July 7, 2011

Hannah's Story! :D

By Hannah

Chapter 1:
The cold October air bit into my cheeks as I raced through the streets. I had
gotten a call about ten minutes ago when Jake encountered a burglar trying to
break into a house. I had sent Willie and John over there to help him out, but I
was going to check myself. Always check, I reminded myself. You never know
when something bad might happen.
Flashes of a boy laying in a hospital bed sprung into my head. No. I can’t think
about that. Not now. They’ll be fine. They can take care of themselves.
I cursed myself for spreading out everyone’s stations this far, for the night and
made a mental note to change that.
I arrived five minutes later, after stopping a couple of times for a break and
making sure no one was following me. I didn’t think anyone was, but it’s always
important to check.
“New or old, boys?” I said.
“Old,” Jake replied. I looked at his face. He was cute, with shaggy blond hair and
a lean build, but he had a boyish face. He was only sixteen, but he could pass as
eighteen. “Recognize him?” he asked and picked up a mound of black clothing –
Carl Richards. He was a frequent visitor to us. We’ve caught him almost every
time he tried to steal something, except once –the only time that truly ruined my
life. I pushed the image of that boy sitting in the hospital out of my head again.
“Carl, Carl, Carl..” I said shaking my head at him and sitting down in front of him.
I saw him tremble and I smiled to myself. That was usually the reaction people,
who got caught, gave me, but I never got tired of it; it was a thing of beauty to me.
“Where did he break into?” I asked, looking up at Jake. We never used our names in front of criminals and we didn’t show all of our face either; it could
put us at risk with the cops. They don’t know who we are individually, and we’d
like to keep it that way.
“The Nelson’s home.”
“Is it secure?”
“Yes,” answered Willie for Jake. I looked over to him and noticed the blood
on his face. Weird; Carl didn’t have a speck of blood
anywhere. Willie continued. “Richards tried getting in through a window but all
windows were locked, as were the doors. He was about to break the window when
we”—he motioned to John—“got here to help,” he finished.
I nodded my approval at Willie without looking up. “So, what would you like us
to do to you? Are you going to be a good little boy and turn yourself in? Or do we
have to do it the hard way?” I asked Carl, ripping off the duct tape on his mouth.
He opened his mouth wide and I punched him in the stomach. He rolled over,
clutching his stomach and moaning. “Now, listen here, Carl.”, I waited to see if
he’d interrupt. He didn’t. “It would be in your best interest not to try to scream
for help. Do you know why?” He looked up at me, grimaced, shaking his head no.
“Because, Carl, all the people within hearing range are not exactly on your friends
list. So, I’ll tell you what I’m going to do: you’re going to stay here until the cops
come, and when they get here, you are to tell them that you are the burglar who
tried breaking into that house,” I say pointing to the Nelson’s house. “And then,
you are going to go to jail overnight and never try to rob someone again. Okay?”
He looked up at me and I smiled sweetly. I saw horror flash through his eyes
and watched while he slowly nodded his head. I stood up and nodded to Willie,
walking away.
Everyone met up at Oakland Park where we’d parked our vehicles. No one checked it at night, so we just left them there and went off to do our business. I drove the gang’s van back to headquarter which was really just a warehouse full of our equipment, food supply, change of clothing and some beds where whoever didn’t fit in my house, slept.
I thought about my life on the way back. It was about an hour to get from the park to our headquarters and most of the group slept on the way back, so it tended to get quiet in the vehicle every night at this time.
My parents died when I was little. They died because of criminals. It was the only reason why I kept pushing myself to keep going with Dragonfire. With recruiting new members, training them and them helping me stop people like the ones who killed my parents.
They say my parents went missing and then later discovered, both dead. The cops never had told me much about what had happened, just that they had found my parents in this park, Oakland Park. All of this, is just to get revenge on the killer of my parents.
I was named Holly Gunther back then, at least, that's what my parents had named me. When I was put into the orphan home, I demanded that my name should be changed. I re-named myself Melissa Woodbury. Melissa because I thought it was a very pretty name back then. I chose my last name as Woodbury because I grew up in Woodbury, Minnesota. The only thing I didn't change, was my middle name. My mother and father had used my grandmother's name for my middle name. She was named Elizabeth.
It's been nearly two decades that I've been Melissa Elizabeth Woodbury. No one knew about my past except for me. I tried to keep it that way.
Everyone looked alert and ready for anything, but I knew that they were about ready to fall asleep when their head hit the pillow. It was five thirty in the morning, I was tired, but wasn’t
afraid to show it.
I called the meeting to order.
“I assume that everyone besides Jake ran didn’t run into any problems tonight.” I
looked around the room, and when I was just about to talk again, Daniel spoke.
“We ran into someone tonight.”
“Who is ‘we’, Daniel? And who did you run into? Why didn’t you call me?”
He looked irritated, “Me, Dominick
and Will.” I looked over at Dominick and Will, but both of them averted their
eyes. “We ran into a cop.” I think the whole room got silent at that point.
A cop? They ran into a cop and didn’t call me? What
were they thinking? But, on the outside, I tried to look calm.
“We didn’t call you because he just told us to go home since it was getting late. He
didn’t suspect a thing.”
“And you’re the one to judge that?” I know I sounded harsh and cold when saying that, but I couldn’t think about any of these things right now. I had to look away; they didn’t understand how
much of a déjà vu this was. They were my family. I had to protect them
I’d already lost one member, I wasn’t about to lose another.
I tried to calm down, and shut my eyes again. I reopened them a minute later and
looked over to Daniel. “What do you mean he didn’t suspect a thing?”
“He just sent us home.”
“But he saw our tattoos,” Dominick added after a minute.
“What?” I said through gritted teeth. This night could not get any worse.
“I said, b-”
“I heard you.” I turned around so they couldn’t see my face. This cannot be
happening. They know they’re supposed to cover their tattoos
in public. Even when they were patrolling. They’re smarter than this, and yet,
they insist on acting like idiots. I turned back around and tried to look composed.
“This meeting is adjourned.” I gathered up my paperwork and walked back to
my office, making sure that I walked not too fast, not too slow. Just fast enough to
make it look like I was fine and safe. All I could do was hope that I was safe anyway.
I was at the police station and on my fifth cup of coffee. I had been here for hours trying to figure out what happened last night. I scanned over the piece of paper where I’d written down everything that happened.
An anonymous caller told me that there was a break in on West and Sixteenth
Ran into three teenagers - all had identical tattoos, but didn’t look older than sixteen.
Found burglar bruised, frightened and mumbling nonsense
Something in all of that just didn’t add up. Could the anonymous caller be one of the teenagers? Could they have beat the man up?
I checked the man’s file. Carl Richards was his name. Recently got out of prison for a break in and a third degree murder.
“I can see why someone would want to kill him.” I looked up and saw Adrian Wash standing there. He was one of the fifty men on the same team as me. I looked back down at the file in my hand. I set it down on my desk and looked back at Adrian.
“Yes, but they didn’t.”
“The question is; why not?”
“I’m still working on that. It just doesn’t make sense. Any of it.”
“Maybe you should go home. Get some rest, it might help. Especially since some of the guys want to kill you for drinking all the coffee.” I smiled at that.
“I’m going to stay for a little bit longer. See what I can find out.”
“Alright, but Captain isn’t going to like it.” I looked over to Captain Nyegard’s office, the door was closed. I looked back at Adrian, but he was gone.
* * *
I felt something burning me, like I was on fire. I looked around and saw a dragon. It was green, not the good grass green, but like a lime color. It was curled around itself, looking ready to pounce. I thought that it was just sensing some danger, but I was the only one there, besides the dragon. Before I could start running, the dragon opened it’s mouth, it’s nose flaring, eyes wide, and it let fire come streaming out of it’s mouth, right at me.
I bolted awake from my dream, soaked with my own sweat, I swear that dragon looked exactly like the one on the teenagers. The tattoos on their arms have a dragon, lime green, with fire coming out of it’s mouth, just like the one in my dream.

March 6, 2011

I always wanted....

by Beth

I always wanted to hold time, to be a part of it, instead of conforming to it.
I always wished that when other people were running around, hurrying to school or work; taking drastic measures not to be late, I could just twist the fingers on the clock around, set it back just an hour or two at least, and maybe that way I could fit in everything I wanted to do.
You see, I never wanted to just sit in a classroom, doing work. I could never settle for it, never would.
I wanted to spin in circles in the meadow, dance under the stars at night. Roll in the sand on the beach.. and dream. I never had time to dream.


by Sam Antha

The wind shatters like a million
shards of glass
against my face
It blows everything i felt was okay
Time pauses
I step through the shadow of blood
as if nothing happened
and its all done
I look in the mirror
as time begins to swirl
like a living nightmare
my toes curl
The cuts run deep in my veins
and the shadows of the past dance in my brain
The scars
you cannot see
because I hide them deep
inside of me
But the pain can still be triggered,
even the slightest pull
brings the past back
and it burns even worse than before
It feels as though
is fading like a swirl
of smoke
as the curling ends fade against me
threatening to pull me in
There is nothing to grasp
because my strength is hidden
and my fear is growing too fast
I'm in another time
it feels like I'm losing my mind
I'm down an empty road,
it calls my name
and I know
this is my life
and I
must make my own way
And even when it feels like
the past and future
trembling my lips
The fear almost seems
But all you have to fear
is fear itself
the rest you can

February 26, 2011


by Dee (and her cousin)


Come, my children, and I shall tell you a tale of the four greatest knights ever to grace our land. No other kingdom may boast such a tale: not Eldo, not Nong, nor anywhere else. These four knights did the impossible and achieved with no one before them could do. They battled evil forces and rescued our country from doom. However, it was not these mighty deeds that made the four so great, but the change that they wrought within themselves.
The first knight is one whom I have grown to love unconditionally. This is the Princess, whom you yourselves know. You know she is a gentle person, who always thinks of others. You know she treasures outward beauty, but even more so treasures the beauty of the heart. But there was a time when the only thing she cared for was herself, and superficial vanity ruled in her mind.
The second knight is one whom I love because of our differences. This is the Swordmaster, whom you also know. You know she is a strong-willed woman of great strength and wisdom, who always gives thought to her words before she speaks them. Yet some time ago, she was a fiery headstrong young girl, who would act without a second thought and often spoke hurtful words without meaning to.
The third knight is one whom I love because of our similarities. This is the Archer, whom you know as well. You know she is a clever person, one who always knows the right thing to say and do at the right time. You know she cares for anyone and everyone she meets. But I know of a time, not that long ago, when she would go days without speaking and would often wither in anxiety of what others thought of her.
And the last knight is one whom I love like a brother. This is the Warrior, whom you know. You know he is hardworking, always knowing what is just. You know that he would never once reject a person because of their history, despite his nobility. But this tolerance of his comes from a hidden background: once, this noble knight was simply the impoverished son of a drunk and a tavern maid, overshadowed by his older brothers, who had left him behind.
The four of them defied all odds to become the people they are now, but this story is not only about what happened to them, but what they did for Crelynd. It is a long and exciting tale.
Our story begins in this land, Crelynd, where in the first year of the reign of King Daragon and Queen Cara the prince Joshua was born and the royal jewels were stolen. The jewels were taken by an evil enchanter by the name of Ostello, who had desired to marry Queen Cara himself. Crelynd knew not what danger it entered into then, for the jewels bestowed upon Ostello invisibility, invincibility, and immortality.
It was three years after the jewels were stolen that Ostello came back to the castle in the guise of a shoe peddler, and lured young Prince Joshua into his clutches. They were gone before King Daragon realized what had happened. Undeterred, the king rode from the castle with his finest company to retrieve his son. But neither the king nor any of his company ever returned.

Do you want to read more? (I highly recommend it.) Click HERE!

And the award goes to...

Click HERE to see some of the funniest "Smartest Person Award" acceptance speeches ever written.

Wanna see some of the samples?

*walks on stage*
"Hello, my friends! Good day to each and every one of you! You may recognize me as the girl who, several posts up, took the award for smartest person in the world. Well, the judges have decided that I'm just SO smart that I need another one of these awards. I admit, I chuckle in your faces as I think of the jealousy you foolish, primitive apes must be feeling in your internal organs right now! But it is cruel of me to gloat over another's misfortune and stupidity, so I cease chuckling, and will console you instead. I apologize for your stupidity. There. Consolation time is over. I would like to thank my father, for inserting the car into my mother's garage that made my life possible. I thank my mother for taking my infantile body and keeping it safe inside her stomach. I would like to thank my best friend, Addie, who helped me cheat- I mean, helped me STUDY my facts. And finally, I would like to thank my wonderful, large brain and promise it that it will always have a home inside my skull. Cheese bless you all."
*falls off stage*

(by Luna the Vampire)

Me: *Leaps onto stage and grabs microphone*
"Because of my supreme and amazingly dazzling brilliance I know this mic is on, and therefore do not need to ask, "is this thing on?"."
Person in audience: "What? The microphone isn't on! We can't hear you."
Me: *Ignores person*
"Friends, Romans, Countrymen, I am excruciatingly pleased to let you know about this glorious and romantic title which I am now the eager wearer of..... I am Chloe: THE SMARTEST PERSON IN THE UNIVERSE!!!!! MUAHAHAHA!!!"
Person in audience: "Well, she obviously didn't take vocab or evil laughing class."
Me: I shalt not take this title-
*falls off stage*
Person in Audience: Wow.

(by the kid formerly known as Chloe)

How to Find a Title For Your Story

by Cora

I've found out that it's often difficult to find a title for your story, so here's what I think about when I'm trying come up with one- I hope it helps! If you have any tips of your own, just post them on here. :)

1. First, write the story! Sometimes, a title just comes when you're not even asking for it.
(If you can't think of anything after you've written the story, or if you just want a temporary title, try taking a look below for ideas.)

2. Think about the facts: What's the main character like? Does he/she have a problem? What's the point of the whole book? What does the main character try to accomplish in the course of the story? Does the plan come together, or fall through?

3. Use the conflict in the story or the peak/highest point in the story.

4. Look at other books you've read for inspiration. Why did you decide to read it, if you hadn't heard about it from anyone else before? How does the title connect to the story? Maybe you can make similar ties for your book.

5. Use a metaphor or simile to describe something that's going on in the main character's life.
What symbolism do you use in the book?

6. What's the theme of the book? The genre? Try to get something that's unique enough that it's interesting and intriguing and not the title of hundreds of other books, but make sure that it's not too cliché and not too abstract that no one will know what you're talking about. Also, try not to give too much away about the story- maybe you can include something that happens, but disguise it. For example, if your main character, Caroline, dies at the end of the book and then comes back to life somehow as a ghost or another paranormal- you get the idea- don't call it "The Life, Death, and Re-incarceration of Caroline." Instead, you could call it "Past the Veil and Back Again," the veil representing death, or something like that.

Above all, have fun with it, and be patient. Keep looking- you'll find the perfect one sooner or later, and most likely, you'll know when it's the One you're going to use. Good luck! :)

February 7, 2011

The Sci-Fi RP

Hello, people. I have just happened to discover that I actually created a lovely blog for the science fiction role-play some time ago. If anyone is at all interested in visiting it, HERE is the link.

Thank you, and ciao.

Farewell to a Young Girl

By Amanda

Blindless madness
actions unjust,
he ignored their lives,
the lives he touched.
One injured here, another
killed there; a parent's grief,
their crying we'll hear.
Echoing down the halls of time
we'll forever hear the dying cries.
Nine years old with dreams
unfulfilled, her breathing stopped;
her breathing stilled.
Never forget the lives lost
on the day a man wanted a
congresswoman shot. Harmless
civilians buried deep -
we mourn for a short time
while their souls continue weeping.
Brought into the world on a tragic day
caused by terrorists full of sin,
only nine years to live, then
killed by country kin.
Gone now, your breath a wisp,
tears falling down
sadly, it's not a trick...
Dreams so big, a heart to match;
Christina Green, your memory
shall last.

About Christina Green

And The Bird Sang

By Stella

**Note from the authour:

I just wrote. The. Most. Depressing. Thing. EVER.
Argh, do not ever do research on the death penalty. I am permanently freaked out.

And, uh... a warning: This involves self-mutilation, abuse, death, and male-on-male rape (only hinted at, it never ACTUALLY happens in the prose, but yeah...) So if these make you feel uncomfortable, I wouldn't recommend reading.**


You are always letting go. Of something. Nothing lasts forever, nothing at all. No matter how hard you try, everything will eventually slip beyond reach. And you'll be upset, yes, but will always move on.

Some people consider life to be a line. Ever moving, never stopping, going in every direction, forever.

You never believed them.
Because everything ends. Even life. Some just take longer than others.


Life after death was always something you asked yourself of. You always saw the people on the news, screaming that they had been to Heaven and back, and that it existed. People listened, fascinated. But you always ignored them. Looked right past them and ignored their attention-seeking lies. Sometimes at a younger age, you almost believed them. Almost. Usually their stories were convincing, so why not believe them?

But, you always tell yourself, believing crushes you. Every time you believe in something it comes crashing down.
Oddly, you had the same beliefs on love.
And caring.
The more you care, the more you get hurt.
Emotions drag you down; you left them behind years ago.


He called you lost, on the best of nights. On the worst of nights the only thing you would hear was whatever he used to take his anger out on you. Sometimes the sizzle of an electrical cord singing your skin.

Strangely, it didn't hurt anymore. Didn't even sting. The only thing you felt was anger, anger at the very man that you should be able to trust and love.

And anger at the boy who stands in the corner and obviously knows what's going on, but never has the guts to do anything.


They don't know you. No one does. They think they do, but the person they know is simply a mask. A mask, a shallow reflection of a person. A shell, and you're cowering behind it. Because hiding yourself is easy. You don't want sympathy. You don't want people to know how you feel. They wouldn't understand; anyway.

But sometimes, despite yourself, you feel like the weight you carry is going to crush you. And all you want is to have someone to share it with you; or at least know about what goes on.


You ran away. Twice. Once when you were eleven. Sick. Tired. Scared. You thought you could get away. You were fast. Someone would take pity on you. Surely.

It took you one mile to realize you were freezing. Two to realize you had nowhere to go. Three to realize that if you were caught it would be horrible. Four to realize you were out of breath. Five to realize that you had nothing with you.

Six to realize there were cars chasing you.

And then when you were fourteen. It was a shred of hope that clung to you, so you acted on it. You didn't even get to a mile before they caught up with you.


Today, you almost smiled. For the first time in years, you felt that strange feeling you thought you had put aside. Burnt. Because there was nothing worthy of a smile in your life.

She had been joking around, the girl who the closest thing to a friend you ever had, and will ever have; and listening to her had distracted you. It was an odd feeling, to actually care about her life; usually you never listen to what people tell you. It's a habit, really.

For a second, the weight that curled your shoulders forward and pressed the corners of your lips into a scowl lifted. Dangled slightly overhead, just teasing you. But you really did lose it, for a little while.

And just when it was about to happen, the expression you had put off for so long... the weight crashed again. Harder than before.

This girl, you need to see her more. Maybe someday you'll get rid of that weight. That sweet feeling she gives you, one of peace and calm, is amazing.

But she'll never understand. Even if you do tell her- which you swore through tears and clenched teeth not ever to do- she wouldn't get how heavy the weight feels. She's always been loved and cared for.

Or would she? She's definitely different from the others your age; her spirit is free and wild, her intentions are selfless and important, and her thoughts are quick and true.

And... and maybe somehow they could stop it. Find a way to tell the officials what he does.

Just before you remind yourself that love is nothing, just an obstacle that slows you down.


You remembered the night it had gotten worst, the abuse. You were shivering and freezing and sore from your six mile run. You remember feeling like nothing, like a speck of dust, worthless, invaded. You remembered screaming and for the first time, crying.


It had lain in the middle of the floor. Tempting you. As if he wanted you to fall into his trap, like he wanted you to mess up everything. Everything you knew.

But even you, who had suffered at the hands of sharp objects, couldn't resist. Your hand went to your arm, traced the lines of deep cuts that never healed, not fully, and formed scars that act like a sleeve around your arm. You thought you would have closed up at the idea of something sharp- you flinched around glass, after all, and knives terrified you.

But this... it was different. You remembered what a girl had told you once- a Goth, she called herself. How it released all your feelings. How you felt better.

Pain had always made you focus. Reminded you that you were alive and human.

And that's why, you tried to convince yourself. For reality.

And your hand curled around the knife, a kitchen knife, no longer used.

And you raised it to your wrist.









(Why, you wondered. Why you were stupid enough to start.)


During the long nights spent at home, no matter how hard he hit you, with words or actions, you never cried. You hadn't, really, since you were eleven and invaded. And that was once. Before that? You can't remember. Never? Probably not, because when you were very young you did. Had to have. While he was still overseas, and while she still cared for you.

When he had come back, he was... different. Cursed at everything, and your living room was lined with littered with broken bottles. The room you had called your own was too.

And every time you think of the glass you remember the long nights where sleep had fled you, and spent the time pulling the shards of glass out of your skin, ignoring the trickle of blood that flowed down each time, and the small spurt of pain each gave.

But still, you held all emotion inside, until you found the largest piece. That you throw at the crumbling brick wall, and imagine it to be him, for hurting you so much.

And her, who simply left you.
And him, for never speaking up about what happens.


You'll always remember the school assignments, anything that had to do with your family. Each time you squeeze the pencil in your hand so hard it feels like its about to break, because all you want to do is tell them what happens at home, not to make up a happy lie about a close family who never argue and a father who actually cares and a brother who is always there to talk to and always goes to you for advice and an actual mother who didn't desert you because she didn't want to be a part of everything and...

"You okay?" They would always ask, seeing your tense expression and the death grip. You'd loosen your hold and fake a smile, saying, "Fine... I was just daydreaming... sometimes my thoughts get a little weird, you know what I mean?" And somehow they always believed, or didn't care enough to press the issue further.

It was a good thing lying came so easily to you. Anything less would be awful.

It wasn't only the assignments that did such a thing. Every field trip, party, dance, or anything besides a normal school day, you were exempt from. You were always sick, or were away, or your religion didn't approve of it, or anything.

You often cursed mentally at the teachers that always seemed so smart to most people, and maybe they were, but weren't ten years of excuses suspicious? Didn't they ever notice the wounds that, somehow, you didn't manage to cover?
Apparently not.


Mornings were the worst, even though your entire day was bad. Everyday the option of just curling up tighter and hiding forever from the world seemed better than your life. Falling back to sleep, which was your only place to hide, was so appealing, you wished you could live in a dream.

But no. You didn't want to get hurt again, did you? So you forced yourself up, and somehow made it through the day.

Every day you wore a long-sleeved, high necked jacket. It covered most of the scars. Even at his most intoxicated state, your father next to never hit you on the face. It was too hard to conceal that way, unless you did something especially bad. Such as sleep in. And then you'd be forced to search for an excuse, because people always noticed for some reason.

He'd forced you to let your hair grow long to hide the back of your neck. You had to wear long clothing at all times.

You would never tell a person of what happens at home. If you did, you were dead. Simple as that.

You were to go straight to school and back. No after school activities. No before school activities. You were to walk both ways, even though your house was two miles away.


She slammed the locker door so hard it made a loud, hollow clanging sound that must have rung throughout the hallway. "Alright, you've got to tell me why you don't answer anything I ask you. Why? Come on; just give me a simple answer. Don't I deserve to know?"

You looked away from her. Convincing lies, that's what you needed to tell. And yet, you were sick of lying. For eleven years you've lied about everything. Couldn't you tell the truth for once?

You knew the answer was no.

"I... I can't," you answered her quietly. She heard the shift in your voice, and she softened her tone.

"Yes, you can. I can help, whatever's going on. I care." Again, you wanted to tell her. But you can't, you know that. Your promise, and if you broke that... you were dead. Simple as that.

And then you turned around and walked away. You whispered, "I wish," under your breath, knowing she'd never hear.

(But you still had to say it. It brought you satisfaction, if only a little.)

(You wanted to tell her.)

(There was no denying that.)


They used to try, when you were younger. Try to include you into things.
Maybe they were trying to be nice, but it just felt like torture to you.

Some didn't give up. They kept trying to lure you into things. Said they cared, but probably didn't. You knew they wouldn't care. It wasn't like talking to you ever benefited them, so why try it?

And then later on, the girls who were obsessed with your sullen, somber mood and tried to drop hints at their feelings. And yet even they gave up, and around tenth grade, people finally learned to leave you alone. It wasn't like you wanted to be entirely isolated, but you didn't want to have to put up with pointless talking.

Only two people in your life tried to get past your shell.


"You never say anything about your parents. Do you get along with them?" the kind teacher asked you. It was right before lunch, but she had held you back. And right when she did, you knew what she was going to ask.

"Yes, of course." You tried to twist away, knowing that she knew you had lied. But she clamped her hand on your wrist, and your shirt, which was two sizes too big, moved slightly, and revealed a long bruise right on your wrist. She pushed the fabric back, and found several more of similar quality. For a second, she stood there, stunned, staring right into your eyes.

She stuttered a couple words, fell silent, and then tried again. "D-do they... do they hit you?"

You swallowed hard. The room seemed to spin and close in on you. This very moment was the one you had never thought about before, because no one else had ever noticed anything wrong with you.

You shut your eyes tight. Your hands curled into fists. "Yes," you whispered your voice barely audible. "Not they, just... just him."

And then... and then that emotion you'd been hiding away for so long burst. You couldn't help it when the tears built in your eyes, and the next thing you knew, you were sobbing into her shoulder, her arms around your back, not saying anything but just being there, and the gesture is so alien to you, so unfamiliar, but you love it. She cared. And you couldn't thank her for that; it's too much to ask.

When you calmed down, though, you took a step back. "You can't tell anyone. No one at all. If anyone else finds out, he either kills me, or-" you choked for a second. You didn't finish and instead looked over to her.

She blinked, like she was chasing tears from her eyes. "What... what am I supposed to do then? I can't just know and not do anything, it's not right."

"Nothing. I'm not dying. I refuse it."

"Very well, then." Her voice was calm. "But I am telling my husband. He won't spill, of course, but maybe we'll find a way." And, before you stepped out of the room, you nodded at her.

"Thank you."

(You had never felt so loved. It felt amazing and confusing at the same time.)


The worst horror is knowing there's nothing you could do.

You were stupid, you knew that. You'd known since the day you picked up the knife and turned to self-mutilation.

But this....

What were you think, telling someone? He'd always been good at reading your emotions, always knew. Had you not thought? Had you not known? And still you acted out. You had done exactly what he wanted you to. You cracked. You acted out of desperation. Out of fear.

Fear did things to people. Changed them. Made them do things they knew they never should.

Being discovered was always a small hope you clung to, in a sea of desperation. You shouldn't have. It just... it just made things hard. Was like an extra weight pressed on your back.


You hadn't wanted to give him the satisfaction. At first you had tried your hardest to hold in the screams, but this time it was impossible.

You were screaming. More than you had in years. Six years. Crying. Tears soaking your face. Begging. The worst one? "Kill me." You curled yourself into a protective ball, trying to help yourself, but that didn't help anything. You repeated those two words: Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me.

He didn't listen.

You lost track of time. It didn't matter. You withdrew into the void that was yourself. Blocked him out, but still felt the pain.

And then he pulled away. You didn't realize it at first, that he had left. And then you realized there was no new pain, and you sat up. Closed your eyes. The thing about him was that whenever he hurt you, he was so careful not to do anything visible. No one would be able to see the marks from the night.

He came back seconds later. And you swore you felt your heart stop. Because this was it, wasn't it?

"I'm not a liar," he said as her came up to you. And you saw it, the gun. Right in front of you. The tears fell. You didn't want to cry. Not now. But you couldn't stop it.

His hand was on the trigger. "I hope you go to hell."
Squeezed it.

But a sudden wave of bloodlust took over you. Your hands shot out at the moment his fingered pulled it. Pushed it so that it pointed straight at his head.

And with a blam, the bullet slammed into his head.

His blood covered the floor for the few seconds it took for his heart to stop beating.

You were so shocked that the gun dropped from your hands and clattered on the floor.

You had killed.


It took the neighbors minutes to barge in. No, not even that. They were there the second the shot was fired. There long enough to see you holding the weapon that ended his life, the murderous look in your eyes.

"Oh my God, did he-"

"Is he-"

"This can't-"

"We've been living next to a murderer-"

"Call the police-!"

Someone pinned you against the wall while another picked up the phone, another tried to comfort the boy in the corner screaming his head off. Oh, you fought. You knew it was worthless, that you wouldn't accomplish anything. But you were feral. Mad. You squirmed. Bit.

And while the woman was frantically talking on the phone to the operator, saying how she had seen you kill your own father, how he lay bloody and dead on the floor, how you were dangerous and trying to escape, you lost it all. You yelled at the top of your voice how it wasn't your fault, how he was about to kill you, how he had hurt you so-

And then the ambulance and the police came and you were empty, your limbs feeling too heavy and having to drag them, how blank you felt, and you wished you wouldn't have lived.

But seconds before you reached the police car, a hummingbird landed on the roof and sang a short tune to you before flitting away.

(The song haunted you for the next week.)


The next months were brutal. Your trial was a short one- all of the evidence was there, your father was a former governor and marine, and you stopped trying to defend yourself, so the decision was nearly unanimous- death. All of the jury except for one took no pity on you, despite your age. Sometime in there, you turned 18- which should've been a celebration, but all that happened was you felt even worse than usual. Knowing you was about to die was horrible.

You spent nearly four years in that prison, waiting for them to finally carry out your sentence. You were actually very lucky; some men had waited for thirty years. It drove you insane, utterly insane. But, at least you were used to little contact.

All you could do was remembered what you said to the kind teacher the day you had killed him- how if he found out you had spilled, you were dead no matter what you did.

You had been right, though you hadn't expected the sentence to be from your own killing.

And the blood never washed off. Every night before you slept you looked at your hand and you swore you saw his blood filling it. And every night you bit that spot as hard as you could. The pain brought reality. They never would let a knife in there, but your teeth were satisfying enough.

They visited you rarely. Just your mother and your brother, who had spent the whole time frantically apologizing. You had shaken your head, because nothing had been his fault. You didn't see the point in living the last part of your life angry, except at your mother. "I can't believe you left us," you had spat. She disgusted you, and you hated her. She knew of what happened, and when it started, she had left. She didn't even care for you.

And she... she came twice. Just as beautiful as ever. And like you had far too many times lately... you cried into her shoulder. She said she was trying to help you, that she and the teacher were protesting against capital punishment.

"If we're lucky," she said, "We'll make it illegal before your time comes." And just before she left, she turned and said, "Oh, and I believe you by the way. A few of us do. No one believes us." She swallowed. "There are debates everywhere. No one can agree."

And then, when that final night rolled around and you had your last meal, you barely ate. Mostly you just stared at the wall and zoned out. The food left no impression on you.

You also turned 21 shortly before that. You were still the youngest criminal in there.

You didn't even sleep that night. You chewed on your hand all night. You weren't satisfied until you drew blood. Ad even then you kept biting. Unable to stop.

(You just wanted to die.)


The night seemed endless, but you were relieved when they finally came for you. It was odd, but you were glad that it was finally over. You didn't protest, and you weren't that worried. You were simply as reserved as always, keeping your eyes fixed ahead of you, and your thoughts far away.

There were only four people who were there- of course your brother, who didn't look as innocent and frantic as you thought he would be, and your mother, who had a disapproving look on her face. But, to your surprise, standing next to them was your teacher, the one who had figured it out. Her eyes were red, like she had been crying. She felt like the mother in the room, not the dyed platinum blond woman with extremely high heels and a face that had obviously gone through many cosmetic surgeries. She was there, too. Crying. Their protests had failed.

At least they tried, which was much more than could be said for most people.

They strapped you to the gurney in the room, and you closed your eyes as they swabbed your skin with alcohol, and two IVs were attached to your arms.

You didn't think about what was going on. Instead... you drifted. Not into memories, but into a painless bliss of... of happiness.

The last thing you saw was the hummingbird and its beautiful song. Somehow, you had forgotten about it. In all the time, music had failed to come with. And minor memories, such as that one-

You were gone before you could finish the thought.

January 30, 2011

Chasing Daisies

By Sam Antha

Part 1: Finding Hope

I was five years old when I picked my first daisy. Small white petals curving outward, with a bright yellow inside, it was so beautiful; I thought they were the most beautiful flowers of all. I would pick them whenever I was given the chance. Just a small girl, short tangled blond hair in my face, curious blue eyes, and the curiosity and imagination every child is bestowed with at some point. Daisies were very popular to pick, almost everyone wanted one in their hands; a little piece of hope for their darkened days. My father told me a story about them once when I was holding one in my small hands, admiring its beauty. “You know why daisies are so special?” He asked.
“Because they’re pretty?” I asked.
“Well that too.” He chuckled softly. “But also because each one holds a piece of hope a piece of believing. Not many of us can have that now of days.” He sighed. “So I would like you to promise not to pick one unless you need it, or know someone who does. Lots of us like to pick them because of what they behold, but there is only so much hope to go around, and there are not many daisies left.” He explained.
I stared into his deep expression. “I promise.” I said with wide eyes. His story never left me.

5 years later

I ran downstairs, my feet thumping, and my hair flopping up and down.
“Mom! Mom! What happened?” I asked, out of breath, my eyes on the verge of tears.
She was crying, her eyes a dusky pink. I looked out to the deck to see Emma, her knees to her chin, and her eyes looking out to the forest. I knew something was wrong.
“What’s wrong?” I asked my expression darkened.
She cried some more, than sat down, she patted a seat beside her. I slowly walked over, and took a seat beside her. I looked at her, not sure of what to say.
“Dad has lung cancer.”
The words passed through me slowly, and I began to cry. The world felt suffocating, as I lay on my mom’s shoulder, breathing out slowly. This shouldn’t have happened; my dad quit smoking a long time ago. All aspects of life seemed to drift into a cloud of confusion, and it would only get worse.

1 year later

I don’t know what to do, how to give us hope, how to let my Dad survive. They already think he only has 2 years left, I would like to believe otherwise, but the state he is in, seems to go the other direction. I can’t get to sleep tonight, not that I usually can. My sister is in her room, and my mom is downstairs drinking coffee. I lay on my back, I decide I should just go to sleep, and I do, looking at the glow in the dark stickers on my walls my dad and me put up. A tear leaves my eye. The world fades as I wonder what death is really like.
I wake up, and look at the regular dreary expressions of my sister and mom as we drive to the hospital.
We greet the receptionist, and walk in the door.
“Hello Claire. Hello Emma.” My dad says as we walk in.
“Hi dad.” I reply back. I watch Emma as she walks over and gives him a big hug.
He looks pretty bad now, his face looks bruised, his breathing looks hard, and he seems to be in pain. “Well I’m going to get a coffee,” My mom says.
“I’ll come too.” Emma adds.
“Can you get me a juice, I’ll stay here.” I reply. I don’t understand how they can just avoid everything like that. The door closes, I sigh.
“How are you doing?” I ask.
“Alright.” He says. “But I’m more worried about how you’re doing.” He adds.
“I’m fine.” I reply.
“Are you really going to die?” I ask.
“Probably.” He admits.
“I’ll miss you.” I say.
“I’ll miss you too. “ He says.
“I want you to remember that there is always hope. You can find it, if you look.”
I nod.
“Thank you.” I say hugging him. I head down stairs and find my mom in the car drinking coffee, my sister in the back. I sigh, and then walk out to the car. I try to figure out what my dad meant by “you can find it”. I don’t know how to find hope.
I sit in my room drinking my juice. I grab a book with pressed flowers and leaves I put in it when I was little. There are red leaves, yellow leaves, green ones, all different shapes, I see a lilac, and a lily, and on the last page, I find the first daisy I picked when I was little. I laugh a little. It becomes very obvious now. “The hope is in the daisy” My dad would say.


It was my eleventh birthday today, but nobody remembered. So I decided to go to the hospital. I tried to keep from crying as I entered his room, but when I saw all the balloons, cake, and a beautifully wrapped present. Tears flooded my eyes. I came up and hugged him tight.
“I figured you would come.” He smiled.
“Thank you.” I whispered. My favourite nurse came in and cut the cake for us and set everything up. It was my favourite kind of cake, ice cream. It was the most fun I had with my dad in a long time. We wore party hats, and played silly games like pin the tail on the donkey. It was truly magical. When it was done, I picked up the small silver wrapped box.
“You really shouldn’t ha-“I began.
“No.” He stopped me. “I should.”
I untied the bow, and slowly tore the silver paper. Inside was a small box. I opened it, and inside was a silver necklace, with a small daisy hanging in the middle. Small white petals curving outward, with a bright yellow inside, it was just as beautiful as the real thing.
“Thank you.” I said, putting the necklace around my neck. There and then I knew hope wasn’t something I needed to find, it had been with me all along.

Part 2: Chasing Daisies

I went back home and lay back on my bed. The emptiness felt half full, and I felt warmth I haven’t felt in a long time. I fell asleep very easily that night.
I awoke to yelling downstairs. I pulled on my housecoat, and made my way down the stairs. I saw Emma and mom yelling at each other, both crying. Mom was laying on the couch a bottle of pills in her hand. Emma was crying.
“Go back to bed Claire.” Emma said.
Emma went over and grabbed the pills away from mom. She threw them as far as she could outside, and put a glass of water in front of her. Tears filled my eyes, I went back up stairs, breathing slowly, I felt the fullness leave me, and right now, hope felt ungraspable. I could hear Emma crying as I fell asleep.
I awoke early the following morning, around 8’oclock. I went outside, and looked around for a while. I looked almost everywhere, but there weren’t any daisies, I decided to head back, the sun was piercing anyway. I walked to the doorstep and in a small clump of grass I saw a small, white daisy. I picked it slowly, and I walked in to see my mom sleeping on the couch, and Emma solemnly eating a bowl of cereal.
“Where did you go?” She asked.
“Just for a walk.” I said. She nodded.
I breathed deeply. I sat beside her.
“Here,” I said handing her the daisy.
“Why are you giving me a flower? Like this could fix our problems!” She asked annoyed.
“Just keep it.” I said. “Remember when we were little, and you believed in the daisy story?”
“Yeah?” She said.
“Well that’s the one thing we need right now, what you need. Hope.” I said. I walked upstairs, wanting to leave her thinking. I hope this would work. I lay on bed for a while, twiddling around with my blond hair. I stare into my brown eyes, hoping I could find a way to make everything better, even though everything is getting worse. I hear a knock on my door.
“Come in.” I say.
Emma comes in, I see tears on her face, and she comes and sits besides me and hugs me. Sobbing into my hair. I hug back, not sure what to do, but I’m comforted that I can feel the acceptance in her grasp.

2 years later

“I can’t find one anywhere! Lets just go back.” Emma whined.
“We have to try.” I disagree.
“Mom is pretty much a lost cause Claire, I don’t see why you’re doing this.” She said.
“Wait.” I say jogging towards the house.
“What?” Emma asks.
I keep jogging until I reach the house and then I go to my room, I can feel Emma following me.
“What is it?!” She asks annoyed. I go under my bed and grab the dusty book I had since I was little. I blow off the dust, and flip slowly to the last page. I slowly slide out the daisy.
“Oh.” She says quietly “You sure about that?” She asks. I nod.
“Lets wait.” I decide.
“Until what?” Emma asks.
I look at the daisy in my hands.
“Oh.” she replies. I was glad she figured it out. I didn’t want to say the day he would die. But it was said to be the 7th. The 7th of July.


Emma and I made weekly visits, we went to movies, played bored games, baked, we did everything we could, but soon enough the day approached. Emma and I could barely sleep that night. Our minds were too swarmed with thoughts. I woke up with Emma around 7’oclock, we went downstairs, and slowly made it to moms room.
“You go.” She said. “I don’t need to.” She added.
“Okay.” I said. I breathed deeply. I opened the door, and sat beside mom.
“Do you need something, Hun?” My mom asked rubbing her eyes. I opened my mom’s hand, and slowly placed the daisy in her palm.
“I want you to have this.” I whispered. She looked down at the daisy, a tear slowly falling from her eye.
“I don’t-“ She began.
“Just keep it.” I interrupted. I gave her a hug, and then left the room. I sighed and then rested my head against the wall and cried. Emma hugged me.
“Come on, we better go.” She said. I looked back, but the door remained closed, I don’t think she was coming.
“Okay.” I replied.


I didn’t think she would come, but only around 15 minutes later, I saw her face in the doorway. I came up and hugged her, and I could tell from her face, she understood the meaning of my gift. We all sat that day, telling stories, recalling memories, playing games, and having fun. The first time in a long time it almost felt like the emptiness was gone.

Emma and I sat alone in the hallway at one point, letting mom and dad talk.
“I’m really gonna miss him.” Emma said.
“Me too.” I agreed.
“Thanks for fixing everything.” She smiled a little.
“Your welcome.” I matched her smile.
“Do you think mom is going to be okay?” She asked
“I hope so.” I replied.


I got to see dad one more time, before he was set to die. I came up on the hospital bed and sat beside him.
“I love you I said. I’m going to miss you.” I said with tears drenching my face.
“I love you too.” He said.
I hugged him.
“Thank you.” He said kissing my forehead. “Never lose your hope.” He added.
I half smiled. “I promise.”
“Love you.” I said, but his eyes were already closed. I headed out the door, and hugged mom and Emma.


Emma is better now, smiling, living, and loving. Mom is also better, not great, but better. She smiles sometimes, laughs even. She has come to terms now, and even though I see her pain everyday, I know somehow she is healing. The emptiness, sometimes I feel like its there, but all I have to do to make it go away, is look at my necklace and know, that he will always be with me.


His funeral was painful, but beautiful at the same time. Emma and I found nice black dresses, and mom found one with a small black veil. Before we left, we all took a daisy and rested it on his grave, in memory of all the hope he has given us, when he didn’t have any for himself.

In loving memory of Robert Palmer
A great father who always knew: “The hope is in the daisy”

~The End~