp, I brought it slightly backward and flung it straight at this guy’s face. His fists were clenched as though ready to bring his fist into my stomach, but they unclenched once my binder struck him in the temple.

“Agh!” he cried. In pain, he collapsed to the grass. This was when I noticed that no one was here anymore.

Anyone that was here faced away from the school, alarmed by nothing.

“Henry, your book!” Kasey hollered to me.I looked to him and started sprinting away from the

scene. With one mighty toss, the book went airborne. My empty hand thrashed at the book, but it was only an inch from my hand before it landed plop! on the ground.

“Kasey!” I squealed. I wanted to yell, Kasey, hold off Mckay! Fortunately, that’s what he was doing, wrestling Mckay while I bent over to pick up my book.

“Guys, get him!” Mckay grunted while Kasey tried to keep him on the ground. Thank goodness Kasey was on the wrestling team!

I sprinted away with my books under my arm and a ton of angry students chasing me. My chest heaved until it itched, making me want to cough. Luckily, I only had two guys on me while Kasey and Mckay wrestled and the guy who I hit in the face with my binder still knelt on the ground, recovering from the sudden blow.

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Finally, I pounded through the doors of the school and sprinted to the office. There, I knew I would be safe from my pursuers. Just to make sure they weren’t still after me, I turned around. Luckily, they weren’t.

I asked if I could use their phone so that I could call my dad to pick me up.

JThe rest of that week was pretty awkward for me and

Kasey.After he swore that he would never be friends with

Mckay after what he did to me, I decided to dial back on being so harsh on him. Once all of it had been cleared up, we went back to being regular friends again.

Now, I had a different view on my school. When I walked down the hall and saw kids teasing and shoving each other, I wasn’t able to see bullies anymore (no matter how I tried). I saw individuals with free spirits that would be esteemed people once they got older. I could even manage a smile when I saw someone tell another one that they suck.

Once I got to science, I pulled out my journal and wrote:

The Final Realization

Something changed after an attempted physical assault against me. I know that I’ve changed. And . . . I’ve realized that I cannot stop bullying. You can stop people momentarily, but you cannot stop someone from being a bully. One of “them”. In fact, I’ve realized that the junior high human nature will not change at this age.

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These kids are still just kids, and I will not try to change them. They will be and stay free.

I slapped the notebook closed and smiled.

t

Fingernails Caked With Dirt

Rebekah Cutler

t

It was a typical Sunday evening, and I was on a walk with my family. Normally, these country-side strolls consist of my three brothers playing pointless games on tablets while my sister and I read our books—that is if anyone came with my parents at all. On that late-summer day there were only my parents, Deborah—my baby sister who was powerless to refuse—and me. My dad was determined to go and observe a developing neighborhood nearby, while I, on the other hand, wanted to do anything but have family “fun.”

“Bye, Dad. I’m leaving. Go and have fun doing what-ever old people do.” I turned around and started to head towards home.

“No, wait. I will not tolerate this disobedience and insubordination in my household. You will walk with the

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family or…” my father trailed off into some pointless pun-ishment. Where were the rest of my siblings? They didn’t have to go on a “family bonding activity” and were probably wasting their life playing some stupid game, yet I had to suffer through this. Where was the equality? Did I get fair treatment? The answer is “of course not”, because I am the oldest and must set a good example.

“I’m going. Goodbye!” I shouted, having walked nearly twenty feet from my family. This was my typical American teenager rebellious side.

Ever so gracefully, on my stormy descent away from the parents, I stepped in some mud. The brown gunk completely covered one shoe and had spared the other, leaving it only slightly a disaster. It was not a good day. I let the mud stay there because walking home and changing would be too much effort. So there I was, alone and walking down a road in my neighborhood right next to an empty lot.

Most people go outside in the late summer, but only a few of those people see sunflowers growing as weeds and overpopulating the world. I fit into both of those categories, so I decided to do something about the infestation. I picked one. Now, when I say that I picked one, I went the full mile and a half on this endeavor. Careful to get the entire plant, roots and all, I slowly pulled it out of the ground and had the sunflower in my hands. While picking it, I may have taken out some of my anger at my parents. I decided just then that someone needed some extra joy this Sunday. That someone was my favorite youth leader, Catherine.

Catherine is an adult who would be my best friend if she wasn’t already married and with children. She lived in

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my neighborhood and is, to this day, the best person to talk to about random nonsense.

Owen, Catherine’s son, is convinced that he and I are soul mates. He has told all of his fellow fourth-grade friends about me (yes, he is eight years old and I am fifteen). Also, he will do anything I ask, and it is very fun to test this. His brother, Tate, is Owen’s right-hand-man and accomplice in mischief. The crime I had in mind for today wasn’t illegal, nor was it harmful. It was hardly even a crime; in fact, it involved bringing happiness to others. That day, I planned to replant the sunflower I had just extracted from the earth into Catherine’s garden.

Like any note-worthy mastermind, I had my evil hench-men—or henchboys—do the dirty work. Unfortunately, my brothers were off playing games, so I only had Tate and Owen to work with me. I didn’t want to soil my dress—my shoes had already been ruined for the day. For being boys, their digging skills were subpar. Perhaps this was due to the fact that we lacked a shovel, or that they had a sad and dirt-free childhood. I ended up helping dig the hole for the flower with my lovely, once-clean fingernails, which left me even more dirty and sarcastic than before.

After trying to claw a hole from a squatting position for a few minutes, I felt like sitting in the dirt. Keep in mind that I was in my church clothes. It wasn’t the most ideal of situations. Besides the muddy shoe, my Sunday raiment of leggings and a dress was almost spotless; it would have been foolish to ruin them. Because of that, I bitterly muttered to myself, “My life is hard,” while lowering myself to the ground.

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Tate, being the little six-year-old he is, looked up from digging beside me and said “No, your life is fun!” and gave me a look of pure disbelief.

We later rang the doorbell and surprised Catherine. I hoped that she felt utter jubilation, though she was rather shocked. Her husband and Milly, her young daughter, thought the flower to be rather peculiar. Catherine laughed, but it wasn’t complete. Something was bothering me. While these events occurred, a child’s voice ran through my head saying, “…your life is fun.”

I spoke with my neighbors for a time. The sky’s light began to wane, and the sun slowly and beautifully vanished over the mountains. The next day was a Monday, so I had to journey home early to be in the best of sorts at school. Catherine’s home is around a fourth of a mile from mine. My neighborhood has narrow walkways of asphalt that cannot be traveled by automobile. I walk on those paths to get to Catherine’s house quite often and find the time I spend walking great for meditation and thinking about life. I was doing just that when I walked home that night.

Tate’s voice would not remove itself from my con-sciousness. It was the most interesting and thought-pro-voking thing that anyone had said to me in a long time. If I hadn’t rebelled and stormed off, I never would have heard it. I had said something incredibly negative without even thinking twice of it. Looking back on it, saying negative phrases was something I commonly did. Pessimism is nev-er truly appreciated—I’ve learned that the hard way, but that’s another story. This all reminded me of a quote I found many years ago.

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Lao Tzu once said, “Watch your thoughts; they become words. Watch your words; they become actions. Watch your actions; they become habit. Watch your habits; they become character. Watch your character; it becomes your destiny.” The most important things said are said without thought—they reveal true, unaltered character. Perhaps planting flow-ers helps with that.

Based on a true story.

t

The last time I watched the stars with my father was the last night my father spent at our house.

My father is a loving soul. He hates to cause others suffering. I believe that has always been his first goal: let as few people be hurt as possible. He once was amazing at building up the world—at building up me. Because of him, I towered, for a time, as the tallest skyscraper in our home. Still, with my father’s greatest strength came his fatal flaw: he was incapable of destroying what he created.

Contrary to my father, my mother often appears strict and rigid. As a young child, I viewed her as evil, for she never bent to my will the way Daddy did. She and Dad would fight often, and I always saw her as the one attacking him. It would make me angry—a thick, bubbling rage that left me trembling. Leave my daddy alone! I often screamed mentally as I curled up in bed, desperately trying to block out the noise.

Falling Stars

Madison Decamp

t

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My dad and I had always been close. When we first moved to beautiful Park City, the clarity of the sky mesmerized him. He used to take me outside at night so we could watch the stars. I remember the first night we explored the twilight heavens with clarity.

“See those stars there?” he whispered, pointing upward. I followed his gaze and nodded. “That’s Pleiades.”

“Pleah-what?” I asked, confused.“Pleiades,” he repeated smoothly with a soft twinkle in

his eye. “Many people call them the seven sisters. Look, count the stars.” I glanced upward, observing the celestial bodies, and I counted seven twinkling lights. I beamed at him, and he showed me several other dazzling constellations.

I adored stargazing with my dad. He had this huge, fancy telescope in his room he brought out from time to time. Still, we hardly ever used it. I preferred it when he pointed out the pictures in the empyrean while I snuggled close to him. We would go out occasionally, but he made it a special point to take me out for meteor showers.

Once, when I was about eleven, Dad woke me up in the middle of the night. Snow dusted the ground, and I nearly froze as we exited the house and ventured onto our deck. I shivered, but Dad’s hand wrapped protectively around mine, persuading the cold to melt away. We stood on our porch, which had a perfect view of the lake we lived on, and the glittering skies reflected in its waters. We didn’t speak for a moment while we gazed at the shining moon and stars.

“Tonight is the Geminids meteor shower,” my dad murmured, glancing down at me. “It’s supposed to be the best one all year.”

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“What do they look like, Daddy?”“You’ll know it when you see it,” he grinned.We fell silent again and stared upward. Even without

meteors, the view still filled me with wonder. As I stood, gazing out into that immense wild blue yonder, I swore I could see every corner of the Milky Way Galaxy. It flowed through the dark—brilliant specks of light illuminating our world. I allowed my gaze to wander, awed by this sight. I kept my eyes peeled, searching for the rare and elusive meteor.

“There’s one!” I cried out, although the bright streak disappeared before I blinked. I tried to find where it had been. “Did you see it, Daddy?” I asked, pulling myself closer to him.

“No, I’m sorry, Pumpkin,” he said, still gazing at the sky. I sighed and watched the stars through the reflection on the murky lake water. After a moment, I allowed my vision to drift upward again, memorizing the unique patterns in the darkness. Suddenly, right in the middle of the sky, a bright green light streaked across the heavens. A shooting star, lasting half a second longer than most. I gasped at the sight. Its brilliance astounded me as it shined in a way I’d never imagined things could shine. I reached out, trying to grab it and capture its image in my mind. The splendor of it reminded me of the feelings of magic I got when snow fell from the sky.

And then, it vanished. It hadn’ t even been there for a full second. I blinked, smiling at my dad. “Did you see that one, Daddy?” I whispered, wrapping my other hand around his.

He looked down at me, a soft twinkle on his lips. His smile, and the way it lit up my world, was even more spec-tacular than the shooting star. His chocolate eyes melted into

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mine, and I sensed his unconditional love for me rolling off of him, like waves lapping the shore. “I sure did, Darlin’,” he sighed, squeezing my hand. “I sure did.” I beamed and pulled myself into him, embracing him with my whole being. He hugged me back, and I never wanted my daddy anywhere else but with me. Dad was my superhero. I would be on his side always, and I knew I would never stop loving him.

Sometimes, I wish I had.It’s a known fact that those we love most have the most

power to hurt us. They wield daggers, dipped in poison, aimed at our hearts. As most people are kind, they do their best to put the knives away; yet they’re impossible to discard. Most may not even realize they are stabbing you when they do. My dad, although it would destroy him to admit, held a dagger. Never would he have intentionally impaled my young heart, but he did. He did on the day he pushed me away.

A few weeks after I turned twelve, my sister and I arrived home from school. My mother escorted us to the couch, then took a seat on the opposing sofa. I stared at my daddy, who sat across from me on the fireplace, sadness clear on his face.

I can still picture that room, like the memory is seared onto my very being. Our carpet, covered in colorful stains from years of use. The walls were painted a tannish color and bearing countless dents and chips from us accidentally banging things against it. My mother’s favorite painting of oranges hung over the fireplace. The tawny leather of the couch felt cold underneath me, and I sensed my sister press-ing closer. But I lost focus of the room after a moment; all that really mattered was my dad and his heartbreaking expression.

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I remember my heart pounding. Anxiety dripped down my forehead, and I fought to keep my leg from bouncing. My mind raced, Why does Dad look that way? I imagined thousands of possibilities, but not one prepared me for what was next.

The reason I was not suspicious was simple. About three days earlier, the fighting had simply ceased without a trace. The tension in the house had faded, and I was grateful my mother had finally stopped tormenting my dad. I had already begun to hope we would have a happy family again, just like we had when I was little.

“Madison, Morgan,” my mother said sternly, looking at both of us. My defenses shot up at her tone. I haven’t done anything wrong, have I? I tensed. “Your father and I—” She broke off, her voice cracking when she had been so firm a moment ago. What’s happening?

“We’ve decided we need a little time apart,” my dad spoke for my mother. My eyes widened. Horror encased my being as I grasped what my parents were telling me.

“Wh-what?” I stuttered, shaking, but no longer from nerves. I shook from the shock, from the absolute horror this moment brought.

“I’m gonna get an apartment, but it’s just for a little while. Until your mother and I can work things out,” my daddy cooed, trying to soothe us. It didn’t work. His face was already blurring, the image of our living room melting away with my tears. I knew he was lying. He was leaving, and he was never going to come back. The crack that was forming in my family was mirrored in my heart, filling me with agonizing pain.

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My sister was shaking. She spoke, but I cannot remember her words. The world was already bleeding together into meaningless colors. Life no longer made sense, and I struggled to accept this as my new reality.

Tears filled the rest of the day, and I experienced hours of endless suffering. I was desperate for it to end, but also wanted the night to last forever. After all, Daddy would not spend the night there again.

A dark, vicious streak of hatred towards my mother began growing. I insisted it was her fault my daddy was leaving. Dad had become sick of her abuse and I couldn’t blame him. I was sick of it too. Part of me longed to go with him. Thinking of staying with my mother without my dad there petrified me. In my mind, my mother was nothing less that the most wicked human being ever to exist.

That night, we didn’t eat dinner together. Once I could think enough to function, I spent the rest of the evening attached to my dad. He didn’t scold me or tell me to go away. He just kept his arm around me and held me tight, somehow managing to keep me from falling apart completely.

We sat together on the couch, and I curled up next to him. We turned on the television, and I let my mind wander as meaningless images flashed across the screen. Why care about the drama in others’ lives when my life felt like it was falling apart? I envied those characters that were so obsessed with their petty problems. I knew none of them understood. How could they understand the gash, the deep trench, splitting my heart in two?

My mother wandered into the room. Perhaps she was getting something, or perhaps she had meant to speak with

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my dad. But the second I laid eyes on her, my blood began to boil. I turned away, furious. She was driving my daddy away. I’m not sure my mother saw my reaction or not, but regardless, she left swiftly.

“Daddy?” I said, turning to him after my mother had gone.

“Yes, Pumpkin?” My anger was already fading, being replaced by a pro-

found sense of loss and terror. I was losing my protector, my savior. I would have to face my monstrous mother on my own. I would lose my daddy, and I was afraid that without him there I would lose my sanity. In my mind, there was only one comprehensible solution. A tear leaked out of my eye as I said, “I wanna live with you.”

I remember with perfect accuracy his face softening, and seeing the smallest hint of pain revealed behind his eyes. “I know, baby,” he murmured, studying me tenderly. “But it’s not that simple. And your mother wants you here too.”

“I don’t care. I hate her.”My dad frowned. “Don’t say that.”“I do, Daddy. And I want to live with you.” I peered into

his eyes, praying he would take me away from this toxic place.My father just closed his eyes, leaned down and kissed

my head.“Maybe one day, baby. One day. But not now.” He

sighed, and I noticed something wet on my head. I found my tears spilling out freely, as if echoing my dad’s dampened eyes.

“Not now,” I whispered back. I buried myself in his chest and allowed the grief to consume me.

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I laid there for a while—hardly moving, hardly breathing. I was desperate for the pain to end. But, I realized, there was something else I wanted. I didn’t want this one, precious little piece of my dad’s time here to end. Not just yet.

“Daddy, can we watch the stars tonight?” I pleaded, pulling back to examine his face and imploring with my eyes.

He smiled, although it never touched his eyes. “Sweetheart, whatever you want.”

And so we did. That night, once the sky darkened, my father and I strolled out onto our deck. The deck was long and showed off a spectacular view of our slightly polluted lake. The universe finally granted one of my requests—clouds didn’t block the sky, giving us a clear view into the heavens. I clenched my hero’s hand and stared up at the twinkles winking at me from all across the universe.

The air nipped at us as we stood there—not surprising, considering it was mid-autumn and barely a few weeks before snow would dust the ground. I shivered a little as a gust of biting wind swirled around us. I hugged myself closer to my dad, seeking safety and warmth in him.

“I love you, Daddy” I murmured, looking up at him. The lights in the sky twinkled high above, and a few bright lights shone like beacons in the night. I knew these lights were too bright to be stars; they had to be planets, like Jupiter, Mars, or Uranus. Dad had taught me all of those.

“I love you too, Darlin’,” he replied, drawing me closer. I let myself feel comforted in his presence. His warmth seemed to melt into my very being, heating me from head to toe, like an old-fashioned cup of hot chocolate. We both studied the sky, and I smiled at its beauty.

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We spoke little that night. There wasn’t much left to say. I remember walking back inside, still grasping his hand, my only lifeline. I glanced back over my shoulder at the twinkling stars and sighed. What a beautiful night. Daddy tucked me into bed and I drifted off with him seated protectively next to me.

The next morning, Dad packed up his things and left. I cried more, the grief nearly suffocating me. The fear of being alone in this house without my father almost incapacitated me, but I forced myself to be brave. I clung to my precious memory of that last night, the last night that we stargazed.

Life became a vicious cycle of hurt and pain for me after that. I switched between both parents, remembering dad’s twinkling constellations whenever it got hard at Mom’s house. My mother grieved worse than I had ever seen anyone grieve. She kept me and my sister up late with her tears, and it wasn’t rare for us to be awakened early in the morning by her sobs. Once, Morgan and I tried to comfort her. Well, Morgan did—I still hated her too much to try.

“Mom?” My sister faltered, taking a tentative step into my mother’s room. Morgan hated seeing her family cry. Other people’s tears upset her. She has always had such a good heart.

My mother’s head lifted. “What?” She snapped, glaring with bloodshot eyes. Morgan instantly withdrew.

“I just… you’re crying…” She murmured, not meeting my mother’s eyes. I guarded my sister from the doorway. Dad’s absence meant no one else would protect me or Mor-gan anymore, so I undertook the job. I refused to leave my baby sister to face this threat alone.

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My mother didn’t respond for a moment, her features hardening in anger. Then it broke, and I glimpsed a hint of the torment she was enduring. “Just… just go. Leave me alone,” she murmured, turning away. Morgan didn’t respond, nor did she move.

After a moment, my mother looked back to see if we’d done as she’d asked. Seeing Morgan was still present, she stood and shrieked. “Get out!” She towered over my sister. As Morgan raced out of the room, Mom slammed her door, and we heard her hysterical sobs from inside the room. I followed my sister, my rage towards my mother growing by the second.

I comforted Morgan to the best of my abilities. She was crying as hard as Mom. “Why is she being so mean?” Morgan sobbed in my arms.

“She’s just angry at herself for being so mean to Dad and making him leave,” I comforted, silently cursing Mom.

“I want Daddy back,” Morgan whimpered.“I know, but it’ll be okay, Morggie,” I soothed. “It’s

gonna get better. I promise,” I lied, hoping to comfort her. I didn’t believe a word of what I had just said, but she did, and it calmed her.

Morgan slept in my room that night. This happened often since Dad had left. Morgan and I were all each other had, the only ones that understood each other’s grief. We clung to one another for dear life. I don’t think I’ve ever been that close to my sister.

My mother’s depression became contagious after this. I experienced it everywhere I went, a heavy sadness weighing me down with each step. It became hard to focus in my classes, and it seemed impossible for anyone to coax a real

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smile out of me. Before long, I grew sick of people asking me “What’s wrong?” or “Are you okay?” So, to avoid these aggravating questions, I began to fake joy and contentment. I discovered I was an immensely gifted actress, especially when it came to hiding my emotions. People stopped asking me annoying questions about my mood, while the depression grew in the darkness behind my mask. It seemed as if the world intended to crumble beneath me, and I didn’t know how to stop it.

I blamed my mother for all of my negative emotions. I became tired of walking around looking alive but feeling completely dead inside, experiencing life as a hollow shell. I convinced myself that if I moved in with my dad full-time, I would be happier. It became my one wish. My only desire was to live with my father. I dreamed of it and prayed for it day and night. I wanted nothing more than this, and eventually, I got it.

A few months after my dad moved out, my mother and I got into a fight. Not one of those little skirmishes, where people are wounded but bridges can be rebuilt. No, this was a full scale, all-out war, with near-fatal wounds inflicted on both soldiers. She screamed at me; I hollered back. I finally told her how I blamed her for Dad leaving. I accused her of making my life a living hell and forcing me to walk around miserable. I blamed her for my feelings of loneliness. All the passion and anger I had built up towards my mother finally spilled out.

I became so furious, that I found myself inching towards physical violence. I yearned to destroy things, to take my anger out on solid, physical objects. No, I realized with a shock,

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I want to destroy my mother. I wanted my mother out of this house, but if I must be denied that, I at least wanted her out of my room. I hollered louder and demanded she exit the only place that seemed to belong to me.

I found myself grasping a Nook. It had been a present from my mom some time ago. As my fingers wrapped around the green-leather cover, I found myself instinctively hurling it towards her. I realized as it left my hand that I didn’t want to hurt her, but it was too late. The solid e-reader collided with my mother’s face, splitting her lip.

A look of absolute pain and betrayal crossed my mother’s face. She grabbed her lip, turning away from me. She ran to her room and slammed the door. Guilt began to grow inside me, yet my anger was stronger. The only thing that seemed logical for me at the time was to leave. To get out. To run away. So I did.

I raced downstairs, shoved my boots on, grabbed a coat, and headed out my front door. My sister screamed for me, asking where I was going, begging me to stop.

“Madison! Stop! Mom!” I heard her cry as I slammed the door behind me. I didn’t even glance back.

My whole world seemed out of focus, nothing making sense. The only thing I understood was my own pain, my own angry and unrelenting desire to be saved. My destination was the only safe place I knew: my dad’s house.

He lived approximately a mile away from my mother, but at the time, it didn’t really matter to me how far away he lived. I would have walked 1,000 miles to get to his home. I craved the safety and comfort I knew only my father could give me. I longed for my superhero to swoop in and rescue me.

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So I ran down the street in the middle of the biting cold night. It was mid-November, and I saw my breath in the air. It came in short pants as I willed my legs to carry me farther. Eventually, I had to slow to a walk. I made my way out of the neighborhood, but every few paces I would glance back, terrified I was being followed.

Eventually, my mom pulled up behind me. “Madison, get in the car,” she growled firmly through the rolled-down window.

“No,” I retorted furiously. I kept walking.“Get in the car!” My mom yelled at me. I simply ignored

her, fighting the anger that threatened to consume me. “I’ll ground you for so long you won’t even know why you were punished when your punishment is up!” She raged.

I glanced over and glared. “I don’t care,” I hissed, turning back towards the road and quickening my pace.

“Madison Alexandra DeCamp!” She called, still next to me. “If you don’t get in this car right now, I swear, I’ll call the cops!” She yelled.

I swerved towards her, letting my fury leak out again. “I don’t care!” I screamed at her. “You’ve already taken away everything I care about! Going to jail would be better than living with you!” I turned and sprinted away from the car, refusing to look back. My tears ran fresh.

I quickly came to the freeway I had to cross to get to my father’s house. There was a crosswalk, but I didn’t wait to press the “walk” button. It was so late at night, no one was driving, so I just crossed.

After I made it to the other side, I knew I was more than halfway to my dad’s house. Mom pulled up next to me again.

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“Madison, please just get in the car,” she begged. All the anger vanished from her voice, and she looked at me desperately. So, she’s trying that method now. I thought. Hah, screw you. It’s not gonna work.

I glared over at her and said one of the most hurtful things I have ever said to my mother. “Go to Hell,” I said firmly, my voice dripping with venom. My mother blinked, slightly taken back. I just turned and kept on walking. My mom stopped driving next to me after that. She just trailed behind.

I neared my dad’s house; I was freezing, my legs and arms numb. Yet I didn’t care. The only thing that seemed significant to me was getting to my dad’s house. Dad would make it better. Daddy would save me. Of this, I was certain.

Suddenly, I saw my dad’s car coming from the other direction. A spark of hope ignited joy in my heart. My father had finally come to save the day! I sped up and walked towards his car. However, the second I looked through the windshield and met my father’s eyes, I froze.

My father looked… Almost angry. No, not angry. Heart-brokenly pissed. He gazed sternly out the window, and the way he looked at me revealed he hurt terribly. He stopped the car and climbed out, slamming the door. I started to back up, then realized I had nowhere to go. I was heading to his house, but he was here. And he didn’t look happy with me.

“Madison, get in your mother’s car,” he said firmly.His betrayal stung. It was my father who always saved

me from my mother, but here he stood, sending me back to her. Don’t you love me anymore? I thought desperately. What have I done? Am I not I good enough? Why are you doing this?

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I backed up even quicker, tears flowing until his image blurred. I found myself suddenly faced with the realization that I was afraid of my father. I was afraid of my daddy. I choked on my tears, but forced myself to speak. “No,” I said. I think I was saying “no” to his question, but part of me was also saying “no” to how he was looking at me, how he was speaking to me.

“Get in the car. Now!” my father almost growled. Almost. His voice had a soft undertone, a kinder intention. I hoped that, maybe, he regretted saying this to me. Still the part of me that experienced his betrayal consumed me, blocking out all other thoughts or emotions. I turned and bolted. I didn’t have a destination, I just had to get away. Away from my horrid mother, away from my treacherous father, away from all of these feelings that tormented me relentlessly.

I hadn’t taken two steps when I found my father’s arms around me. He yanked me towards Mom’s car. “No!” I screamed. “No, no!” I struggled against him, desperately trying to break free, but to no avail. My father forced me towards the car, opened the door, and shoved me inside. I fought until I was trapped in the car, and then, I let it sink in.

Next to me, my sister cried hysterically. My mother stood outside the car, her arms crossed and posture closed off as she talked to my father. I shook as if I stood in the biting cold and could not manage to get warm. I considered getting out of the car and running, but to where? I realized now, no place on Earth could provide protection or safety for me now. The only person who had ever protected me had turned against me. I was alone. And with that realization, I broke; I gave in.

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Mom drove me home. I didn’t talk to her; I was still furious, but couldn’t find the will to express it. I couldn’t even find the drive to experience any of my emotions. I shut down, I numbed out, and gave into my darkness.

The next day, after a long day of school, I got home and my mother only spoke to me for a moment.

“Your father’s waiting outside. Pack your things.” She stared vacantly at me, and I glared back. A good night’s sleep had restored my energy and refilled my anger. Mom turned and headed up into her room, not looking back. I glared after her, then sprinted up to my room, throwing every possession I valued into a duffle bag. In less than ten minutes, I was heading downstairs with my backpack and a few other bags. I figured it would only be for the night or something though.

I came to the landing and my mother and father were in a hushed conversation. They shut up the moment they saw me. My mother looked at me heartbrokenly, and I sent waves of anger her way. She looked down then brushed past me.

“I love you,” she murmured as I passed, half a smile on her lips. I edged away from her, recoiling at the words. Well, I don’t love you, I hissed mentally. My mother disappeared into her room and I turned towards my father.

My father smiled at me. “Hey, Kiddo. Need any help carrying those?” He extended his hand. I handed over my duffle bag willingly. My father gazed at me affectionately, and I smiled back, but I knew it wasn’t the same, and it never would be. I mean, perhaps it looked the same from the outside, but it didn’t feel the same. Maybe Dad still loved

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me, and I still loved him, but he had pushed me away. Dad had let me down.

I got to Dad’s house and smiled, grateful to be out of the prison that was my mother’s place. “Dad, how long will I be able to stay?” I asked. I figured they had just decided to change our switching days or something.

“I’m not sure, Darlin’. Probably for a while.” The way he said it made it sound like “as long as you like”, and I grinned.

“Really?” I asked hopefully.He nodded. “Really.” He turned and started to walk into

his room, but he then stopped and turned around. “I love you, baby,” Dad murmured affectionately.“I love you too, Dad” I replied, knowing I love him but

did not fully trust him. My trust in my father had been buried under layers of hurt and heartbreak.

I spent the next few months at my father’s house. I eventually worked things out with my mother, and let go of all of that hatred and blame. I came to realize it was neither of my parents’ fault their marriage had ended. It was just that time. I began switching back and forth between the two of them again, but I never completely healed.

After this, I realized I needed to stop sitting around waiting for my dad to save me. When something went wrong, I learned to face and handle it on my own. I stopped asking for help in every situation, and I realized I could manage the world on my own.

To this day, I struggle with trusting people and I have a hard time asking for help, even when I really need it; I don’t want to have to rely on others to save me. I am determined to save myself, because I know no one else can save me. This

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is my life, and it’s my job to pick myself back up when I fall. At times, it’s hard, and I sometimes wonder how I’ll make it through, but I always do. I am capable of independence and I am able to lead myself out of the dark. I am the master of my life, and I’m not waiting around for my superhero to swoop in and save the day. I am my own hero, and finally, I save myself.

t

A Twisted Step of Fate

Roberto Garcia

t

-Dear Mom and DadI’m sorry. I have little time left and if you are reading this

then the chances for me aren’t good. But I‘m okay with that. I am tired of being such a burden, I just want to leave the world doing something good. I know you two can never forgive me for rushing the process. But I’m not asking to be forgiven, I’m just writing this to say goodbye. Because I don’t have the courage to say goodbye in person.

I’m sorry.I was in the hospital and my mother was growing wor-

ried. I had missed a week and a half of school. I played with my long, frizzy hair. I was going to cut it soon. I wouldn’t get into the police academy with hair down to my shoulders. Eventually, I got taken in and examined by an older Hispanic nurse who asked me for symptoms. I told her fever, aches, and pneumonia. She took some blood and did a couple tests.

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The doctor came in with a few charts and he asked about tingling. I told him every now and again.

He looked me and my mother in the eyes, preparing to give me the worst news of my life. “I’m sorry to tell you, ma’am, but your son has the HIV virus, and he has gone on too long without treatment,” said the doctor.

I quickly responded. “But, how? I haven’t—”“I’m not accusing you of anything. There is more than

one way to get the virus. There is a story of a child who got it from his dentist,” he interrupted. I developed theories on how I got AIDS, but my mind soon grew clouded with other things; where or how I got the disease just didn’t matter.

“How much times does…he have left?” asked my mother with tears welling in her eyes.

“A couple months at the most. There are some drug trials you can sign up for,” the doctor said while he handed my mother a few pamphlets. “What you do now is up to you and your son.”

The drive home was excruciating. I did my best to not cry in front of my mother, but she didn’t give me the same luxury; the makeup ran down her face as if she’d been in the rain. Her eyes grew red and puffy. She put her head on the wheel a few times. I was afraid that she was going to crash. It may have been the hardest moment of my life to not cry in front of my sobbing mother.

When we got home, I saw my father’s Toyota in the driveway. My mother ran into the house, her hands caked with running makeup. I did my best to calmly walk into my room. I nearly broke down when I walked in to see my mother and father caressing each other in tears. My eyes

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began to succumb to the pressure beneath their ducts. It was as bad as holding in a full bladder. A single tear burst out like in a bad movie, running down my cheek. I turned the corner into my room, fell onto my bed and unleashed into my pillow, then suppressed my screams until my voice gave out. I was going to die, and even if I tried to fight, I wouldn’t be allowed into the police academy. The seventeen years of my life were useless; my childhood was just some build up to no pay off. I looked around my room with all my favorite things: the Scarface poster on the door, my newest poster for Miami Vice, and my Twisted Sister concert tickets. It was in a few months. I bet I wouldn’t make it to the concert. I spent a lot of time making an outfit, adding everything: the tight purple and black pants with the X from my shoulders to waist, even the pom-pom shoulders. It felt like a gigantic waste of time, but I did eventually make some use of it.

I turned around on my bed and looked out the window, just to see if Ash was there. He was. He wasn’t selling to anyone that time.Immediately after the academy, I planned to arrest him like Crockett and Tubbs, get experience for a future career in vice, and start off my career with a big bang.

My father barged into the room, my mom right behind him, pamphlets in hand. His eyes were red but his face was dry, probably wiped his face with a rag to be the strong one for my mother. He was starting to go bald and this stress wouldn’t help. For a second I was happy; I at least wouldn’t lose my hair. “Don’t worry, Donald, we are going to fight this to the very end; it doesn’t matter the cost.” My mother’s makeup was still running, which reminded me of Twisted Sister’s make up after a concert.

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“No.” I said calmly. I didn’t want to die for a fleeting cause. The doctor said himself that I had a few months at most. I didn’t want to take experimental drugs and die in agony with false hope.

My dad’s hint of sorrow washed away with a coat of anger, “Why? Maybe one of the trials can save you!” Tears flowed hot down his cheeks. He always had a temper. He was always the strong one, but he couldn’t keep the persona. This gave me a horrible feeling in my stomach, as if I was going to choke up the entire organ. But I swallowed.

“Dad, I said no!” I took a breath. “I’m…I’m the one dying. I know we can’t afford to take me to every hospital across the United States!” I shouted back. My dad lost his anger and started to break down, and I realized I was just making it harder. I took a breath and said somberly, “I am going to die. I don’t want to be remembered for putting you two in debt.”

My father moved his lips to speak, but he couldn’t form sounds. My mother intervened, forcing herself to be the strong one. “Come on, Henry. Let’s give Donald some time.” She held him as they walked out the door. I could only hear the faint noise of “why” coming out of him, hands over his face as they turned the corner to their own bedroom.

I felt as if I was going to choke on my stomach, with my heart in the stomach’s place. It was only 8:30, but I just wanted to lie in my bed and forget about everything that happened, at least for a couple hours. I had school the next day. Trying to find some positives, I figured AIDS would be a good excuse for just about everything. I could hear my parents arguing loudly, so I placed my pillow over my ear.

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In my dream, I saw a massive red Aurora Borealis over a golden lake. The glowing lights began to fall to pieces, the red lights falling like exploding watermelons hitting melted gold, creating black smudges. I looked down and saw there was a thin X from my shoulders to my hips, the two lines meeting just under my heart. I looked at the spotted lake with its glowing red rain. I walked, walked until I was forced to swim into the imperfect golden lake. It was difficult, like swimming in several tons of melted cheese. Just ahead of me, a piece of the Aurora Borealis landed, creating a black smudge. I floated still, then swam in.

I woke up, more like I sprang up from the bed. I put my hands over my face and shook myself, then proceeded with my standard morning routine: brush teeth, shower, shave, and fritz up my long hair until it was a nice poof over my shoulders, standard. When I got out of the bathroom, I was surprised to see my mother had made me a large breakfast of bacon, eggs, pancakes, and freshly squeezed orange juice. Normally I just eat cereal. I sat down to eat with my backpack on and wondered if this was an apology or a bribe.

She saw my predicament. “Go ahead and eat. We can’t convince you to fight, but I. . .” She took a moment to wipe a fresh tear before it went down her cheek. “We can make it as pleasant as possible. Once you’re done, your father will drive you to school,” she said almost in a whisper.

“What about work?” I asked. My father worked nights and spent his mornings sleeping.

“He called his boss last night and switched to morning shifts, so we can spend more time as a family,” she said, putting her hand on my arm.

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“Thank…” I choked on my words. “Thank you.” I contin-ued my banquet. Then my father came in, wearing a flannel shirt and dark brown slacks. He grabbed some pancakes and bacon. My mother took some pancakes and eggs. We ate breakfast as a family.

“Now that I am on day shift, we will be doing this every morning. That okay?” said my dad.

“Yeah, that’s great,” I responded“And if you’re up for it, we’ll go to the beach.”“Yeah, sounds like fun.”“Maybe you could even get your friends to come,” he

said, finishing his coffee. He then looked at his watch. “We got to go, you ready?” I nodded, and we headed to the Toyota. It’s strange to say I was excited for school. I would be sick, and it would only get worse, but maybe I would survive for a few more months, graduate from high school before I died. The car ride was mostly quiet until my father said, “So, um. . . Is there anything you want to do?” He paused for a moment. “With what you have left. You know like art or writing, maybe taking pictures?”

The question gave me a pounding feeling in my stom-ach, “Maybe just graduate high school, I think. I don’t know. I just want some, some final triumph you know. Something good to go out on so people remember me more fondly, you know?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” he said before parking out front. I begged him not to walk me into school, but he refused to listen. I did not want to see him cry again, but he stayed strong that morning. We drove past the student parking lot. I looked for a big red truck our whole group would be with.

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I was worried about my friends’ reactions to my sickness, but I’d done so much for them. I thought they would all sob, but the sorrow would wash away.

I saw Mr. Jacobson, my math teacher, at the school entrance. I was hoping to wait until school started to tell him that I was dying. It was strange to see him at the school entrance, seemingly waiting. He had a scared look across his face. “Hey, Donald!” he called.

I walked toward him, my father right behind me. “Yes, Mr. Jacobson? I’m sorry to say I didn’t finish the homework, I’ve had some things on my min—”

“We don’t want you coming to school anymore,” Mr. Jacobson interrupted.

My father erupted before I could even process what he said. “Wait, what? Why!” he said. I looked back at his face, already red.

“You see, Janet told us…We have talked about it and we are just not comfortable with you attending here anymore. We are afraid that you’ll spread it through the school.” Janet was my mother’s best friend. They didn’t stay in such high regards.

“What right do you have to ban my son?”“Mr. McCloud, please calm down,” pleaded Mr. Jacobson.“I will calm down when you let him pass!”“Mr. McCloud I can’t…I…”I could see the pale color spread through Mr. Jacobson’s

face, and the anger spreading across my father’s. I walked away. I didn’t want to be there while they argued about me. I wanted to yell myself, but my father took that from me. I couldn’t take it. I ran, ran until I was out of breath, which

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wasn’t very far. I only made it to the student parking lot. Then I saw it. Jason’s big red truck that we called Clifford.

He was parked, the whole gang in the back. Fred, Mike, and Pam. I’d had a crush on Pam for years at that point, but a future with her would be nothing more than a delusion, especially then. Even if she had mutual feelings, which I knew she didn’t, it wouldn’t be fair to her. Jason looked surprised to see me. I ran up to him to tell him the situation but stopped myself. I didn’t want to start off so down. Fred got first words. He looked a little wary.

“Hey…Don, what’s going on?” He looked at Jason with a stare of remorse.

“Well, you know, people being dumb with a bad situation. I have something to tell you.” I stopped for a second to think out my words carefully, and decided to keep them in the dark. “My family is going to the beach this weekend, you guys want to—”

“I’m sorry, but, Don, we can’t be seen with you anymore,” Jason rushed to say.

I was left dumbfounded. “But…but why?” was all I could muster.

“Your mom told Pam’s mom everything yesterday, and, what, you didn’t find it important enough to tell us?” said Jason. Janet was Pam’s mom.

I realized my mistake and responded, “I was going to tell you, honest. It’s just that—”

“Okay, it is not just that you lied. It’s that you are now a sick animal who could give it to one of us. Like, if you share a drink with me? What, you want to accidently give me AIDS?” I was about to explain the ways to contract the

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disease, but he spoke again, “Not to mention we cannot just be seen with you anymore. We can’t be seen with someone who, you know, who is a fa—”

“Do you all think this?” I interrupted with dry air. By the looks on all their faces, they did. Whatever sorrow I had inside was replaced with pure infuriation, “You abandon me now when I need you guys the most!” I said, my eyes now watering and burning on my cheeks. “I have always been there for you, all of you! Mike, who took the blame when your par-ents found the photos? Fred, who pushed you and Christine together? Mike, who took you in when your parents kicked you out? Pam, who has always been there for you through everything?” I had to take a deep breath before I got to him. “Jason, who was there for you when your mother died? You can’t give me the same luxury?” I inherited my father’s temper.

Jason’s swing caught me by surprise. He swiped at the dip between the nose and right cheekbone, knocking me to the ground. The rest of the group remained quiet. Jason was always the unofficial leader of the group, so of course he would be the only one bold enough to swing at a sick kid.

Everyone has their limits. The rage transferred from words to the rest of my body. I got on my feet and crashed into him, slamming his back onto Clifford’s front bumper, then I launched my own punches, bloodying his face. One hit his nose; it cracked beneath my left fist. His cheek split with the impact of my right fist. I did my best to bust his rib cage with my left foot, feeling the pulsing blood on my knuckles.

Jason had a wet, red face. Fred and Mike pulled me back, both holding my arms behind me while I tried to fidget for freedom. Jason, with eyes like my father’s behind his broken

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nose, took a shot at my unprotected chest, bruising my rib cage. “I try to be—” he threw another shot into my stomach nearly forcing out my breakfast “—nice! And what do I get? No appreciation!” He kneed me in the stomach, “That’s the last time I try to be nice!” This time he took a shot at my eye, leaving it as purple as grape juice. “No, this is for Pam, who thinks you’re going infect all of us!” He hit me hard enough in the jaw to knock out a tooth. Jason then took a moment to look at my bleeding face. His knuckles were split and caked in my blood. He didn’t know all the ways the disease could be spread. I was not going to tell him. “And of course we don’t want to be seen with a fa—”

“Put him down! He’s had enough!” I heard Pam scream. “He doesn’t deserve that. Even diseased dogs don’t deserve to be beaten before they are put down.” I did my best to give the stink eye through my bruises and black eyes. She went up to kiss his cheek. My blood was dripping on the ground like a bad faucet. I may have been weak, but I somehow found the strength to spit on her face. She squealed and wiped it off. That got a reaction from Jason. He gave me another shoe to the jaw, making sure I really spit out blood. “Come on let’s go,” Pam said. Fred and Michael dropped me on the ground. They started to walk into school before Pam came back to kick me in the ribs and give me her own saliva.

“Is that all you got?” I screamed, unable to lift myself up. “I said, is that all you got,” I said quietly. “Is that what you give me?” They couldn’t hear me; no one looked back.

In a few minutes, I lifted myself and slowly limped towards the entrance of the school. My father wasn’t there. He was at the main office, yelling at someone else. I was

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tempted to run into the school and continue the fight. But, ultimately, I decided against it. I didn’t want to worry my parents more. I just headed for home. I would have run home if I could, but I was limping. It took me an hour to get home. I placed my shirt over my face to absorb my bad blood. When I got home, it was soaked, like my pillow after getting my wisdom teeth pulled out.

My mother was not home yet. I was thankful I had time to wash the blood and bandage myself. My reflection revealed the black eye, big purple bruises, and a busted lip. I couldn’t cover the missing tooth. I rinsed my face and grabbed the gauze from the cabinet. They’d gone through enough. I didn’t want them to see it fresh. I threw away the blood soaked shirt and climbed onto my bed and thought of the day. A surge of emotion flowed through my face, and for the second time, I rained into my pillow. It was a good thing that I was dying quickly because I had nothing left. I had no purpose. I wanted to make some kind of impression on the world, but the world didn’t want my imprint.

I rolled around on my bed to look out the window and saw Ash again. He was out there rubbing salt into an infect-ed wound. I wondered how long he stood out for. It was 9:30 a.m. and I had seen him standing at that corner at midnight. Jack approached him, shirtless, more bone than flesh. He used to have some of the whitest teeth, but they were gone. How could Jack already blow through his supply? He bought from the dealer the day prior. A small idea itched at the back of my mind.

With my mom gone and dad absent, I grabbed a small stash of money from under my bed, and rushed outside. Ash

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was just across the street from my window. I got out the front door and walked towards him, doing my best to look calm. I quickly glanced around to be sure no one was out. All the kids were at school and most of the adults were sleeping or at work.

With a faded jean jacket and jeans with a white under-shirt, Ash looked like a greaser from The Outsiders. He met me with a forced smile, showing off his yellow teeth, almost as if he gave Jack his mouth. “Hey, kid, seen you around. It was only a matter of time before you came to me. Anything catch your eye?” He opened the jacket to show off an assort-ment of narcotics. He had bags taped to the yellowed fur under the jacket.

“Um?” I said reluctantly. Struggling for the right words before I just blurted, “Marijuana.” By the look on the dealer’s face he was caught off guard by my use of that term. Then he laughed.

“You nervous? You don’t need to be scared of me, but if you are…Well I have the right thing to calm your nerves,” Ash said reaching into his jacket. I heard a loud clank, then saw a large butterfly knife, a knife that could carve a frozen turkey. “Oops,” said Ash as he scooped up the knife. “That’s what I get for putting it up with tape. Don’t worry, I’m not going to beat you up. I see somebody else did that,” he said pointing at my face, then taped the weapon back onto his jacket. Once it was secure he continued, “Since you got the hell beat out of you I will give you the ‘anesthetic’ discount. And since it is your first time, with me anyways, you get what I like to call the ‘contact high’ deal. You don’t get that from your local Walmart. Well, some do. I have a friend who does his works at Walmart.”

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I forced a laugh and took a deeper look at the bag of cannabis. It seemed to have something else in it. I had to hide my curiosity. He put more toxic materials in his prod-ucts. He would probably slip ecstasy into his cigarettes.

I noticed the movement of his hand, flapping his fingers to his palm. I took out the money reluctant. But I unloaded 20 dollars. He again flapped his fingers towards his palm. I placed another. This satisfied him. He placed the money into his front pocket.

He then stood still on the corner as if I was not there. He was done with me. I stood for a few more seconds before he gave me a menacing look to get lost. I couldn’t end it there! My heart was pumping in my stomach. I had to know more in order to go through with it. I couldn’t think of the right words. How do you start a conversation with a drug dealer? “Hello you sell drugs, what are your hobbies?” The first step is always the hardest.

“Do you have a name?” I erupted. My yelp got Ash to jump.

“You don’t need to know my name. You know what you need to know: my inventory,” he said while patting his jacket.

“Yeah, but…” I did my best not to stutter, trying to come up with an excuse to learn more about him. “If I am to be a regular…I would prefer to know you better. It would mean more business for you. Don’t be so impersonal. I don’t need your life story, but a name would help,” I said in a frantic haze.

“Fine. You can call me Ash. Nice to make your acquain-tance,” Ash said in a sarcastic tone. He took the bait. Ash pinched an imaginary skirt and gave a bow as if to royalty.

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I figured I could ask what was on my mind then. “So you will be a…regular thing, right? You are not leaving anytime soon?” I wanted nothing more than to know he would be gone. I was hoping that he would soon retire. Sure he would get away, but at least he would stop giving me a reason to do what I was thinking.

“Are you kidding? No way. There is way too much mon-ey to be made here. It seems I get a new customer every day. And they all become usuals. So yes, I am not leaving anytime soon. Don’t worry, you will be able to get your ‘marijuana’ from me anytime you like. And if for some reason I am not here, you can look for my friend in Walmart; he is the miserable cashier. Wait, that is every cashier. Right, he is the one selling. I should probably be more specific. Eh, you’d find him.”

I forced myself to laugh again. “Alright, that is good to know.” I said “thank you.” He gave another bow, now waving his arm in loops as he bent his back. He thought that he had gotten a new customer. He didn’t realize he had signed his own death warrant. It was official: I was going to kill him. When I got home, I looked out the window. He was still standing out there, calm like normal. It just didn’t matter.

I started planning. He had a big knife, but maybe I could bring my own knife, something from the kitchen should be fine. I needed to do more than just kill him. Go out with a bang, but just going to him didn’t have the pizzazz that I wanted, and what if I didn’t win? I wouldn’t want my headline to be “AIDS-stricken teen murdered, hate crime? Maybe.” I didn’t want to be a sad but soon-forgotten head-line. Maybe I could leave a note: “I’m going to fight the drug

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dealer across the street. If I die, please don’t call it a hate crime against me just because I have AIDS.”

I then remembered my parents. It would not be fair to them. I had to give them something to remember me by. Something to say goodbye. They would never let me go and kill myself. I sat down and began to write a note: I’m sorry, I nee—. I crumpled the paper and threw it in my trash. I grabbed another paper. I started writing Dear mom and dad, I can’t go on like this, I won’t go on like this, but— too much detail about the murder. I threw that paper. I gave up for the moment and went back to my thoughts.

I would be happy if my legacy was “AIDS-stricken man takes last chance to stop the tyranny of a local drug dealer.” That would show the world that I had worth, and my par-ents could say that I died trying to do good. I wanted to be remembered. But being remembered took some pizazz. I then looked at my Twisted Sister outfit. My mother came in the house. I forced myself to walk into the living room, and she saw my bruised and bandaged face. She cried again, but this time I had something else to preoccupy my mind other than sorrow.

I started training. I would look in the mirror and prac-tice my attacks, prepping, doing push-ups, but not too many push-ups. I had lost a lot of body mass. One day, I couldn’t physically get out of bed. I spent the entire day in the bath-room, unable to keep food down. Another I spent frozen in my bed. My mother, God bless her, was always there for me with a bowl of soup ready. She and Dad wanted to fight my school but gave up when I told them I didn’t want to be further victimized.

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To my mother, I had lost my will to live, letting my body die without a fight. We didn’t go to the beach. We barely ate together. I just couldn’t function. To them, I was already a corpse. I felt like a burden. Every night, I would hear the faint sound of crying. Some nights, I couldn’t help but join in. The only thing that kept me fighting was Ash. When at my bleakest, I would look out and see him there selling. I have to thank Ash for being the only reason I would pry myself out of bed. I practiced lines for the fight, such as “How about you sell this!” and when he is on the ropes I’d say “This is my ecstasy!” I never entertained the idea that I would survive the encounter. I went draft after draft with the note, but nothing ever fit for a suicide note. Survival didn’t cross my mind. Even if Ash won, he could not come back to his murder scene. Dying in a fight would be better than in a hospital bed.

Two weeks passed. I never left the house. I decided to put on the Twisted Sister costume. I hadn’t worn it since I originally made it a few months prior, and my weight lost became abundantly clear. It was too big for me. The X on the chest revealed my bony figure. Back when I made it, I still had a gut, so it fit me as well as it would have fit Dee Snider. But now I was a twig inside an X. The pants were a bit too baggy as well. The only part of the costume that still fit was the pom-pom shoulders.

I heard my mother through my door. Her voice was faint, “Donald, your father and I are going to the store. Is there anything that you want?” In reality, they were going to a group meeting for lost kids. I had found that pamphlet earlier.

“No Mom, I’m okay. I’m…I’m okay,” I said genuinely. I witnessed my parents walking to the car. I knew they were

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talking about me. My dad started crying the second he got into the car. My thoughts at the time were, don’t worry, Dad you won’t have to worry about me dying anymore. They drove off into the darkness. I looked towards Ash’s corner and he was out there again. It was the day.

I stood frozen at my front door, unable to move, my palms spread out on my door, shaking horribly. My heart was slamming in my stomach. My whole body moved with each beat. The news headings came back to mind: “AIDS-stricken child in goofy outfit found today in a park dumpster.” I would really be gone. And worse, what would happen if I were to survive? “AIDS-stricken child to spend the rest of his life in a federal penitentiary.” I pushed myself to my body’s depths but that wasn’t much.

I became angry and threw the kitchen knife into my room. I went to pick it up, then I saw the small bag of weed underneath my bed. I picked up the cannabis with my hands shaking as much as my chest. Looking into it, I knew there was more than just marijuana in the bag. I thought it could make the rest of my useless existence peaceful.

A tear fell on the small baggie. To butcher the words of Twisted Sister, I guess I was just going to take it. I let myself fall face first into my now-yellowed, feather-filled oasis. I took a look outside to see what Ash was doing. He tripped a kid riding past him on a bike who looked no older than thirteen. This sprang my tingling body up. He helped the kid up and gave him a bag, a bag of what I assumed were pills; from that distance I could not tell. My vertebrae seemed to grow back out in that one moment of anger. Without even thinking, I threw the baggie into my trash.

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I halted, and I remembered I needed to write my parents, to say goodbye. I looked at the crumpled paper on my desk. I opened it. It wasn’t amazing, but I had no time. I dropped the letter on my desk, and ran out. No going back.

I burst out through my door, completely forgetting the knife. All I had on my mind were the words. No more. I will not allow this to happen anymore, not here, not while I’m…alive. I ran outside, fatigue the last thing on my mind. I went from angry to infuriated when I saw the tripped kid had complete-ly disappeared from vision. No more, no more. I calmly walked towards Ash. The only thing allowing visibility was the street lights. My mane of golden hair cast a shadow over my eyes. Ash was not able to see the anger hiding behind my gold locks.

He looked happy to see me. “Hey kid!” he said with a calm enthusiasm. “What, are you going to a concert? Well, I have got the right thing on hand for just that situation. I got something I like to call the ‘David Bowie.’” All my comebacks had evacuated my mind. Only a child would throw quips before he tried to kill someone. Only the garbled words of Dee Snider came to mind. “I’m not gonna take it.” I butchered the words under my breath.

“What?” Ash said. I was close enough for Ash to see my extended frown. The almost cartoony upside down grin would have given Cruella de Vil a run for her money. “What’s wrong kid?” I wasn’t going to take it.

“No!” I boomed out my throat.“You not satisfied with my supply? I’ll tell you what, I

have some stuff I call Beatlemania—”“I ain’t gonna take it,” I roared, still butchering the lines

but that no longer mattered. My knuckles met his left

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cheekbone with as much force as I could muster. Ash fell. His face slammed into the nearby chain fence. I whispered, “Anymore.” My teeth were firmly latched together; my mouth felt as if all my teeth were going to shatter.

Ash lifted himself up. His face looked as if it was on an extra-large waffle iron. “Son of a—

His words were met with the heel of my boot. “Your goal is never ending. We want nothing, not a thing from you!” I could already feel the fatigue running through my body

I waited for Ash to get back up. He met my eyes with a cold slash somewhere on my stomach. I didn’t bother to look where. I knew that if I looked, I would get dizzy or vomit. I saw my diseased blood on his knife. Then the idea occurred to me: a way to take Ash out even if it meant that I died. I went to jab him in the side. But he was too quick, cutting me again somewhere on my ribs. Feeling a sharp pain somewhere else, I shifted for a less painful stance.

Ash grabbed my gold hair and threw me down. “This is what I get for being so friendly. I hope you like the dump-ster at KFC,” he said with a small laugh. He was bent over above my body. He gave me another fist in the face. I opened my eyes and my nose was facing my right eye, whistling as I exhaled.

I gave out a shrill, “We have the right to choose!”He gave me an annoyed look, “Oh, shut up.” He kicked

my side.“There is no way we’ll lose!” I shouted to my lungs’ and

throat’s limits, shocking him enough to jump. I drove my right foot between his legs. Ash let out his own shrill scream and started to fall towards me. Diseased knife in his left

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hand, I rolled into the street and heard the knife clink next to me. I used the sidewalk to lift myself. Ash stood up as well. I began to walk to him. He slashed at my body. I took bigger steps towards him, not flinching at the strikes or the pain. I felt like the Terminator.

Ash looked scared. I coughed and a copper taste entered my mouth. Ash was falling over his own feet, trying to back away. I kept repeating, “We’re not gonna take it. We’re not gonna take it.” I fell over him, causing him a lot of pain. I looked down and saw that he had made a cut across his chest. The knife was just out of his reach. My knee was on his stomach. He was in pain, but it wasn’t enough. I opened his jacket and grabbed as many bags as I could then sliced them over him. The stomach of his undershirt was covered in a blur of colors.

He knew what I was going to do almost instantly. He had fear in his eyes. I saw the fearful look and grew reluctant. I dropped the knife, then saw his arm move, knowing his next step, but choosing not to stop him. He swiped the knife and jammed it inside me. I didn’t see where, but I knew it was fatal. The pain was like nothing I had ever experienced. I used my fall to force the powders from his stomach to the cut in his chest.

He started twitching, flailing his body. I rolled off of him, dragging myself to the chain link fence and doing my best not to look at the knife inside me. Resting my back on the fence that had made Ash look like a bad waffle. One of the neighbors ran out of the house. “Yeah, now they come,” I said quietly. When they got to me, all I could see was a hint of red and gold. I looked at my hands and realized that they

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were badly cut. My body began to shut down. I thought of my parents. I hoped the letter would ease some of their pain. It would make things worse at first, but they would be happy in the long run that they had it. My old friends would see that I was worth something. A world of pain flew across my body. If the neighbor did call the authorities, they wouldn’t make it in time. I knew that, and that made me happy. The pain throughout my body started to fade. I started to fade. I could barely see my neighbor over me. With the last of my strength, I told him, “We’re not gonna take it, no, not anymore.”

t

It was about three in the morning, and I couldn’t sleep. I thought it was because I had watched a scary movie the night before, or because I thought that my sister was going to have her baby, but whatever the reason, I felt like crap. I peeked over to see if my brother Ammon was sleeping in his bed, and, of course, he wasn’t. He worked at Texas Roadhouse with his old mission buddy Stewart, who lived in Springville. Every night they worked late together they would come back to our house and watch a movie. By the time it was over it would be really late, so Stewart would just spend the night. I started to think that I should go downstairs and watch the movie with them, but something held me back. Finally, I closed my eyes and fell asleep.

I opened my eyes and saw that it was only six in the morning. I got out of my bed and went into my parents’ bedroom to ask them if we could get our day started and

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have scripture study, but when I walked in there they were both gone. I thought nothing of it because it was summer. They would go to the temple this early in the morning all the time. My next option was to go to my sisters’ room to ask them where my parents were. I walked in their room and they were both awake.

When my sister Hannah saw me, she said, “Jonah, Mom and Dad are at the hospital. Ammon was hiking last night and fell off a cliff and got hurt pretty bad.” I first thought that it was a complete lie, so I called her on it: “Oh yeah, because Ammon just loves to go hiking. He hates the out-doors.” But by the look on her face, I knew she was telling the truth. My mind started turning and I thought of all the things that could have happened. I first started to think that he would be fine, and, on a Christmas in five years, my dad would be complaining about how he had to go to the hos-pital and pick Ammon up from the hospital at four in the morning. Then I started to think that if he got hurt bad enough, he might end up being a vegetable the rest of his life—but in all of those scenarios my brother was still alive. I went downstairs to eat something, but my stomach didn’t feel good enough. It was then when I realized that this was why I had felt so crappy the night before.

I decided to go sit on the couch and wait until some-thing happened. What if he didn’t make it? I wondered. What would my life would be like if my sibling died? My sisters came downstairs with my parents on speaker phone. My dad asked my sisters if I was there, and they both answered, “Yes.” They started to talk about something, which sounded like blabber nonsense to me, but then I heard the words: “Your

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brother has died.” They hit me like a punch to the chest. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t move. I could only sit motionless.

Both of my sisters started to cry, and finally I got the strength to move. I got up to leave and went to my room. I sat there for what felt like hours when I heard my two older sisters with their husbands walk through the front door. I came down, and we all went into the family room and sat. Our good family friend Clete came over and stayed for about a half hour telling us how sad it was.

Our parents finally got back from the hospital, and my dad decided that we should all go out to eat breakfast. While we were driving to the restaurant, I could only think of the times when Ammon and I would have bets to see who could guess the score of BYU’s football games. Whoever lost would have to buy the other person breakfast the next week. I was never good at guessing the score, so every time we made a bet, he would win. But every time he would say, “I got this, Jonah. I just play so I can spend time with you in the mornings.” Thinking about that almost brought tears to my eyes.

By the time we got back, our neighbors had found out what happened with Ammon from the news, and came to tell us their version of how sad it was. A few more people came by and brought us food while my parents left to go do something for the funeral. An hour passed, and then Stewart and Drew (another of Ammon’s close mission buddies) came by with a big box of food and told us about Ammon and all the good experiences they had shared with him. They stayed for about an hour and then left.

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About a half an hour after Stewart and Drew left, my parents got back. My mom walked through our front door alone, and when I asked, “Where’s Dad?” she then exclaimed how some “news people” came over and wanted to get some information on Ammon, so my dad was telling them to leave. My brother hated anyone who would go out of their way to get news, pictures, gossip, etc. Ammon and I would always joke about how there was a special place in Hell for the policemen who wrote tickets and anyone who would go out into the field with a camera to get the news. Now that he was gone, his least favorite people were stalking him.

The next day, all of our family came over and acted like they knew Ammon so well, like they were the ones who had lost a family member and not us. In reality, Ammon didn’t even like them. None of us did. We only tolerated them because our parents made us, and the fact that I had to spend time with them was enough to kill me. I really didn’t want to spend time with anyone, so I thought that if I had to, then I might as well do something that I liked. We all went downstairs to our basement and played ping pong. Ammon, my other brother Aaron, and I used to go downstairs at one in the morning during the summer and would blare music and play ping pong. We would always try to see who could get the furthest away from the table and still be able to keep playing. Ammon was always the best at this. Ammon was probably the best at playing ping pong out of the three of us, but he definitely wasn’t the cleanest player. When he would play against me, he would serve it like an actual ten-nis ball to make me think that he was going to smack it at me as hard as he could so I would flinch. Then, when I would

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flinch, he would tap the ball gently over the net, so it was his point. But if I didn’t flinch, he would serve it hard and actually hit me.

That night, his work threw some memorial for him, and we all had to go. It lasted an hour but seemed like it would never end. After it was over, my dad came over to me and gave me a hug. I embraced him for what seemed an eterni-ty and felt this overwhelming feeling. Almost like when I found out about my brother, but more peaceful. I started crying into my father’s arm and realized that it was the first time that I had cried since knowing of my brother’s passing. I had finally come to the realization that I would never see my brother again until I die. That night, I went into my parent’s room and asked them if I could see my brother one last time. The funeral was going to be a closed casket for obvious reasons. They told me that I could see him before the funeral started, but only when no one else was around.

It was finally the day of the funeral, and I was ready to see my brother. We finished setting up all the tables and other stuff that I didn’t care about. People started coming and telling us how sorry they were for his passing. They went on to tell us all the good things that he had done, and I was just sitting there thinking to myself, What kind of nonsense is this? You have never met the guy, and now you’re telling me about all the things he has done? I couldn’t even believe it. I felt like they were saying it more for themselves than for my family.

An hour passed, and I just wanted everyone to go because I wanted to see my brother one last time before he was submerged into the ground. Finally, everyone left. My mom said that there wasn’t enough time and that we had to go to

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the actual “funeral” part of the meeting. My bishop went up to the podium even though he wasn’t in the program and started talking about who knows what, but it certainly wasn’t about Ammon. Then our stake president, who also wasn’t in the program, stood up and talked for about another hour on how he only met Ammon once, but he knew “that he was a good man.” Finally, it was over, and it was time to go to the grave where he was to be buried. I then knew I wouldn’t get to see him.

That night, while I sat in my bed, I started to wonder about the last moments we spent together. What was the last thing that I said to him? The day before he died, I went out to get new shoes. I had bought a pair of Sperry’s. My broth-er and I both loved those shoes. We always talked about how we would get some, but never did. When I got my shoes, I was ecstatic to show him. When I got back to my house, he was on his way out to go to work. Before he left, I told him to first come see my new shoes. When he saw that they were Sperry’s, he told me how they were “sick” and how now he needed some. Then he left. When he left, I said goodbye, but I didn’t say, “I love you.” My parents had always carved in me and my siblings’ brains to say “I love you” to each other when one of us left the house. I had always said it whether I meant it or if it was just habit, but I didn’t say it then. The last time I ever saw him, I didn’t get to let him know how much I loved him.

It’s now two years later, and I still beat myself up about not saying “I love you,” but not as much as how I thought all those bad things about the people who came to the fu-neral. My mom would always tell us how funerals were for

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the living, not the dead. I guess I just didn’t understand that until it was too late. I never realized that they came for us, not for Ammon. They all missed work just to come tell us about how sorry they were for our loss, but I was too stupid to realize that. I was only thinking about myself. Most of the people at the funeral were from his mission, people who he had baptized, or childhood friends from California. Whatever the reason was, they came to show us how sad they were for us because we had lost someone. If tragedy strikes again, I can only hope that this experience helps me not be so selfish.

t

Life is like a muscle. When a muscle is strained and weakened, it will always grow back to be stronger. As we do hard things, we are weakened, and we need to grow and come back stronger. Have you ever failed at something that you really tried hard to do? Remember that if you are not chal-lenged and broken down, you don’t grow as much. When you struggle at something, it is like building up a muscle, and having it grow stronger. Everyone should try hard, and if they fail, they should see this as an opportunity to learn, try again, and keep trying until they succeed. I learned this lesson when I attempted something that was important to me.

One of the hardest things I have ever done was the 50/20, a fifty mile walk that must be completed in twenty hours or less. I was determined to do it, and when I was starting out, I didn’t think it would be hard at all. Friends

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always seem to make difficult things a little more bearable, and I was lucky enough to have a friend who was as crazy as me by my side. While my friend Caleb and I were knock-ing down the miles, we found ourselves talking about the weirdest subjects to pass the hours. “What are some of your favorite scripture stories?” he asked me. That gave us lots of things to think about for a while. “Name your favorite movie,” I continued our conversation. Mile after mile, hour after hour, Caleb and I thought of things to talk about.

I stopped thinking about how far we had gone. I just knew that we would be walking all night long. I started to look forward to the sun coming up, and paid no attention to what time it was at that moment. “This really isn’t that bad,” I said to Caleb. Soon we got word that we had just completed the distance of a marathon, 26.2 miles. We were halfway there. I should have rejoiced, but knowing that I was only halfway did something to me. I couldn’t make myself think positively. I dwelt on the fact that we had to walk another twenty-four miles. Pain began to be more noticeable now and it was taking its toll on my mind. “Shouldn’t I be in bed sleeping about now?” I thought to myself. I was still determined to finish all fifty miles, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the things that were tearing me down. The drowsiness was unbearable. I wanted to sit down, curl up, and sleep—right there on the side of the road, but I knew that wasn’t possible.

Now it felt as if someone had added lead weights to my shoes. With every step it felt like my feet were wrapped in barbed wire. I wanted to stop to see if they were bleeding. I was sure that I had at least developed some blisters on them.

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I reached thirty miles. I’ve made it this far, I thought. Only have twenty more miles to go. Soon the sky started to lighten up. I could see the sun coming up behind the mountains. I had walked all night long and with the start of a new day, my tired aching body received new hope. With the rising of the sun I figured that I must be pretty close to the finish line. But I soon found out that I was dead wrong.

I’ve often heard runners talk about the moment in their race where they “hit a brick wall.” With my next step, I slammed into that imaginary wall that stood ten feet tall across my path. I now understood what they meant. I had reached the forty mile mark. It seemed like the sun had been up for hours. I told myself that I must be close to the finish line, but when I found out that I still had ten miles left to go, I felt weak, and wondered if I could ever make it.

Looking around me I noticed that Caleb and the others in the group that had kept me going started to split apart, and I was left alone. Alone…doing this alone was so much harder. I was quickly losing faith that I could make it to the end. Forty-one miles, forty-two, forty-three, forty-four. Nothing was left in me. With one hand on my family’s car, and Mom cheering from the driver’s seat, I gave up. I could not walk another step—I quit.

My family rooted for me. I was only twelve, and I had walked forty-four miles. They tried to convince me that that was a great accomplishment. I wanted to believe them, but all that I could think about was the fact that I didn’t com-plete what I was determined to finish. I felt like a failure. I wouldn’t let myself celebrate the forty-four miles I had walked that night.

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There was more to learn from this experience than I realized in the early hours of that new day. People fail some-times, even at things that are important to them. When a person fails, an opportunity to learn and grow awaits them. Pick yourself up, make a new goal, and keep trying until you succeed.

Although I felt like a failure, defeated and unworthy, I knew that I would have another chance to complete the 50/20. One year later, the opportunity came. The memory of the physical and emotional pain that I experienced one year earlier resurfaced. It was enough to make me not want to try it, but I had spent a year determined to do it and I wasn’t going to back down. I was one year older, and had experienced many things in that one year of my life. I was sure that those experiences made me stronger and that I could finally do it.

I lined up at the starting line with some of the same people. Most importantly, my entire family was there with me. My brother stood by my side, and my sisters were nearby, all of them ready to face the challenge along with me. I knew that my success not only mattered to me, but could possibly help them as well. This new determination fueled my drive to start strong and keep going. When the miles wore me down, singing and laughter picked me up and pushed me forward. Those behind us benefitted from our joyful wake.

Every emotion that I had felt just one year ago came back to me. My legs could no longer go on, yet this time there was more to me. I reached down inside and pushed forward.

Barely able to hold my head up, I finally saw the fin-ish line up ahead of me. Then I heard my brother’s voice

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challenging me, “Race ya!” He said with a grimace on his face. Soon both of us found strength somewhere down inside, and hobbling like ninety-year-old men, we crossed the finish line together. I felt a sense of overwhelming accomplishment and satisfaction. As I collapsed on the lawn, under the shade tree, I realized that I did it! I have a big medal on my wall now, but more than that, I know that I can do hard things.

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Prologue

The rain poured furiously on a lone, cloaked figure. He tramped up the rocky hillside, eyes fixed on the castle before him. A dagger hung from his belt.

He reached the castle’s door and tried to push it open. Locked. He shook it, the hinges rattling and squeaking frantically. A woman opened the door. The cloaked figure lunged, knocking her to the floor and issuing a blow to her head before she could utter a sound.

The man searched the castle until he found the room he was looking for. He entered and silently closed the door behind him.

“You killed my sons,” he said.Slowly, a man dressed in rich green turned to face the

dripping figure.

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“Your sons tried to abduct my daughter.”Silence. The dripping man leaned forward and said, “Just how

can you prove that, Lawrence? You have no evidence but your own blasted word.”

“How,” said the other man in a voice as steely and cold as a blade, “can you prove otherwise?”

The hooded man’s eyes flared. “I’ll see you hanged for this,” he said through clenched teeth.

“Ballock, you and I both know you’re a gambler and a drinker. No judge would take the word —”

“Of a low man like me over the word of the Chief of the Kennedy Clan?”

The hooded figure stepped close to the other man. “I swear by the blood of St. Anthony that you will pay dearly for this, Lawrence Kennedy,” he said, his body vibrating with anger.

With shaking hands he drew his dagger. In one swift motion, he plunged the dagger into the other man’s chest. Red seeped from the folds of slashed green. The cloaked man turned and walked towards the door.

An anguished cry of “Ballock!” echoed through the room.Ballock turned around.In a final burst of strength, the Chief drew the dagger

from his chest and hurled it at the cloaked man.The dagger hit its mark.

jPaul Cardell’s apartment had exploded with papers. His

phone was constantly ringing, and his head was pounding

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and pulsing with yet another migraine. An opened letter with official words on it lay on his desk, and none of them were good.

Paul sat at his desk, his head between his hands. He had an important question for his friend, who sat in a nearby armchair with glasses on his nose and a textbook on his lap.

“Willard, do you think I’m an idiot?”The pages of the book continued to turn.The question came again, louder and slower than before.

“Willard, do you think I’m an idiot?”Willard’s eyes popped up from the textbook. “Oh, um,

sorry Paul. Yes. I mean, no. I mean, I think that compared to some men, say Fillmore or Harding or Burr or Johnson or Jackson, you’re really a great guy. But when you’re compared to other men like Jefferson or Madison or Franklin or Locke or Washington, you’re um…”

An uncomfortable silence was followed by an empty chuckle from Paul. “That’s a compliment, I’m sure,” he said, “to be compared to history’s brightest, even if I am dim in comparison.”

“Of course,” Willard replied, retreating back into his book.“I guess the real thing I’m wondering is if the guy I’m

campaigning for is an idiot, and if I’m just wasting my time and any hope of a future campaigning career.”

“You mean the actor? Ronnie somethin’-or-other, right?”Paul couldn’t even manage an empty chuckle. “I need a

Tylenol,” he said, walking into the kitchen. He pulled a capsule out of his nearly empty bottle and filled a cup of water. He dropped the Tylenol into his mouth and was be-

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ginning to pour the water down his throat when he tripped over a stack of papers. His head slammed into the tile floor, and everything went dark.

jA voice in the darkness called Paul’s name.“Wh…where am I? Who are you? Wha…what’s going

on?” Paul asked. Before the voice could answer, Paul asked another question. “Am I dead?”

“No, Paul, you’re simply unconscious,” the voice replied. “It’s the only time I can communicate with the living.”

“Then are you dead?”“Not exactly.”“How can you be ‘not exactly’ dead? I’m pretty sure death

is a full-time commitment.”“It’s not the simplest of situations. I am neither dead

nor alive, but forever trapped in a state between this world and the next.”

“Then who…were you?”“In life, I was Lawrence Kennedy, Chief of the Scottish

Kennedy clan. But I cannot answer any more questions. We have little time.

“Six-hundred years ago, a gambling drunk named Ballock broke into my home to avenge the deaths of his sons, who I killed when they tried to abduct my daughter. Before he stabbed me, Ballock called out the name of St. Anthony. And when I threw the dagger through him, St. Anthony’s name set in place a curse. Because neither good nor evil had tri-umphed, we would remain without body or soul, without life

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or death, in neither earth nor the hereafter, until one of us upset this balance.

“And when one of us did upset this balance, the part of us left lingering in our current state would be reunited with our soul, and journey to our respective place in heaven or hell.

“But in order for this to happen, we would have to satisfy the nature of the situation in which our curse began. Because I killed all four of his sons, to satisfy the curse, Ballock would have to kill four of my male descendants, or I would have to prevent him from accomplishing this goal.

The voice grew softer, “Already Ballock has nearly accomplished his goal. In 1944 he convinced Joseph Ken-nedy Jr.’s Air Force rival Wilford Willy to detonate the explosive in his plane, killing them both. You of course know of the assassinations of the next two Kennedy brothers, John F. Kennedy and Robert F. Kennedy.”

Paul stopped John’s narrative. “Hold on a second. Are you telling me that this Ballock guy has been persuading men to kill your descendants so he can sink into a lake of fire and brimstone?”

“Paul, after being bound in this state for the past 600 years, Ballock has come to the conclusion that no torment in the afterlife could be worse than what he has already endured.”

“And why are you telling me all of this?”“Because I need your help to save the last of the Ken-

nedy brothers.”“Look, Lawrence, I…appreciate the compliment of

confidence, but I have two big problems with this proposal. The first is that I’m not a bodyguard or a detective or anyone who might actually be able to help you. The second is that

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I’d rather not have a child of stress and a bump on the head making me utterly ridiculous.”

“But Paul, your ancestry is linked to both Ballock and the Kennedy clan. That makes you the only person capable of saving Ted Kennedy’s life. All the detectives and body-guards in the world could do nothing to change his fate.

“Listen, I’m out of time…it will take the strength I’ve saved for centuries to make a physical manifestation. Oh, blast it. Look through the history of the other Kennedy brothers. I know that Ballock will use those dates to create the date Ted Kennedy will—”

jPaul’s eyes snapped open. Through the window, he could

see that the morning clouds had parted to reveal the rays of afternoon.

He rubbed his face, trying to bury the final remains of the absurdity that had been his dream. The thing bothering Paul about it was not the fact that it had happened, but the fact that part of him still believed it was real. He rubbed his face again.

Then Paul heard something move. His eyes darted around the room.

The papers he had tripped on were rising into the air. Paul watched, transfixed, as an invisible hand shredded the papers one by one. Soon they looked to be no more than a heap of ashes on the floor.

Paul shakily got to his feet and returned to the living room where Willard was still flipping pages in his armchair.

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“Willard,” he said, “what do you know about Ted Kennedy?”“Oh, not much. He’s a Democratic Senator from Mas-

sachusetts currently running for the Democratic nomination for President. He’s the brother of Lieutenant Joseph Patrick Kennedy Jr., President John Fitzgerald Kennedy, and then probable President Robert Francis Kennedy. The latter two were assassinated in their forties and Joseph Patrick Jr. was killed in action in World War II. Ted is the only surviving son of Joseph Patrick Kennedy Sr. He was —”

“Okay Willard, don’t drown me in facts. Have there been any…unusual circumstances surrounding him and um…assassination?”

“Well, he was pulled out of the wreckage of a crashed Aero Commander 680 in 1964 where the pilot and an aide were killed, and he escaped a submerged car that he drove into a river in 1969, but no, I am not aware of any threat to his life that wasn’t purely accidental.” Willard’s brow furrowed. “Paul, why have you gained this sudden interest in Edward Moore Kennedy and murder? You aren’t going to pull a Lee Harvey Oswald just because he’s running against your Ronnie guy, are you?”

“Of course not. I was just, well…”Paul was at a loss. If he were to tell his friend about his

ghostly encounter, perhaps Willard would be able to help him. But then again, Willard might think his mental state was what needed help.

He took the plunge. “Willard, I’m interested in these things because um…a 600-year-old Scottish ghost spoke to me while I lay unconscious on the kitchen floor. He wants me to save Ted Kennedy from an assassination that is being

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made possible by another 600-year-old Scottish ghost who killed the first ghost and set off a curse.”

Willard’s eyes were nearly as wide as his gaping mouth. “What did they put in your pill?” he asked, shaking his head.

“I know it sounds crazy, but you’ve got to believe me Willard. It’s true.”

Willard’s stared at Paul as if he was speaking a foreign language. Then something lit up his eyes, and his body straightened. “Paul, I know exactly how to know if you’re lying. Tell me all about this assassination, and if it ends up being consistent, then I suppose there’s no reason for me not to believe you. Lincoln, after all, might have lived to truly reconstruct the nation if he had listened to the warnings of his East Room dream. So enlighten me. What are the details of the assassination?”

“Well…” Paul said, cringing, “I, um, don’t exactly know anything about it…”

Willard pursed his lips and nodded, “That’s what I thought. Go get yourself unconscious again, and if your ghost reappears and can tell us anything about the assassi-nation, then we can have fun with it. I need to do more extensive research on the Kennedys anyway. I’ll compile a list of any relevant birth dates, death dates, inauguration dates, dates of—”

“Okay Willard, you have fun with that,” Paul said, walk-ing into his bedroom. He went unconscious in the most painless way he knew: he fell asleep.

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“Paul, I must tell you that I do not know if we will be able to speak again. So listen carefully. With every step Ballock takes to accomplish his final assassination, his power grows. He is still in the state of neither body nor soul, and as such, is a weakened form, but he is still growing stronger. You must be watchful at all times, for it won’t be long until he realizes you are helping me.

“The only thing I can do to help you now is give you what clues I know. Ballock delights in irony. I have no doubt that the final assassination will take place on the 600th anniversary of the day we should have died: March 7, 1380.”

“But that anniversary…that’s tomorrow!”“All the more reason to proceed with greater haste. The

rest of the details are a puzzle I cannot explain. Ted’s date of birth, his favorite place to go, and the average of his brothers’ dates of birth are the only clues I can give you. I pray that you may make use of them.”

jPaul woke with the words of “that’s it?” simmering on his

tongue. Nothing made sense. He didn’t know what those blast-ed clues meant or how he was going to figure them out. Come to think of it, he didn’t even know why he was considering any of this in the first place. He had a campaign to run. He didn’t have time or money or energy for something like this.

And yet, something within him spurred him onward. What it was he did not know—honor, duty, compassion, sleep deprivation—but he did know he could not abandon his quest.

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Paul returned to the living room to find Willard scrib-bling away in his notebook, a stack of books the size of the Empire State Building next to his chair.

“I got the information we need,” Paul said, “the murder will be on March 7th, and it’s somehow related to Ted’s date of birth, his favorite place to go, and the average of his brothers’ dates of birth.”

Willard smiled and shook his head. “What a straight-forward ghost. I suppose it makes it all the more fun to debunk it all.” Before Paul said another word, Willard had pulled out a calculator, and began muttering numbers aloud until he came to his conclusions. “If you add up the months and days and years as their respective digits, his brothers’ dates-of-birth average is 650. Oh, and—” Willard said, search-ing his notebook until his eyes found the right place, “his favorite place to go is an ice-cream shop.”

“Okay…what about his day of birth?”“If you add up the numbers, it equals 1,956. But that

just doesn’t feel right. There were no mathematical instruc-tions for this number, so I wonder if it’s supposed to just be taken as it is: 2221932.”

“Do you have any guesses about how they all tie together?”“Well think about it Paul. What we’re trying to determine

is the time and location of the planned assassination. Which one of those numbers could plausibly be a time?”

“The 650. But how would I know if it’s 6:50 a.m. or p.m.? And what does the other number mean?”

“Ask your ghost the first question. Go get your GPS to answer the second,” Willard said simply, Paul complied. “Type in 222 1932,” Willard said, “and then see what comes up.”

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Paul typed in the numbers, and two addresses came up. Paul selected the first one. It read: “The Boston Ice Cream Factory 222 North 1932 West, Boston, Massachusetts.”

Their eyes met. A moment passed in stunned silence until Paul said, “I’ll go to the nearest campaigning quarters and warn Ted Kennedy.”

“And how will you convince him? He wasn’t here for any of this, and it’ll seem an unlikely story.”

“I’ll think up something,” Paul said, brushing it off.“What do you want me to do while you’re gone?”

Willard asked.Paul thought about it for a moment. “Just stay here. If

I need something, I’ll call you in code, in case the ghost of Ballock listens to phone calls.”

Soon Paul was driving as safely over the speed limit as he dared. When he arrived at the campaign headquarters, he strolled towards the front desk, trying to look nonchalant. The woman at the desk did not immediately look up from her work, so Paul stood there, rocking back and forth on his feet until he said, “Um, excuse me, ma’am.”

“What can I help you with?” asked the woman, scrawl-ing notes onto a page.

“I’d like to know where Senator Kennedy is tonight.”The woman briefly looked at Paul, down at her paper,

and then back at Paul. She narrowed her eyes. “You’re one of Reagan’s cronies, aren’t you? Why do you

want to know Senator Kennedy’s location?”Paul inwardly punched himself. He’d forgotten to come

up with a back-story, and now he was visibly scrambling for an answer.

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“I just…wondered,” he said. “It’s, um, always a good idea to keep an eye on your opponents.”

The woman’s gaze became even more pointed. Finally she said, “If you really do want to find out where Senator Kennedy is, you can come to his rally on March 20.”

“But I need to know his location right now.”“Well, then I’m afraid I can’t help you,” the woman said,

raising a hand and beckoning a nearby guard. “Franklin will be able to help you in one regard, if you can’t do it yourself.”

Franklin advanced towards Paul, and Paul backed away, saying, “Alright, I got it.” He walked out of the building, went around the corner, and began searching for a back door. The only available entrance was a window. He took a deep breath. He said a quick prayer begging forgiveness for all the laws he was about to break. Then he began to scale the wall.

Before he had been climbing for more than a few seconds, Paul was lying on the ground. He hadn’t lost his footing or slipped. It was as if something had pushed him.

He rubbed his now-aching back and attempted to climb the wall again. This time whatever had pushed him waited until he had nearly reached the second floor. Then once again, he found himself falling until he again collided with the ground. Through his now-blurred senses, he could hear a voice murmuring behind him. He could only pick out bits and pieces of the conversation: “I found him—640 East 700 North—come immediately.”

Then, he lost all touch with the world around him.

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Paul woke up on the floor of a dark, windowless room. There had been no message from the ghost of Lawrence Kennedy. It took a second to put the pieces together, but when they clicked, Paul muttered a string of swear-words so foul they would make the most seasoned sailor blush.

“You’re finally awake,” rasped a voice from behind him. Paul stood and spun around to see the most disfigured face

he had ever seen. The face’s lips curved into a disgusting form resembling a smile. His words drained Paul’s body of all warmth.

“Now I can kill you correctly.” Paul mentally catalogued every Police Story episode he’d

ever watched as the man pulled out a cloth and began polishing a glistening pistol. He had to get out while he had the chance.

Words faltered from Paul’s trembling mouth. “Why do you want me dead?”

“You stand with Ted Kennedy. His brother is respon-sible for the Vietnam War, where I lost anything approximate to a human face. His next brother is responsible for the Teamsters crackdown, where I lost my father. I don’t want to lose anything else to those blasted Kennedys. Yes, he will die, my three assistants will see to that. My job, however, is to dispose of you.”

Paul readied himself as the man tossed the cloth to the floor, approached, and raised his weapon.

“Please sir,” Paul pleaded. The man cut him off. “Don’t waste your time, wretch.

There is nothing you can say that will change this.” The man’s finger slowly pulled backwards on the trigger, seconds from a release.

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Paul dove head-first at the man’s legs, knocking him onto the floor. The bullet that would have gone into Paul’s chest shattered a window instead. Before the man could recover, Paul was on top of him and held the pistol.

“You’ll tell me when your assistants will be at the Ice Cream Factory, or I’ll make good use of this pistol,” Paul said, sliding the gun to the man’s temple.

“You’re a cowardly rich boy. You don’t have the guts to kill.”

“Yes. I. Do. And. I. Will.” Paul said, articulating each word. He knew he couldn’t handle two assassins at once. Paul pulled the pistol out of the man’s ear and slammed it into the back of his skull, knocking him completely unconscious. Slipping the pistol in his pocket, Paul sped up a staircase and out of the building. He still had no idea where he was, or if he would be able to help the Senator in time.

He hadn’t taken more than a few steps before a dark wind pushed down on every part of his body. He fought back, but for every ounce of Paul’s strength, the force seemed to have twice as much. Soon Paul had collapsed onto the side-walk, but the wind would not subside. A Saint’s name burst desperately from his lips, and the force released its grip. He shakily stood, catching sight of a familiar bus stop. He knew exactly where he was, and he knew it would take everything he had to get to Ted Kennedy before it was too late.

Paul ran as he had never run before, his heart beat pounding in his ears, his legs hammering the ground. He darted down Houghton Street, then turned on to Pope Hill Avenue. But as he turned the corner onto Morrissey Bou-levard, he saw that he wasn’t the only one running.

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A lanky man in a business suit was rushing towards the shop. Paul summoned the strength of every muscle, tendon, and bone, and increased his pace. The two men grew closer with every second.

When the two men were just a few yards from each other, Ted Kennedy strode confidently out the door. Instant-ly, the man in the suit stopped. He pulled a handgun from his pocket.

“Senator!” Paul screamed. Ted turned to face Paul, and a bullet hissed through the air, barely missing his head. Ted called out for his security guards, but the sounds of a fight inside the shop told the story of the second and third assis-tants’ work. Paul pulled out his own gun as the man in the business suit cocked his back for another shot.

“Sir Assassin,” Paul said, “you have a choice. You can shoot the Senator, after which I will shoot you. Or you can drop your gun and live.”

“Or,” the assassin said, grinning, “I can shoot you and then shoot Mr. Kennedy and still live.”

The man released his grip on the trigger. Paul tackled the Senator. The bullet whizzed over the pair on the sidewalk, finally stopping in the shop wall. The man pulled back for another shot, and spat an expletive as he realized he had fired his last bullet.

Ted’s security team emerged from the shop, with the two other assistant assassins in tow. They circled around the man in the suit, blocking any escape. Soon several police cars had been summoned.

Paul and Senator Kennedy promptly rose off of the sidewalk. Tears streamed freely down the Senator’s face as

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he held Paul in a tight embrace. “I do not know who you are,” the Senator said, trying to get the words out in between his sobs. “I do not even…know your name. But you have…saved me from a fate…I…know too well.”

The Senator continued, “You deserve the highest honors the world can give.” A realization froze his eyes. “But I—I can’t let word of this get out. My Mother is not in good condition, and if she were to see anything on the news about a shooting …” The Senator lowered his head. The two men stood side by side, silently honoring the three fallen Kennedys.

“What can I do to repay you?”Paul thought for a moment. “Seeing you alive is its own

reward,” he said, “but there are two things I would greatly appreciate.”

The Senator nodded. “I will do anything in my power for you,” he said.

“It’s a long story,” Paul said.“Thanks to you, I have time to hear it. All the time in

the world, in fact.” Paul shrugged. “It’s going to sound completely crazy.”“Those are the best stories of all.”

Epilogue

The Democratic Party’s split between incumbent Jimmy Carter and Senator Kennedy actually lead to Ronald Reagan’s victory in the 1980 Presidential Election. Reagan went on to serve a second term, and during his time in office, he helped end the Cold War, survived his own assassination attempt, and played an enormous role in restoring confidence

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in the American nation. Ted Kennedy lived to serve nearly 45 years in the Senate, the fourth-longest-serving Senator in U.S. history. He died in 2009 at the age of 77.

Willard Williamson went on to receive a PhD in Amer-ican History from Harvard. Two years later, he married one of President Eisenhower’s granddaughters and became a professor at Yale.

Paul Cardell’s apparent success in Reagan’s campaign helped elevate his reputation as a campaigner. When he’d finished his work in Reagan’s re-election campaign, he seemed to lose interest in politics. After a few years of training, he was hired as an FBI agent. No one really understood this change. At the funeral of a long-time Massachusetts Sena-tor, however, Paul wept so profusely that passersby couldn’t help speculating. They had no knowledge of the connection between the two men. But they knew that something had happened between Paul Cardell and the last Kennedy.

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Who is responsible for my pain? The person that cre-ated it, or the person that could have taken it away? Both, that is the answer. A simple answer, with a simple lesson: I am both.

In middle school, I was always looking for ways to get people to notice me. I was a crowd pleaser, but ironically enough, the crowd wasn’t pleased with me; tough crowd. Most of my time in school, I yearned to be acknowledged as a respectable individual with good humor. With this in mind, I would try to make people laugh by creating my own jokes, but most of the time I ended up becoming the joke myself. Thus, I lost potential respect from my peers. For example, one time in the seventh grade I told a joke in sem-inary: what do you get when you mix LDS and LSD? A high priest! Long story short, my religious teachers and peers back at middle school didn’t appreciate the f inest of satire

Influenced by Ignorance

Caleb Paz

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that I had to offer, so I dropped seminary of my own will, not because the seminary teachers highly recommended my removal, mind you.

One of the most frustrating things in middle school was not knowing how to appeal to those whom I had interest in; my fellow classmates to be specific. With my lack of knowl-edge concerning socialization, I decided that I didn’t want to be the pilot of my actions. I decided to give others the opportunity to take my steering wheel, but who would want to drive a faulty vehicle in the first place?

After a summer break or two, I had arrived at my last year of middle school. I still have bittersweet memories of the nightmarish establishment known as Lakeridge Junior High. I remember how there were times in middle school when I felt abandoned or mistreated due to not having company when I needed it. I could count the number of friends I had on one hand, and most of the time I felt like I was the only one who wanted to make an effort towards the friendships. For example, I would approach them in the hallways at school, or I would join their table at lunch; most of the time, it wasn’t the other way around. I would be the one to invite my friends over to my house; they never had me over at their places unless I asked about going over first. Having friends over at my house wasn’t very satisfying either, mainly because of the fact that I didn’t get along with most of my family members during my middle school years. After a bad day at school, or a bad day at home, I would trouble myself with an internal debate on the origin of the mistreat-ment I faced. Did it come from school problems, or family problems?

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Concerning family problems, let’s fast-forward to a brief tale which took place at the later part of my ninth grade year. I had four friends that I played video games with on a reg-ular basis, and one day after school, I had invited three of my four friends over to play video games; let’s call them George, Henry, and Phil. We took my bus home, and we began our gaming festivities in a not so festive environment; my basement. Sooner or later, one of my three older sisters, the youngest of the girls, came along and tried to socialize with my friends and I. Henry and I made fun of my sister in a joking manner, which led to her taking offense and fetching my father. Soon enough, a set of heavy, ominous footsteps made their way down to my level. Paz senior him-self had arrived downstairs to confront us. My father and I exchanged some negative dialogue and dirty looks, and our stare-down came to a point where he had to tell my friends to leave, due to the fact that things were about to get too serious for them. As a matter of fact, things will get too serious for the reader if I go into detail with this supposed-ly brief tale.

In summary, my father and I didn’t get along very well, and my friends were now aware of it. The incident between my father and I that night put me in a receiving center for some cool-down time, and when I returned to school, none of my friends asked about the incident, or more important-ly, they didn’t ask how it affected me. At the time of the incident, I was concerned with the way my friends would see me afterwards, but since they didn’t even bother asking about it, it led to me asking myself a number of confusion-in-ducing questions. Did they not care about my trials, and only

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my friendship? Or did they not care about my friendship either? I don’t blame them for not asking now that I think about it; I was convinced that they were the ones who didn’t care what had happened, but I myself was treating my daily activities with an air of normality. I wasn’t very straightforward with my emotions back then, so my friends could have easily thought that I was over the incident. I should have made myself aware of the fact that none of my friends were psychics. At the same time though, if I had wanted friends to be by my side, then I should have looked for reliable friends. Over-all, the fact that they didn’t ask really left an emotional imprint on me; I began to doubt that they held our fragile relation-ships with care.

Following the incident between me and my father, I had difficulty maintaining social interaction with my friends, which led to the decision of letting such a desire for social-ization in general fade away. One day after school, two of my friends wanted to accompany me to my house. Henry was one of them, but the other one was my fourth friend who I haven’t mentioned yet; Frank. I was about to climb onto the steps of my bus when Henry approached me, Frank in tow behind him, and asked to wait at my house for his mother to pick him up. Frank didn’t have a good reason for tagging along; he was just along for the ride. I didn’t neces-sarily want guests over because I really would have preferred to sit in my room and kill time on my own, but I couldn’t bring myself to show even a slight sign of opposition towards Henry’s request. With that, we boarded the bus and the boys rode along thinking that nothing would go wrong. We got off at the bus stop and walked to my house. As soon as I set

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foot on the steps leading to my front door, I felt a dreadful feeling that letting Henry and Frank into my house after the recent incident could only result in a dent in our relationships. I wasn’t too worried about interacting with my father while I had friends over; he was staying with his parents/my grand-parents due to some recent tension between him and my mother. Yet, I couldn’t help but worry about what would happen if I had to take on the role of the one who had to make these boys leave.

It started in my basement, and it ended in my basement: the home of video gaming activities with my friends. I didn’t have any multi-player games that the boys and I could play, so I decided to play a single-player game with an audience of two. There we were, sitting on a crusty black leather couch just waiting to fall apart, in front of a bright TV screen that displayed me making mistakes in my game left and right. Henry, being his regular self, began to criticize the way I played the game in an attempt to make light of the current situation. Shortly after, Frank became the echo of Henry and his commentary. Like I mentioned, I wasn’t feeling 100% that day, but I didn’t feel like I could peacefully ask Henry to end his taunting, so I sunk into the couch and remained silent. As I slumped down even deeper into the couch, I felt the leather beginning to press itself around my skin; the back of my head was sinking slowly into the black abyss of a couch. It felt as if the black couch was absorbing more than just the light around it; it was taking away my will to display a set of standards. None of us were very good at interpreting body language, but I figured that if I didn’t feel like using words, perhaps body language would be worth a try.

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I let out a long sigh in the hopes that the boys might notice and reconsider their actions. None of my friends in middle school ever meant any intentional harm towards my mental state, but I wasn’t sure if they didn’t notice my vague call for help, or if they did and ignored it. Regardless, they continued to bring me down, so I sunk down slightly deep-er into the couch and sighed again, trying to sound more desperate in order for them to stop. Henry and Frank left to use the restroom, so I paused the game and looked out the window next to my position on the couch. I wanted to see if time was dragging on as painfully and slowly outside as it was inside my basement. Alas, the sun outside continued to set. A thin ray of light rested on the far end of the couch, and I watched as it slowly dragged itself outside of the win-dow. Right before the light ray left the room, it climbed over my lap, and then continued its sluggish journey away from my basement. Only a moment ago, I had felt the slight warmth that the light had bestowed on me. Now, the dark-ness of the basement had increased, and I became cold.

The boys returned from the restroom, and their com-mentary started up soon after I had unpaused the game. The last of my patience must have left outside the window in pursuit of the warm light, yet, the boys insisted on testing what I no longer had. I don’t see a need to share the specific wording that the boys used, but I can share the science behind the situation: disrespect towards somebody with a bad mood will most likely produce the outcome of a broken relationship. As a matter of fact, a broken relationship was the outcome of the current situation. The voice of reason left my head, and with that I snapped. I had had enough, but of what, their

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friendship? I never felt like we shared any of that to begin with. The amount of light coming from the television in my dark basement with a single window was more than the amount of respect in the room. No more being the punching bag, I said to myself; no more being the victim of others.

“Can’t you take a hint?” I yelled.Immediately afterwards, there were some other words

I yelled; words with the intention of bringing an end to my many one-sided relationships. At the same time though, I had started the beginning to a new chapter in my life.

“Leave,” I said in a loud, assertive voice, “if you can’t come to realize that your piercing words and crude actions are hurting me, then I want you to leave!”

After I had finished with my outburst, the boys adopt-ed a stubborn attitude, and wouldn’t budge from the couch. They refused to leave? It was unbelievable to me that these boys still had the nerve to ignore the fact that where they were was my house. They didn’t care for the show of emotions I had put on for them; they couldn’t have cared any less about our relationships either. It wasn’t until shortly after that my oldest sister, Elena, came downstairs and stood up for me. I had already attempted to stand up for myself, but apparent-ly the two hecklers needed somebody taller to stand. Henry and Frank left my house, and the rest of my ninth grade experience became unbearable.

I did what I could to isolate myself. I wanted to avoid my past friends at school, but that was the equivalent to avoiding bell ringers at the grocery store around Christmas time: you’d see them in the distance and pretend to look away. Most of the time bell ringers don’t approach you, but

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as you walk into the store, and they hold out their bucket full of change and cheer, “Merry Christmas!” All you can do is pretend you’re deaf and look away in shame. I started taking my lunch out of the cafeteria and over to empty areas of the school. I familiarized myself with the routes that my past friends took to get to their classes in order to avoid them in the halls. By the end of the school year, I was a very so-cially withdrawn individual who had nothing to look forward to in the upcoming summer. Lying in bed watching videos or playing handheld video games was my day to day; the only solace of my uneventful, painfully antisocial summer. I really didn’t want to be in my current state, and I figured that starting the 10th grade at the same high school that my past friends planned on attending could only make my emotion-al and social habits worse. I needed a new start, a new place; a place where nobody knew me. Nobody came to help me in this time of need, but for the first time, I wasn’t upset about that fact. I had been pushed to the point where I wanted to help myself, to be independent. I found what I was looking for—a small college preparation high school known as the Utah County Academy of Sciences, UCAS for short.

Presently, I’m a junior at UCAS. In general, UCAS is nerd HQ, but I don’t consider it a bad thing because the students here are very well behaved, very welcoming, and very friendly. The teachers know how to set their standards with students in a friendly manner. An average day at UCAS consists of working in the computer lab with two friends an hour or so before classes, which start at nine in the morning. The rest of the day is easygoing and stress-free for me (so-

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cially, at least; the homework is not to be underestimated). I don’t have to worry about avoiding anybody in the halls. Thank goodness, because they are cramped. I only have two friends at school currently, but two is more than enough. We joke around with each other on a regular basis, but we have respect for each other’s standards and boundaries.

Looking back at my younger years, I realized that even though I was supposed to be the one in control of my emo-tions, I let so many others flip switches in all kinds of direc-tions in my head. With that observation in mind, I decided to lock my switch with a password. That password would make it easier for me to be in control of my mind, so I figured that the password had to be something I learned from my mistakes. In order to learn from my mistakes, I had to break away from the people who influenced me to make them. However, the relationships I had in the past weren’t a com-plete waste; I need mistakes in my life if I’m ever to recognize them in the future. Although I felt like a tortured soul, the people in middle school that I once called my friends were never my torturers; not by themselves. I was the true mas-termind behind my plight. I was never the victim of Henry, Frank, or any of my other friends. I was merely the victim of myself: the one who created my pain, and the one who could have taken my pain away. The criminal charged with ignorance.

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Death is the one thing in life that is always guaranteed. However, it is always a hard thing to face. The loss of my grandpa, Juggert (pronounced you-gurt), was the first time my sisters and I had to lose someone close to us. It was, and still is to this day, the hardest experience I’ve gone through.

Grandpa was the type of person that could always put a smile on your face. I remember spending the night at his house with my sisters when we were younger. One night, we were sleeping in the front room and my sisters were terrified. They were anxious all night, and my grandpa came out to sleep with us in the front room. He would make jokes, and we would laugh until we eventually fell asleep. He was the funniest person, and he never took anything too seriously. He also wouldn’t let anyone do anything at all for him. In his mind, if it wasn’t done his way, then it was done wrong. Though losing him has been the hardest thing to live with,

A Part of Life

Ashley Peterson

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it also made me open my eyes to the real world. Bad things do happen. It’s a part of life. How you deal with those bad things is what can eventually make it better.

It happened only five months ago, but it feels like it was just the other day. I woke up on a Saturday morning and went into the bathroom to get ready. A little while later my mom walked in, and I’ll never forget her exact words: “Ashley,” she said, “Grandpa died last night.” Her voice cracked and she started crying. I don’t remember saying anything; we both just cried on each other’s shoulders.

It wasn’t an unexpected death. Grandpa had been sick for around a year. He had been a coal miner, and even though he stopped doing that years before I was born, I guess it caught up to him. When it all started, he went to the hos-pital and they told him he had black lungs. He also had lung cancer, and it had spread to other organs in his body. My grandpa chose to do radiation treatment over chemotherapy, but because the cancer was already at stage four at that point, we weren’t sure if it was going to be enough.

After a few months of doing radiation, they decided the treatment wasn’t working. The cancer had spread to one of his kidneys, and he had to have surgery to remove it. After that, his doctor decided to put him on chemo. The cancer had spread to his liver too, and at that point they gave him five more months to live. We didn’t get to see Grandpa Juggert very often; he and my grandma lived in Huntington with a few of my aunts, uncles, and cousins. When the can-cer took a turn for the worst, my family took a trip up there, and what we saw brought us to tears. Grandpa, who was once a big, buff, motorcycle guy, was now a tiny, boney man

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using a Harley Davidson walking stick. His once tanned skin was now a pale yellow color, his beard completely white rather than grey. The change happened so fast; we had seen him after his surgery just weeks before. It seemed like the chemo was just making Grandpa more sick. But, whenever we would cry as we were hugging him, he would always tell us, “Stop bein’ a boob,” or “What are you cryin’ over?” It was just like himself to not want us worrying about him.

A couple weeks later, we drove back down to say goodbye. He had been in the hospital for a couple weeks, and there was nothing left they could do. So there he was, lying in a hospital bed in his living room. There was that hospital smell, mixed with the smell I associate with my grandparents’ house. He was asleep almost the whole time we visited that last day, occasionally waking up and whispering for water. When I held his hand in mine, he squeezed back with what little strength he had. When we told him, “I love you, Grandpa,” he would mumble something I could faintly make out as, “I love you.” My grandma was standing against the wall with tears in her eyes. My mom was standing with us, holding onto her dad’s hand. I know that’s not what Grandpa wanted, his three granddaughters gathered around his bed sobbing. He could hear us crying and would whimper and mumble, “Oh, honey.” It really was a wonder how he was still holding on.

My mom went up to Grandpa’s house to stay with him one weekend. My dad called me one of the nights I was with a group of friends. He told me that Mom had called, telling him Grandpa wasn’t going to make it through the night. I went home early, and my sisters and I called Grandpa, each taking turns saying goodbye. That was really hard, especially

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watching my sisters cry into the phone as they said goodbye to Grandpa. It was even harder for me to say, because saying goodbye was like letting go, and I wasn’t ready to do that. To our surprise, he made it that night. That happened a few times before he really let go. He never went down without a fight, that’s for sure.

My grandma had asked me to read a poem at Grandpa’s funeral. I knew it would be tough, but I wanted to honor him in any way I could. The poem was picked by my grand-ma’s sister; she couldn’t have picked a better poem. The poem was called, “Don’t Cry at My Grave,” by an unknown author, and the first and last lines say, “Don’t cry at my grave cause I won’t be there,” and that is exactly what Grandpa Juggert would tell us.

Everyone will always miss Grandpa Juggert. Losing him is the hardest thing I have had to deal with in my life so far. It has also taught me, in a way, that life doesn’t always have happy endings. Bad things happen to good people. I’m glad that Grandpa is no longer sick and in pain, and I know he will always be with me and my family. I can almost hear his voice saying, “Stop your boobin’ and toughen up!” every time something bad happens. No matter how much I’ll always miss him, the sad experience of losing my grandpa has changed my life and taught me important life lessons.

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Louder Than Words

Ramya Prabhakar

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It was eleven months ago that I first truly feared for my father’s life.

It was during Atlanta’s infamous “Snowpocalypse.” My dad, a diabetic, was on his way home from work but had been sitting in his car for the better part of eight hours. As the words “hypoglycemia” and “sugar spike” rang through the house like funeral tolls, I stood quite still, staring out of the window into the dark, icy night. My father might die. I struggled to wrap the idea around the montage of images flashing through my mind’s eye:

The warmth of his arm around me at a performance by the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra.

The smooth rumble of his voice as we tore through classics like Green Eggs and Ham and The Scarlet Pimpernel.

The scratch of the blanket on our legs as we watched A Few Good Men, our Friday-night movie of the week.

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jIn the beginning, my father and I were partners in crime,

happily raiding the family CD collection in search of new pieces of classical music, or unearthing new literary treasures at the public library. With my father, the air was filled with music, with the melodious tones of laughter and the constant rhythms of speech. Silence didn’t exist between us. We were the best of friends.

But as I entered adolescence, the music faded into deaf-ening black silence. Silence loomed between us like a wall at the dinner table, during walks in the park, at symphony performances; and this lack of music and harmony left me bitter and confused. I didn’t understand why my father didn’t talk to me anymore. I didn’t understand why his deep baritone didn’t accompany my high soprano. But mostly, my father’s lack of speech reminded me of my elementary school days, of eating lunch alone and walking solo laps around the soc-cer field at recess. I wanted my dad to represent strength, assertiveness, everything I believed an adult to be. I wanted him to fight my battles and teach me how to navigate diffi-cult times. I wanted him to fit my idea of adulthood, and I interpreted his silences as an inability to do so.

jI watched the snow fall, its whiteness lightening the

darkness neither outside my window nor in my heart. Once a soft white powder that glowed with promises of cancelled school and endless fun, this snow was harsher, more glaring,

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more reminiscent of danger and misery than of delight. Distantly, I became aware of my mother asking me if she should walk the four miles to my father’s car with food. I couldn’t answer her. Unlike me, my mother had a solution for her problem. She had thought of an escape because she believed in one. I was still struggling with the idea that there may not be a solution to my problem. There may not be a way to reconnect with my father before the music stopped completely.

With the prospect of his permanent absence staring me in the face, I recognized the fool I had been to believe that my father didn’t love me, that my father didn’t care. My fa-ther’s love was present in every camera lens through which he watched me perform. My father’s love laced every word he read aloud to me in every novel we uncovered. My father’s love was the foundation of every irritating inquiry into my well-being when I was away from home. My father’s love was silent, but his silence was as musical as his speech; and I needed a certain level of maturity to properly appreciate the beauty of these melodies, the subtleties of these rhythms. I needed a certain level of maturity to realize that actions speak louder than words.

When my mother’s cell phone rang, I jumped and hast-ily turned from the window. My father’s deep, reassuring voice traveled across time and space to inform me that he had pulled over at a gas station for food and water. In a voice as unstable as my legs, I thanked God and told my father that I loved him. And I was shaken by the realization that love is not all about hugs and kisses and presents on your birthday. Love is not about laughter and fun and never-end-

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ing chatter. Sometimes, the most important type of love is the quiet kind, the kind that doesn’t dress in gaudy shades of red and pink. The kind that applauds you even during your voice practice. The kind that willingly drives an hour to your competition in the freezing cold. The kind that sits up late into the night, bent over your physics book, explain-ing the same concept over and over again. And with that realization came a new value for the simple gift of love.

In my father’s silences and soft voice, I saw a strength of character that I admire and strive to emulate. Through my father’s lack of intervention in my battles, I discovered an innate ability to stand up for myself—an ability that, without my father’s inaction, may never have surfaced. My father taught me that learning the meaning of true love is part of becoming an adult, and that sometimes, silence can be more musical than sound. Adulthood is valuing the qui-et parts of life and love over the loud, obnoxious moments, recognizing that actions speak louder than words. Adulthood is valuing the silence over the noise, of appreciating the subtle beauty of quiet over the blatant twang of audibility. Every day, my father shows me the true meaning of adulthood. And I will always strive to copy his definition in my own dictionary of life.

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The tall grass is gently hissing, slithering in the wind. The shade from the treetops calms my mind and my green surroundings. I am leaning against the tree. Its bark is rough, but comforting in a way. It feels real; it’s not hiding anything.

Scanning my surroundings, I begin to relax. Everything seems right here—the muted, green weeds, the slender trees, and the wild bushes with little roses.

I am finally content. That is, until the clouds shift. The light was just even! Warm, but not burning the fragile col-ors of the earth. It wasn’t the blanket of afternoon gold, casting shadows that haunt this hallowed ground, as it is now. I miss the cloud, and the yellow walls of sunlight begin to close in on me.

I am mourning a cloud.That’s just pitiful.

Society of Introspective Plums

Darci Ramirez

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The Inner Narrative forces my mind to drift out of my whimsical, romantic lens, and focus on what has happened through my day. I need to turn in a narrative journal of my real life for an English project.

Pleading with myself, I mentally hang onto the small forest and rough tree. She fights me, and I remain silent, avoiding the conflict. She pushes the golden walls around me, and I do not struggle. I accept my more solid boundar-ies, but keep my green trees and blue bits of sky beyond their arms. I frown at my submissive compromise, but life can’t be lived through fake nostalgia.

Pulling my notebook out of my bag, I nibble on a roll with jam that sat near me moments ago.

If I can’t live in a classical novel, at least I can eat like I do.I begin to jot down my day, in all of it’s boring glory.

I woke up, which would seem rather obvious. But where else to start than the beginning? Anyway, I woke up, and the morning light was perfect through the curtain. For a moment, I thought I was somewhere else, some-where clear and shaded.

But when I recognized the gaudy, yellow walls, I real-ized I was still at home. And with that thought, I burrowed my way back into my comforter, attempting to escape the day before it could start. Alas, I had com-mitments to the f ine institution of public education.

I gave up, swung my legs over the side of the bed, and stood up. (Which appears to be a common way to wake up. I mean, when you read a book and some-

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one wakes up, it’s usually in that way. Weird.) When I got on my feet, my head swam with bright spots around the edges and I gasped for breath. I nearly ran into the door, stumbling through my room and flailing my arms; trying to regain balance. What a graceful start to the day.

Unlike my lithe flitter into the morn, my morning prep was unimportant. Or more uneventful. Either way, I walked out the door, pleased with my appearance. Cloth-ing isn’t that important to me, so I just dressed in jeans, a solid green t-shirt, and ratty old sneakers.

The new sun felt pleasant on my arms, and I closed my eyes as I walked off the concrete porch. I sighed, so close to being content with the light. It was plain but cheery in a sickly-sweet way.

I crossed through the sparse lawn and onto the sidewalk, continuing my trek to school. I enjoy walking, even through the desolately neat suburbs, with just your feet to carry you. It made me feel independent, but in a safe way. Like in Mark Twain books where you could be gone all day, with the wind at your back and a trail at your feet.

The concrete made a decent trail, and the breeze blew encouragingly in my face. But it carried with it the smell of rotting fruit. The fermenting matched with the rays peeking over the mountains, but I continued along the sidewalk trying to escape them both. It’s strange how

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the things you can’t see are the easiest to f ind but the hardest to run from.

My mind wandered to the smell ’s source…

I’m getting too poetic. I nibble on the last few bites of bread and think about how I can truthfully phrase the rest of the day without making it seem like I’m trying to write a dramatic masterpiece with profound meaning. “I had to spend the day surrounded by humans with humans who can, but refuse to, connect in any advanced way”? That would not go over well with Mrs. Leigh.

I shook my head to myself, and continued to recall and scribble. I decide to tell Mrs. Leigh about The Lot. I growl at myself “How is that even remotely relevant?”

“Context.”“For what?”“The smell, the plum, which did happen today.”“UH-huh. Suuuuuuuure.”“I’m gonna write it for context!”“Fine, go ahead.”I can be a jerk. I begin to furiously write, wanting to

prove myself wrong.

There is a tree near my school, a tree that bursts with plums right around August. It’s hidden just out of sight, in an abandoned lot that looks like the Secret Garden. The Lot’s filled with wildflowers and grass and untamed rose bushes, fringed with full cottonwood trees around the edges, so it’s my secret, saved from other teenagers. I even found some old plywood boards and made a

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little bench. Each August, you can pick any one of the fruits from the plum tree in the corner. From the top or bottom, deep or shallow within the tree you will f ind plum after perfect plum. It takes all of my willpower not to stop in the early morning with a blanket, a book, and spend the day reading about enchanted forests and using my hideaway as a reference, eating all the plums I could want and letting the juice run down my chin.

But around Halloween, the plums start to sag, and the leaves start to turn yellow around the edges. They make me think they’re divine little heads surrounded by halos. Soon after, the tree is sobbing with its wrinkling fruit. Tear-drop purple orbs dangle precariously on every limb.

Now, in late-November, the fruit is rotting with re-sidual heat. Global warming. Today, I walked past The Lot and pondered whether to look behind the leaves.

Against my better judgment, I jogged through the branches and to the plum tree. My eyes searched for one last pristine fruit. Stepping around purple and blue carcasses and flies I spotted one, on a high branch di-rectly above me. It looked like all of its other sisters in the summer.

I jumped. My feet took off and my hand clutched the sphere. For a split second, I smiled and held on tightly, pulling it down with me.

But it burst in my hand.

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It smelled like a flower, so I didn’t realize at f irst that there was syrup and pulp all over my f ingers. I was so angry. I wanted to fling the remains all over my garden and yell like a toddler. I should at least have that right!

Though, after a moment of self-pity, I didn’t care any-more. At least I got to hold one last perfect plum. And the smell was welcoming in it’s own way.

The moment I reached the school, I ran into the restroom to wash my hands. When I came around the corner, I saw three girls in daisy-dukes, wearing much more makeup on their faces than I thought possible. They were all leaning over the sinks with their faces centimeters away from the glass, spreading skin-colored powder all over their mouths. Avoiding eye contact, I paced to the farthest, shortest, coldest, last available sink.

As I scrubbed my hands, I looked through the mirror to one of their faces. What were they really like? Did they love science? What did they hate on their pizza? What were their personal demons? Did they realize themselves who they were and why they thought what they thought? I desperately longed for connection: an epiphany of understanding.

As I pondered the Powder-Face, her eyes flashed at mine and I looked away. I rushed out the door as they snick-ered. I knew they were laughing at me.

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Maybe I should erase that. I don’t want to seem like I’m pleading for pity; that would make me (The Inner Narrative) right. I can help myself, thank you very much.

I am calm, but the Inner Narrative complains. Why do people have to be so catty? Why the drama? Why can’t ev-eryone just think outside themselves for once?

But I make her digress. The wind is picking up a chill and the sun is covered again. I grab my jacket and put it around my shoulders, shivering a little before I warm up. It couldn’t be much past 4:00. My journal for today needs to be wrapped up soon. Back to the plow, I guess.

My classes were uneventful still. And I came to write in the empty lot.

I suppose that’s it. The most of my day was an awkward encounter in the restroom. I start packing my stuff up and find that my face is dripping. I’m crying. I know why I’m crying; I’m upset. My life is probably more exciting than I can see, but I’m crying, so things are a little unclear right now.

There were things I didn’t mention, I think to myself as I shoot up with my bag over my shoulder. My parents, teach-ers, friends, and unfulfilled expectations: that all didn’t seem important. It’s almost as if Mrs. Leigh wouldn’t understand. But the Inner Narrative taunts me, “But you shared our Lot, didn’t you?”

I come to my feet too quickly and feel the world barrel roll around me. My vision goes for a second. Strangely enough, I enjoy it. It isn’t black or white; it’s just not there. I am finally granted a moment of relief from the closing golden walls.

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When my vision comes back, I sigh a little. I’m still where I was standing, but not where I thought, or hoped I was. My golden light has collapsed into the yellow walls of my bedroom, and I shut my eyes desperately. Still trying to escape from the sun, burrowing into the covers of a magic plum tree.

But I open my eyes, which surprises me. I was very happy brooding!

I know that this all is silly, though. But this isn’t hallu-cinating, right? Middle-class teenage girl wants to be in an Austen novel. The constant Narrative in my head is laughing at me. Hard.

Which is another layer of crazy and angst towards ev-erything. I angrily wipe stale tears from my chin. With frustration, I begin to clean my room, picking up clothing and papers and knick-knacks. Although I hate cleaning, I always do so when I’m angry, which angers me even more. Wallowing in self-pity alone never felt so tragically repetitive.

I wander with my arms full of crud to my all-too-worn and ragged pillow on the floor, and begin to arrange all the little glitters and boxes on the covers of nearby stacks of books.

A small Altoids tin makes its way in my hands. I re-member when I was about 8, I set this up in the Lot for a club I tried creating. The Youth of the Future Society. I remind myself, in a bashful act of pity, that the Lot was actually a real place, but it was bulldozed and built upon years ago. The plum tree is still there, thankfully. But it does have to be accessed through some trespassing. This soothed me a little. I wasn’t totally crazed.

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I remember that the tin was a ballot box for adminis-trative elections. I had sent out invitations to everyone I knew, revealing my sacred location.

But no one showed up. I sat on that bench after school every day for two weeks, and no one showed up. The bench was filled up with pretzels and craft supplies. The only other person who came near was my closest friend, Gracie, who sat next to me during reading time. She asked me if I wanted to play soccer. I politely declined. Why shouldn’t I pursue something of much more importance? What was the point in something filled with trivial people with trivial goals? (Pun intended. My Inner Narrative giggled, so it must have been funny.)

I’ve improved relations with my peers as of late, but I’ve always been in my own little club, my mind and me. Yes, the Lot was probably a lot more scraggly and shady than I saw it as. And the plums probably aren’t that great. But what does that matter? The tint I see the world through makes every-thing just a little brighter. The humanity in me smiles. I feel alone, but it is satisfying.

I am expecting the Inner Narrative to chide me, but she says nothing. I may be mistaken, but I believe I have settled. I am at peace, even in my messy, gaudy, unnatural room. We have finally reached a consensus. The light in my room mellows, and the walls are no longer the same. I relax on my pillow, close my eyes, and return to my bench, staring at my plum tree and picking up my notebook once more.

t

I saw Neil Peart drum live in concert the summer of 2013. My dad scored free tickets on row 19 just left of cen-ter stage. It was amazing! During the concert, he had mul-tiple solo performances. He always plays incredible solos with crazy rhythms, and he switches from an acoustic drum set to an electric set halfway through his solos. Watching Neil Peart brought back my first feelings of wanting to drum. I always liked the deep thudding of the bass drum. I love sitting down at my drum set and making those deep chest-thumping sounds.

Neil Peart is the drummer and lyricist for Rush, a rock band formed in 1968. Neil has been playing drums for over 50 years. He is considered one of the greatest drummers in the world, and he received the Best Rock Drummer award in the years 1980-1986, 2006 and 2008. He has been playing with Rush since 1974. Once Neil joined Rush, their album

Rhythm of Life

Carver Rindlisbacher

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sales skyrocketed. Rush became the third most successful rock band to sell consecutive gold and platinum albums, placing them behind The Rolling Stones and The Beatles, respectfully.

When listening to music, live or recorded, it’s the beat of the drums that makes you bob your head subconsciously. You might even find yourself “drumming” along with the beat as best you can. Even songs that don’t have drums can make you tap along.

As drums are the backbone of music, stress seemed to be the backbone of my fifth grade year. I have always stressed over school. When I was little I would get stressed out about having to go back to school after weekends or coming back on track after a break. I was in year round school, so I would have three weeks off and nine weeks on. I loved being off track, but once I had to go back on track I would start to feel sick, like I needed to throw up, and I wouldn’t be able to sleep the night before. My stress wasn’t just the inability to sleep: it would escalate into night terrors and sleepwalking. Sunday nights were miserable at my house as the hour for bedtime slowly approached. I dreaded the change in my routine. There wasn’t a real reason for this stress and anxiety, like being bullied, feeling dumb, or school being too hard. I just remember hating having to go back to school. I hated changing my daily rhythm.

My parents had me meet with the school counselor to figure out why I was so anxious about going back to school. I met with the counselor two weeks in a row. She would pull me out of class during grammar or English. I always felt weird because I would leave at the same time as kids who needed

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special help with reading. We would talk about what was going on in my life and how I was feeling. These interviews didn’t lend any insight, so I took some assessment tests. After all of this, the counselor concluded that I hadn’t experienced any trauma that led to stress. I was a normal kid who was worried about typical things. There was nothing more the counselor could do. She offered to continue to meet with me each week, but I didn’t love going. I didn’t like the other kids thinking that I was leaving class because I needed more help, or that there was something wrong or different about me, so I quit going. I guess I just needed to find my own rhythm.

Rhythm in drumming is established by the hi-hat, snare drum, and bass drum. These are the basic building blocks. Occasionally a crash cymbal, ride cymbal, or tom is used to add variation to the feeling of the song. A crash cymbal can signify that the chorus is coming up or draw attention to a certain lyric. A fast, deep bass drum makes the song intense and strong. Playing on the ride cymbal can make the song feel smoother and more sympathetic. If you take these things away, it changes the feeling the song creates.

Most might think that playing the drums is just banging around on big, deep sounding drums and swinging away at cymbals with wooden sticks. This is true at first, but then you learn to focus in on each stroke. This helps you differentiate and coordinate your different hand and foot movements. This allows you to simultaneously have your right hand on the hi-hat, left on the snare, and your right foot on the bass drum. After you get the coordination of this down, you can start moving from drum to drum and cymbal to cymbal. Being able to switch around makes it easier to actually play the

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drums instead of just banging around. You can finally start to create your own rhythm.

It takes a lot of coordination to play the drums. People sit down at my drum set all the time and attempt to imitate my playing, and they usually end up just banging around as loud as they can. But time after time, they can only manage one hand and one foot at a time.

After the meetings with the school counselor stopped without a resolution, we had to try a new hand. My mom decided that we should consult with my pediatrician to see what advice she had. She first suggested that I find my rhythm, meaning that I try rhythmic breathing to try to calm me down. I was supposed to lay in my bed and take deep breaths, in and out, to relax and slow my heart rate. This didn’t work.

Her next suggestion was that I try to distract my brain by imagining myself as a superhero. She told me to imagine that I was Spider-Man, swinging my webs from building to building, to calm me down. I found this calmed me down for a while, but I still had trouble sleeping. If I did fall asleep, I would often wake up my parents with a night terror.

Terror struck Neil in 1997, when his nineteen-year-old daughter, Selena, died in a car crash. If this wasn’t heartbreak enough, ten months later, his wife Jacqueline died of cancer. Neil said that she died of a broken heart and “a slow suicide by apathy. She just didn’t care.”

To get away from everything, he took a break from touring. He decided to get on his BMW motorcycle and travel through the Americas. During this journey, he traveled a distance of around 55,000 miles and wrote a book called

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Ghost Rider: Travels on The Healing Road. The book records his travels, his contemplations about his life, and how he came to terms with the loss of his wife and daughter.

Neil had to get back on his feet. I also had to get onto my feet and get rid of my anxiety of school. After the school counselor and the pediatrician were both unable to help me find a way to relax, I had to find my own way. I had experi-mented with the “superhero” technique and found that it helped calm me down for a while, but not enough for me to actually fall asleep. So I figured that I needed to imagine something to distract my subconscious.

I started by trying to imagine me doing something that I liked doing, like playing the drums or playing football at recess, but none of these worked. I would always come back to the same feeling of dreading school. I eventually found that if I went through my previous day’s routine, I was able to distract my brain and fall asleep. I would go through every aspect of my day, starting with me waking up. I would try to remember the exact time I woke up, how I got out of bed, how many steps I took to the bathroom or closet. I detailed every act of the day the best I could remember. Each step of the day was its own beat in my daily routine. Instead of wor-rying about what was going to happen the next day, I was remembering what I had done that day, which helped me realize that I would be fine. Reviewing my daily routine helped my brain focus on something other than school. I was able to relax and finally go to sleep.

There are a lot of details in drumming. I think that is why it suits my personality so well. I love the discipline, the technique, and the intense thumping beat of the bass.

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The drums are the backbone of music. They make or break a song.

Neil had to change the rhythm in his life to get through the loss of his wife and daughter. It took him 55,000 miles to find his rhythm. It took me my whole fifth grade year to find mine. I learned to deal with stress by focusing on the details of my life, just like I focus on the details in drumming.

tHow I Came to Be

India Schoenherr

t

All I’ve ever wanted was a purpose.When I was two years old, my whole world changed. I

didn’t realize at the time how much I would be affected by it, but fourteen years later here I am, sharing my story.

What I can remember from my life as a two-year-old was grand. I had toys and clothes and six older siblings that just spoiled me with love. There was Alfonso, Lashaday, Tyrese, Judy, Tyana, and Tyrone. I was the closest with Tyrone; we were inseparable. Wherever he went I would follow, without even thinking about it. My mom was amazing. We would sing gospel songs and dance and cook and be crazy together. I remember always cooking chicken and collard greens. The smells were amazing and made my mouth water. What could possibly go wrong? Well, everything did. In the blink of an eye. The woman I called mom became distant. She would be out all night with her friends and would come

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home the next morning, drunk. We would move from place to place, without a heads-up. With each move, we lost more of our belongings. I thought this was completely normal. I didn’t know the difference.

The day I was taken away from my mother was the worst day ever. We had been staying at a hotel in Provo because we had no permanent living arrangements. The hotel room was a bit torn up and old. Everything about the room screamed quiet—the quiet tone of brown paint on the walls. The carpet was a dull tan, and the walls just stood bare. The smell was almost fake. I believe it was intended to smell welcoming, but instead it smelled too clean to be a home. This day was nothing out of the ordinary: we would get up and watch TV, play with other kids at the hotel, and swim. It was around lunchtime and my siblings and I had come to our hotel room to eat lunch. We were laughing and eating when there was a knock on the door.

I was taken away by a lady in black. I was separated and kept far from my family. My little two-year-old mind ran rampant; I didn’t know what to feel or how to express it. I was in a haze. I don’t remember crying at all. The lady in black was holding me, and I sat there stunned, trying to take in everything. My eyes wandered every way possible. I held tightly to my red sippy cup, but as the lady in black walked away, I dropped it. The cup rolled away. My mother picked it up, and I remember her last words to me were, “I will get you back.” I held onto those words for a long time, and it didn’t do me any good.

It took a couple days to find myself again. I then was placed in my first foster home: the Ellis family. They were

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great and happy and seemed to be picture perfect. They had a big house and a nice yard, which included an in-ground swimming pool. The rooms were all decorated and had a feeling of comfort. My favorite room was the playroom; it was huge and had a chalkboard wall. There was a cupboard stacked with only toys, and there were also little bins filled with toys that you could sit on. The Ellis’ had three biolog-ical children along with three foster children. I was there until I was three-and-a-half years old. I then went to the Gordan family. They were complete opposites of the Ellis family. They had a small blue house, with a small yard. It was the first house you would see as you came into the cul-de-sac. It may have been small, but the welcoming and loving feeling that you felt once you were within the walls of the home was phenomenal. The Gordans had five adopted children and one biological son. They treated me so well, and I loved it. They even took in my older brother so that we didn’t have to stay separated.

I lied about them. I told my caseworker that they had forced me to drink pee. I don’t know what I was thinking in my four-year-old brain, but what I had said could not be taken back. I ruined it. I then moved from house to house. In-and-out, sometimes with my siblings, sometimes not. I can count up to thirteen different families I stayed with. I often wonder what would’ve happened if I hadn’t lied. Would I still be with the Gordan family?

Every time I moved to a different house, I would feel disappointment and an overwhelming amount of doubt. The houses varied from big to small, nice to mean. Sometimes the outsides of the houses were completely opposite of what

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the insides of the houses were. The outside could display perfection while the inside was a living nightmare, and vice versa. Why doesn’t this family love me? Why don’t they want me? I just didn’t understand. I would once again be separat-ed from my siblings and be taken away from the relationships I had built with the people around me. I would cry every time I was placed somewhere new; I didn’t like the constant change in scenery or the change in pace I had to catch up to with the different families.

Then the day came…When I was reunited with my mom. I was five. It lasted four months before I was back in foster care. I remember those days so vividly; it’s on constant replay in my mind. My mom, my brother Tyrone, and I had gone to downtown Salt Lake on the train to have a fun day and look around. A couple hours in, my mom got a phone call and then our fun day was cut short. We made our way to the train station and while we were waiting a cop car appeared. My mom told us to run and hide, and to not come back until she came for us. So once again I followed Tyrone’s lead. I held his hand and ran beside him. We hid behind car after car, but it wasn’t enough. The officer who found us was very kind. He could tell how shaken up I was, and explained what was happening. Apparently my mom had a slip up. By then I kind of realized that it was me against the foster care system, and so far foster care was winning. I knew that in order to make it out, I had to stay strong and roll with the punches. I so badly wanted to give up! But I could not and would not allow myself to do so, even though my chances were bleak. I held on for two more years before the odds were in my favor.

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In March of 2006, I was introduced to the Schoenherr family. Everyone was so welcoming and had a happy aura about them; it was kind of odd. I loved all the animals they had and the abundance of food in their pantry. In the sum-mer of 2006, we went on a road trip to Alabama. We went to a lot of meetings just so I could leave the state, but my biological mother did not want me to go. I can’t explain her reasoning, but she agreed after hearing me personally say I wanted to go. We got permission and went on with our lives. I met my cousins that lived down south. We went swimming and stayed up late star gazing. This was the best summer I ever had, and was the closest that things ever felt to normal. Alabama was a breath of fresh air. Every place I looked there was a pop of color, in any and every color imaginable. The smell ranged from freshly cut grass to the smell of a farm. I loved it.

After a year and seven months, I finally won the battle against the foster care system. It was so tough for me, look-ing down from the stand during my last court hearing before my adoption and telling my biological mother that I didn’t want to live a life full of empty promises. I wanted something more. I deserved something more. I know I broke her heart when I said I wanted to be a part of the Schoen-herr family, but I knew that she had realized what was happening and understood it was what was best for me. It was one promise that she had lived up to: “India, I promise that you will always be loved.”

I was adopted into the Schoenherr family on October 26, 2007. It was the best day ever. That single day made up for the five years that I had went through. Those five years

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were suddenly worth all the tears and pain I had felt. Ev-erything felt right, and I savored every moment of it. I so badly wanted to have a purpose in the world and I found it. To call a woman mom with all my heart and emotion; to show people the importance of care. My purpose was to be a daughter to a deserving mother, and nothing could feel better than that.

I learned throughout my journey that even when life is good, there are still problems that follow. After my adoption, I never wanted to speak to my biological mother ever again. It was actually my mom, Mitzy, who pushed me into trying to mend the broken relationship. To this day, I still have a difficult time talking to her. I don’t know what it is, but for some reason I cannot bring myself to forgive her.

I can’t express it enough. The life I went through is not something any one should ever have to go through. I know my life isn’t that bad compared to plenty of others, but hav-ing a childhood where you didn’t know where you would be living or who you would be living with is just horrible. The most valuable lesson I can take away from this experience is that in every situation you go through, you need to have hope and strength. Without the strength to keep your hope, you will sink in your trials. This story is how I came to be—what I went through—and how it has shaped my future and my present. I am forever grateful for my memories.

tSnow canyon

Abby Terry

t

Exhausted, thirsty, and sweaty, I looked and saw the seven mile marker about 100 feet ahead.  

The 8.5 pacer reported to everyone, “Seven down, six to go.” The thought of still having to go six miles was dis-couraging. I just wanted to lie down and sleep. My mom gave me a handful of energy jelly beans. I held them in my hands for a few paces, then put the orange one in my mouth. It was nasty. Then I tried a light red one that was much sweeter. I guessed that it was strawberry flavored. After the two sample jelly beans, I put the rest in my mouth to suck on. These are good, I thought to myself, but they all have a weird texture. They are all grittier than normal Jelly-Bellies.

My mind wandered to the early morning hours before the race. I had woken up at 4:30 and eaten half a bagel and four slices of an orange (I was too nervous to eat any more than that). Then my mom and I left for the bus that

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would take us up to the start of the race. When we got there, there were 1200 other people, and I started looking for others about my age. Out of all of them, I couldn’t find another kid near my age. The youngest was about fifteen. I was eleven.   

Then, I thought back to when I decided I wanted to run the Snow Canyon Half Marathon and asked myself: What was I thinking? I must have been crazy. One night, I had gone up to my dad and asked if he would pay for half of the Snow Canyon admission price. He just laughed and gave me a look like why-in-the-world-do-you-want-to-pay-$50-to-go-run-13-miles-for-no-reward? Eventually he gave in and paid for half.

I had just passed the nine mile marker, and I felt like I was about to vomit. I could tell that my mom wanted to help me, but she didn’t know how. She offered me a granola bar which I rejected. I didn’t think that I could keep any food in my stomach. Even if I had been able to stomach it, I didn’t have the energy to even take off the wrapper.

I grabbed a cup of Gatorade off one of the water tables that were stationed every three miles. It was orange. I drank it because I needed to, but it was awful and left a weird taste in my mouth. I tossed the paper Dixie cup away as I thought: This race has ruined oranges for me.

After ten miles, there seemed to be double the amount of people because we had just entered the area where the 5K runners start. A few paces ahead of me was a boy who looked a little older than me and a man running with him who I guessed was his dad. This brought a new energy into me. Think of how impressed that boy would be if I beat him

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in his simple 5K, while I was running an entire half marathon, I thought to myself. I started speeding up ever-so-slight-ly so that my mom wouldn’t notice. I passed him after about thirty seconds. I heard his dad urge him to go fast-er. He probably thinks that I am running one of those wimpy 5Ks, I thought. My mom and I crossed to the other side of the road.

The boy and I started racing back and forth. First he was ahead, then I was, then him, then me. It went on like this for about two miles. We were nearing the finish line with about half of a mile left when I pulled way ahead of him. It was on a steep hill. I started out with shuffled steps, then gradually lengthened my stride until I was speeding down the hill, barely in control by the time I got to the bottom.

By that time, I was several hundred yards ahead of the boy and his dad.

“One more long street, then go around the Desert Hills High School track, and we’re done,” my mom reported.

I didn’t reply. I didn’t have the energy. I could hear the announcer with his microphone, but I couldn’t see the finish line yet. I rounded the corner, and the boy nearly caught up to me again. I was a few paces from the track, and the boy and his dad were right next to me. I could hear his dad giv-ing a little pep talk telling his son to speed up. I made it onto the track and ditched my mom. I was determined to beat everyone. I sprinted as fast as possible—faster. My cousins and siblings that had come to watch ran onto the track. I sped ahead of them. I heard my aunts and uncles cheering and saw my grandparents, but I didn’t care; all I cared about was getting to the finish line.

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Exerting my every effort, I pulled myself past the finish line. I was about to collapse, but I did it. And I beat the boy and his dad too. I finished with a time of one hour, fifty-eight minutes and exactly thirty seconds. I did it!

t

In late December of 2019, the heroes of the Cyber Pentagon—the ones who ended WWIII before it could begin—unintentionally released X-elements 119–137 into the world, converting some of the mass into the new elements. These elements found their way into the biosphere.

A brand new set of genes never before seen manifested. The traits that the gene gives are reflective of super powers. Flight. Speed. Strength. People born with these genes are called Semideos. They’re pretty much the world’s way of explaining superheroes and villains.

Confused, yet? I should probably introduce myself. My name is Mikero Regis Tollamol, and I am called Knight

The Astraline Mythos:

Knight Gamer vs. Malchemist

Michael Tolman

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Gamer. Not my choice. It’s a long story.Oh, and I am a Semideos. My portfolio of powers is

Cyberkinesis, Digital Materialization, Video Game Me-chanics, Augmented Reality Vision, Telumkinesis, Advanced Swordsmanship (including dual-wielding), and being able to talk to you, the reader! Basically, I am a video game char-acter with super-user privileges in the real world. The only thing that can kill me is an electromagnetic pulse (EMP).

This made me one of the most powerful of the Semideos. Was it awesome? Well, it sucked for most days of my youth. By the time I got a hold of my powers, the world went to pot. Go figure.

So, I got recruited by the government to be in this fancy-schmancy academy of theirs (The Semideos Academy) so they could use us in future black-op missions. But that was fine, since I was extremely patriotic. Looking back, I thought that joining the SDA was a choice. Little did I know that once a Semideos was discovered, that person instant-ly became governmental property. We aren’t told this, however. We believed that we had a choice to join the SDA. We didn’t.

Anyway, things were going great, until my friends died in a “training accident.” People called it an accident, but I had overheard an SDA agent say that “The rebels would be taken care of.” I put two and two together. The Semideos Academy had decided to take out anyone who opposed them. For instance, my friends.

I have been on the run from the SDA for over a year now, because they didn’t like me finding this out. I decided to piece together what the heck happened. I learned that the academy I went to wasn’t the only one, that there were some

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academies all over the world, in various countries. I also learned that there was one person who could take me on in a fight.

His name was the Malchemist.

jJunora kicked open the door. The two NSA guards

turned to shoot her, but she lashed her whip-swords into their bullet jackets. She then flipped them back into the hallway she came from. She walked into the room. Anoth-er guard went for her, but she stared at him. He quickly backed down.

The room she went into, uninvited, was the control room of the Liberty Cyber Pentagon in Saratoga Springs, Utah. Rebuilt after WWIII, it was re-designed to handle both cyber warfare and the Semideos Project.

Junora stalked over to the Semideos Project Manager, General Smithson of the NSA. She had to stop him from doing something stupid. He was standing in the center, oblivious to what she was doing. He was too busy planning a nuclear strike on Alcatraz.

On Alcatraz Island, two of the most powerful Semideos were hashing it out. The SDA saw it as a fight between two public enemies. Two extremely powerful public enemies. Two enemies whose combined acts had taken out the Eiffel Tow-er and damaged Big Ben and the Freedom Tower. A nucle-ar bomb would take them out easily enough. Unfortunately, Public Enemy #2, Knight Gamer, wasn’t an enemy. He was the man Junora was fighting to protect.

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Junora walked next to Smithson and quickly placed her whip-sword across his neck. That he did notice. He looked at her in surprise, and, unprofessionally, yelped.

Junora stared him down. “Stop the nuclear attack now!” She was tired of his politics. Anything he couldn’t control, he usually killed.

“Why should I do that? I could end this f inal crisis, with a snap of my fingers!” Smithson stated. When Smithson spoke the code words, two guards, Achilles and Heracles, rushed in with their weapons pointed at Junora…

jA laser blast hit way too close for comfort right next to

my head. I peeked over the ruined wall. Another one came right at my beautiful face. I quickly ducked behind the destroyed wall of the Building 64 Residential Apartments of Alcatraz. I then target-locked onto the golem Malchemist was riding, and, using the sign for ruin, blew it to kingdom come.

The Malchemist’s power portfolio was based off of the Alchemy and magic systems of Medieval Ages. His lethal weakness was the radioactivity of a nuclear bomb hitting him the face. Unfortunately, I couldn’t use that. The nuclear bomb that I could hit him with, by simply hacking into the U.S. network, would kill me due to the EMP that would consume the entire area. Everyone knows that an EMP explodes out of nuclear blasts.

Oh, and The Malchemist is kind of…evil. He has already taken down the Eiffel tower. He needs negative emotions for whatever world-conquering plan he has. He tried to take

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down Big Ben and the Empire State Building, but I owned him both times. To get back at me, he decided to take down the new Freedom Tower, and he framed me for it. Thanks for nothing, troll.

Since the government thinks that I took down the Free-dom Tower, they think that this “little” fight is a duel to de-termine the ruler of the world. So, they were just going to nuke Malchemist and myself, but Junora is fighting them right now, trying to get them not to blow up anything preemptively.

Enough exposition, however! Back to the action.Malchemist flew through the air, and then finally sta-

bilized himself enough to levitate. He then shot a blast at me. The blast zipped past me and blew up the other wall. I hopped over the destroyed wall in front of me, right in front of the Malchemist. I triggered the command to summon my swords, Starcaliber and Starcelsior. Binary code swirled around, and formed the swords in my hands. I looked around for him, and saw him, levitating right in front of the wall. He had out in his right hand a double-sided sword, and in his left a traditional sword. Fabulous. Just go ahead and one-up everything I do. I don’t mind that at all.

I warped right in front of him, and then horizontally slashed at his ribs with both swords. He deflected with the double-sider, and then stabbed at my head. I blocked it with my swords in an X-shape, and then pushed pack. I flew back, firing off as many sword beams as I could.

He flew at me, trying to catch up to skewer me. I flew just out of his reach every time he tried to slash at me. I warped a small distance away, and then summoned a giant Mecha to crash down on top of him. In response, he flew

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out of the way, slapping his hands together and summoning a Titan-class Homunculus to fight the Mecha. He then came at me, swords glowing.

I dropped down, not quite to the ground, and flew past Malchemist. I then chose what my Mecha would do to that Titan. My Mecha whipped out two giant laser-infused swords and proceeded to cut the Titan down to size. Luckily for me and my Mecha, Malchemist had chosen not to give weapons to the Titan.

With Malchemist right on my tail, I landed on the blade of my Mecha just as it connected. In a move that would have made Shadow of the Colossus proud, I ran across the blade, onto the Titan, and made my way over to the base of its neck. Enchanting my swords with Blast Edge, I slammed down on the Titan’s neck.

The blast did a lot of damage but wasn’t the main goal. A huge smoke cloud erupted when I made contact. I then warped back a few meters, leaving a decoy. Malchemist, seeing the decoy, opened fire. The Titan crashed down dead into the Pacific Ocean.

That really pissed off Malchemist. He landed on the ground, looking towards my Mecha. He scowled then slammed his hands together. A giant hand shoved it into the ocean with the Titan.

“Hey, that’s my Mecha! You can’t do that!” I shouted, and then promptly realized my idiocy. He turned, irises blood red, then flew up to me, intending to strike me with that nasty double-sider.

I blocked his attack, then enchanted my blade with lightning, and bombarded his armor. He blocked most of

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my blows, but one got through. It shocked him backwards about ten feet. He then flew back faster than a speeding light at me.

I warped back to the ground, dispelled the swords, and summoned a great two-handed sword. He wasn’t thinking, and had followed me, flying towards the ground. Realizing his mistake, he tried to get out of the way.

I was too fast.Using his body like a baseball and the two-handed sword

as a bat, I smashed him over the residential building and into the prison. He crashed into the prison, dazed. Thankfully, he dropped that double-sider. I dispelled the two-handed and summoned again Starcaliber and Starcelsior.

I jumped up and warped to the prison to smash him again, but he threw up a wall, which I smacked into. He dropped the wall, and released a blast that sent me over the apartments, toward the ocean. I slid on air, and then flew at him, swords glowing. Starcelsior stabbed into his left side, while Starcali-ber came up to cut off his arm. His single blade stopped it just in time, and with a pain-filled scream, pushed me back.

Big mistake.I had placed a bomb at his feet via programming. It blew

up in his face. He went flying over to the Island Ferry Terminal. I flew over there; determined to talk some sense into him…

jJunora spun around, wielding her twin whip-swords

against her foes. One of them, Heracles, decided idiotically

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to open fire. She deflected all the bullets, sending them back to hit the Semideos and the computers. It destroyed about a third of the computers before Smithson took away the gun. “Idiot, it won’t work. Use your hands.”

She spun and shot the end of one of the whip-swords through a computer. She had to destroy as many terminals as possible. That way, they couldn’t launch a nuclear strike. Achilles, however, appeared out of nowhere and shoved her into the door.

Lucky for her, after she hit the door was when the cav-alry arrived. Semideos Team Beater, Mikero’s old team, had just arrived…

j“Why are you protecting them? Who do you think you

are? The kinds of people who live upon this Earth fear us! They have attempted genocide on our kind who would not spend a lifetime of slavery to their governments!” Malchemist ranted, ready to draw more blood.

“Then we need to convince them otherwise. Prove that regular humans and the Semideos can get along harmoni-ously. We just need to, you know—not murder the entire planet!” I readied my swords, prepared to fight to the end.

Malchemist looked confused, as if the concept had never occurred to him. He then shrugged it off, got up, and tried to attack me.

I released a barrage of sword beams, missile blasts, and all forms of video game magic that I have programmed for myself. He staggered, but wasn’t defeated yet. That wasn’t

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good for me. He sprang up and summoned an energy wave that blew me into the ocean.

When I crashed headfirst into the ocean, I got an idea. I swam back up to the surface, and used my augmented sight to see that Malchemist was writing something in chalk over the courtyard. Just like any good villain, he wanted to rule the world. Unfortunately, he didn’t monologue about his plans like a good villain. That would be too easy. No, only he knew the details of his plan. Didn’t he go to a great villain’s school in Russia?

But the writing upon the courtyard made sense. He was drawing the alchemist signs for death on top of the ones for creation, surrounded by fire. He was literally going to set the world on fire, killing all regular folk, but leaving the Semideos.

I wasn’t going to let that happen. I wanted to go to Tokyo without it looking like a ghost town. I warped right in front of him and shattered the courtyard. Blowing up the world-destruction glyphs may have caused a slight problem in his intricate plan.

The Malchemist looked at me, and spat out “Allow me to burn them in the deepest hell of which they belong!” His voice dropped an octave, which was scary. And unusual. That didn’t happen often.

j“Genezen,” Celestine Archon, the first of the Semideos

Team to come in, casted onto Junora. She stood up, readying her whip-swords. Celestine’s boyfriend, Brysien, hopped over them and threw a disk at Heracles. It hit him square in

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the jaw. Achilles brought out his spatha, and rushed Brysien. He returned sword with sword, and began a fierce duel. Junora went for more computers, using her telekinesis this time, while Celestine went for Heracles. A fourth rogue Semideos, Rick Norris, burst in, taking out the guards by the doors.

“Where are the others?” Junora yelled over the chaos of the battle.

“They are booby-trapping the way in. No more Semid-eos for this region.” Rick stated, shooting two guys through the shoulder at once. Not killing them. Knight Gamer had expressly forbidden it.

“Knight Gamer better not fail at stopping Malchemist.” Brysien grunted, flipping over a computer desk. All the interns, agents, and other staff who were hiding under the desks took off running out the door.

“He’d better, or he will have me to deal with.” Junora stated.

jMalchemist slammed his hands together and shoved

them into the ground, then pulled out an over-sized nodachi sword. The blade, however, was not normal. It was ethereal, as in my armor wouldn’t stop it. He moved so fast, I didn’t see him.

He slashed across my chest, then my back, then arms, then my legs. He was moving so quickly, I couldn’t keep up. It was all I could do to stand. Malchemist thrust the sword right through my chest, which hurt a lot.

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“I am going to die,” I thought suddenly. This sword was stabbing at my very soul. It was trying to disconnect my soul from my body. It could actually kill me.

No. I wasn’t going like that. Too many people had placed their expectations on me. Junora, Celestine, Brysien, Rick, and anyone else who had helped me on this path. I had to stop him. And that meant…

I stood up, much to Malchemist’s shock. “How can you stand?” he whispered, awed by my strength. For him to put me in that dark place had used up the last of his power. He didn’t have any left-over power, except his shields, which meant conventional means of death would still work.

I looked him in the eye. “I know what I fight for, and I know now how to take you down.” He got very scared. “We are the two most powerful Semideos there ever was. But absolute power corrupts absolutely. I am sorry. I have to make sure you die. And I with you.”

While I spoke to him, I hacked into the US nuclear network. It was easy. I targeted an Enhanced Electromag-netic Pulse & Radiation Low Impact (EEP&RLI) warhead on Alcatraz. The fallout would stay on Alcatraz, making it impossible to visit for fifty years. I created a shield that would stay past my death so that the winds wouldn’t blow it off.

Malchemist looked at the ocean, saw the warhead, and then asked “Aren’t you going to die for this, too?”

“Yes.”“Why?”“Because we are two extremely powerful Semideos, more

so than any other on the planet. If we wanted to, we could rule the world. I am not for this. The people need to lead

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themselves to greatness. The Semideos needed to help them do this.”

He nodded, and then tried to hit me and run. I caught his fist, and then returned the punch with my hand. He flew backwards. He jumped into the air, to fly away, but I jumped above him, grabbed him into a headlock, and slammed him into the ground.

He got up, and he raised an eyebrow. He tried to grab my head. I ducked out the way, and punched him again. His head went back and so did his leg, as a kick to my hip. “Blast,” I gritted out when it made contact, then went to put Mal-chemist in another headlock. He grabbed again at my skull, so I punched him. That was when he said something peculiar.

“-mmit, Knight Gamer! I am trying to save you!” Mal-chemist shouted. What in the world was he…? He grabbed my skull, then incanted, “Ewch, pencampwr, at eich cariad yn y man angen i chi fod!”

Utter agony burst through my skull. I screamed. My body glowed, then teleported away. I tried to stop it. If I left he could teleport out, and that bomb would take out Alcatraz for no reason. But suddenly I wasn’t there. I would like to say that I knew where I was, but I blacked out when I got there. Great.

jMalchemist watched the boy, no, the man leave. He was

going to fix the world. Junora could fix him. She had fixed the Malchemist, but that didn’t last.

That youth was interesting, the Malchemist thought. Mikero, a.k.a., Knight Gamer, had come to stop him. Not

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kill. Knight Gamer never killed. Unlike his generation, who committed virtual murders every time they played a game, Knight Gamer never killed someone in the real world, even though the digital and physical worlds were the same to him. Killing monsters, fine. Killing humans, even those who had killed others, he hadn’t. Not until that had been his last resort today. Malchemist could respect that, but he would have killed the punk.

Maybe he is the change in the world we need, not a tyran-nical dictator, but a benevolent changer, Malchemist said to himself. He pulled out an iPod Touch, put in the headphones, and played “Major Tom (Coming Home)” by Peter Schilling.

Instantly, he was paralyzed by his non-lethal weakness: listening to 80’s rock. It was his love’s favorite kind of music, and this was her favorite song. Zuzana was the first Semid-eos in the SDA. They killed her simply for sparing a life. His life. That was when Malchemist couldn’t be fixed. Not until he died. He realized that now. “I’m coming home, Zuzana,” he breathed out. There was a brief flash of pain, then…

j“Uhhhhhh, I didn’t fire that,” an intern said, fear creep-

ing into his voice. An EEP&RLI warhead had taken off, without his permission, and he couldn’t stop it. Something had hacked his computer, still unscathed, at the time the two most powerful Semideos were hashing it out, and a rogue team of Semideos were fighting another team.

Junora turned to the intern with a look that said, “I am going to kill you.” Then it hit her what had happened. She

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turned to the computer monitor, watching and listening to the final words of Mikero Regis Tollamol and Malchemist.

One by one, her team fell, captured, as more SDA Semid-eos joined the fight. She didn’t care. She was at the edge of tears when they pulled her away from the monitor to be arrested.

But then the Malchemist uttered, “Ewch, pencampwr, at eich cariad yn y man angen i chi fod!” All of the sudden, Mike-ro vanished in a flash of light. She watched the Malchemist sit down, pull out an iPod Touch, put in the earbuds, and then freeze. He stayed frozen until the nuke hit him directly, wiping out the drone.

Junora twisted around, surprised. But before she could say anything, she started to glow. Smithson looked at her and tried to grab her, but before he could, she was gone, teleported to who knows where. Junora blacked out after she got there.

jI woke up with my eyes still closed, seeing the matrix-like

code that made up the room I was in. This was a routine for me, as while I was on the run, it was best not to let the SDA know I was awake. I was confused about what had happened with Malchemist. Was it a dream?

I checked all the time data. It was March 22, 2037. Okay, so I did fight Malchemist today. That wasn’t a dream. I checked the locational data. I was in a bed, in a hotel, in…

“WHAT?” I bolted out of bed, and then saw myself in the mirror across the foot of the bed. I was wearing my gear,

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but it didn’t look like it had just been fought in. I surveyed the room, and saw the one thing I hadn’t dared hope for.

Across the room, another bed laid by the window. On the bed was none other than Junora, who was stretching, having just been awakened. It probably had to do with my outburst. Just like me, she was in full gear, ready to take on the Liberty Cyber Pentagon. Weird. I walked over and sat by her. “Are you okay? Do you need anything?” I asked as gently as possible.

She sat up, then looked at me. “No, why?” She asked tired. She yawned again, then looked out the window. “Is that…” She started to ask.

I followed her gaze out the window, and saw what con-firmed that my powers weren’t on the blink. Out the side of the window was a giant tower. A tower that looked exactly like the Eiffel tower, but was a bright red instead.

“Tokyo.” I said, and then looked right into her eyes. “We are in Tokyo…”

t

Glumly looking up, Josh gnawed on another spoonful of Frosted Mini-Wheats. Dipping his spoon back into his bowl, he began to scoop up the soggy squares at the bottom, ensuring that the milk soaked the tougher ones. As he chewed, he glanced up at the clock, registering the time, and then dropped his eyes back to his bowl. The milk swayed against the bowl as waves beside a blocked dam while Josh stirred his spoon, disheartened. He glanced up, connecting with my gaze for a moment, and then dropped his head. His behavior troubled me.

My younger brother used to have Charlie over to our house by now. And here it was, almost noon, and he was sulking alone. It was almost startling that Charlie had not come over by now. They spent every day of the summer together. Charlie and my brother were as toothpaste on a brush. They often would hang out with me and my friends.

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We would spend hours chasing each other in a game of tag in our backyard. We spent days creeping around in our blackened basement with Nerf guns to blast each other. In fact, we spent days on end, one after another, inventing ex-citing games at our house throughout the entire summer. Why was Josh at home alone instead of with his friend? Although I questioned, I knew why.

Just a few days before, we wanted to go for a fun drive on our four wheelers, like we had so many other days that summer. Charlie wanted to relish those dusty slopes. He wanted to feel the thrill of wind blowing through his hair, to feel that freedom that birds have, to spread his wings and fly. My friend Daniel drove the four-wheeler with Charlie, while I drove the other with Josh. The four of us left my house and headed to the hills a mile away. If only we knew what would come of our decision to drive that day. With our choice, Charlie’s ant hill of hope for a fan-tastic day was smashed to a pulp, because a joy ride was not what happened.

At one point during our drive that day, I realized that Daniel and Charlie were not following us, and I leapt off my four-wheeler to find them. Reaching the top of the hill, I went to check out what the hold-up was. I heard them before I ever saw them. That scream of pain and the begging for forgiveness scared me into a sprint. Reaching them, I felt sick. Not once in my life had I seen such a gut-wrenching scene. Their screaming of a ruined life. Their accusations of each other. It all overwhelmed me, pushing me to action. Full of adrenaline, I knew I had to do something, to be like Perseus, a hero. So I left.

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Taking the other four-wheeler in my desperate drive for help, I floored it down the mountain. I could fix this. I could be the hero, save the day. I could catch this swing before it was too late, before fate would declare us out. In my haste down the mountain, I lost control at 40 miles per hour. To make things worse, I bounded down the hill, hit a large rock and began to tumble. As I rolled down the moun-tain the 400 pound four-wheeler fell on top of me for a brief second and compressed my rib cage like a whoopee cushion. Thankfully, the speed at which it continued to roll aided my body, preventing any severe breaking. I moaned while I continued to roll down the hill, refusing to let go. As the machine slammed to a stop on its side, my battered body crawled out from under the vehicle. Feebly creaking myself onto my feet, I realized I could still move, and would simply have to ignore the charred skin and scrapes that covered my body. I realized I couldn’t take any more chances with the four-wheeler. Glancing at the mangled machine, I left at a dead run for help.

There I was, running down the endless rugged slopes, yelling. My goal: to notify Charlie’s parents. As I ran past the fields I exerted myself in trying to catch some attention. It was fruitless. No one cared to listen because we always yelled for help. If someone sprained their ankle, skinned their knee, or even got a bloody nose, we would yell for help. It seemed every other day, one of us was running for help for our “bro-ken” arm or leg, when in reality, no one was hurt; it would be merely a bruise. Running past the soccer fields, which were at the base of the hills about three-quarters of a mile from the incident, I only got the players’ distrustful stares. How

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was I supposed to catch their attention? They didn’t want to listen. They had a game to play. While I panted by, should I have waved them down? Tell them what needed to be done? Force them to believe my needs were greater than theirs? Yet, even then I couldn’t realize the greater wound. So there I was, like the boy who cried wolf, finally reaching the all too fa-miliar garage by Charlie’s house, trying to explain myself.

Charlie’s parents looked at me with their skeptical gaze as I pleaded with them. “Of course he isn’t hurt,” they assumed, thinking that this time was one of the regular complaints. Frustrated and confused, I gestured to the lengthy trail I had come from, hoping they would understand. Their hostility only got worse when they saw it. I tried to tell them. Honest. But there is only so much a person can do when they are out of breath and trying to describe what I saw, Charlie’s con-dition. That blood curdling scream that filled the air and caused my body and soul to freeze in terror. Was I supposed to try and articulate the images that flooded my head? How could I? Huffing, I tried to explain myself, tried to express how the four-wheeler tipped. They didn’t understand the damage that had been caused by the inexperienced drivers. Charlie’s mom gave me that look, the one where someone goes along with what you say but never truly trusts. Her husband’s eyes narrowed at me as we hopped into his car. Then the questions came.

Charlie’s parent’s questions engulfed me like an avalanche as I tried to show where it happened. Their faces, they keep coming back to me. The way they didn’t believe a word I said, as if the whole thing was a scam. Then the police drove up. More complaints followed. I could tell by the way they

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grunted and threw their hands in the air that they didn’t like the police involvement. The minefield of distrust only got worse. When they were forced to believe me, when they saw the red soaked ground and the fleeting eyes of their boy, the field blew up. Now here I was, looking at the fragments.

I never truly found out what happened when I left Daniel and Josh with Charlie’s snapped, oozing leg until Charlie had been boarded into the life flight helicopter. I still remember the vivid image Daniel described to me. Trying to communicate with Daniel’s distraught frame, he began to explain what had happened to Charlie. He explained how, when we had reached the top of the mountain near my house and had determined it was time to turn around and head home, their four-wheeler tipped. Daniel had leapt off, avoiding the crushing blow, but in the process left Charlie. The edge of the four-wheeler came down on Charlie’s leg like an axe, severing bone, flesh, and all. Charlie’s leg was no more. Blood had erupted from the wound, spewing like a drinking fountain across the thirsty ground as Josh stared at it in shock. Charlie bellowed in pain like a bloated cow, begging for his agony to end. Inhaling his fear, Daniel squat-ted down, took hold, and engaged his quads, winching the crushing machine upward. The sticky blood stretched between the four-wheeler and the annihilated leg like melted cheese. Then Charlie slithered out and heaved the lower chopped end of the leg behind with his hand as I ran up to the scene.

Grasping the pain Daniel endured as he told this ex-perience to me, I didn’t know what to do. How would I live with myself if I were him? With the knowledge of being the one responsible for the accident? I wanted to comfort

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him, tell him life moves on and let him know that this was just a bad nightmare. But it wasn’t. What had happened had been branded into our hides, so I raised my white flag and did nothing. I dumbly patted his shoulder as I noted how this would forever scar the friendship that had been creat-ed. We would never again have those joyful hangouts. We would never play a game of tag in our backyard. We would never again blast each other with Nerf guns. The friendship we had so dearly created through our many years of life was dashed in a moment.

Now, in the aftermath, my brother slurped the rest of his milk, and then dumped the bowl into the sink. Finished, he turned and passed me, as though I were a ghost. I knew the unspoken thought, that growing desire to change our fate. The craving to alter what was done, just as he wanted to mend a broken vase. It was a collapsing tower, and we could no longer understand one another. How should I re-spond? Do I tell him that we can fix this, that we can still be friends through thick and thin? Am I supposed to explain to him that all is well? I know what he is feeling, that same distraught denial state. That place where you grab your feelings and stuff them beneath your protective blanket, where all our emotions tend to stay.

Many recognize the emotional pain endured from the loss of a loved one, but few realize the silent death of friend-ship which we cherish with one another. The pain brought to us when we feel alone, unloved, lost, inadequate, or help-less, because we have lost that friendly communication with each other. It troubles me to see people from the same family let that happen. To let the precious friendship that

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we live for, die. Just because there aren’t sirens blaring or a funeral service to identify the hurt doesn’t mean it’s not there.

Now, here I am, two years later, sitting on the newly cut lawn of Mt. Loafer Elementary School, watching them. There they are, Charlie and Josh, versing one another in a game of soccer. Bliss and intensity fills their faces like a lion in the thrill of his hunt. Charlie takes a kick, blowing the ball down the field with his new prosthetic leg. He sprints, the sun glinting off the metal. The game continues. Now I know. Even though all four of our blooming friendships could not withstand the winter season, theirs could.