 
Journey to Publication's

2017 Anthology

Eric Wheeler, Elizabeth Miller, Amy Lehigh, Anna Kowalski, Autumn Clark, Selah Preston, Sydney Johnson

Published by JLB Creatives Publishing at Smashwords

Copyright 2017 Eric Wheeler, Elizabeth Miller, Amy Lehigh, Anna Kowalski, Autumn Clark, Selah Preston, Sydney Johnson

All rights reserved.

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THE SPELL

Eric Wheeler

The moon lights the clearing, and the sky is cloudless and covered by stars. The smell of the trees surrounding us engulfs me. The darkness lingers around the edge of the clearing, the moon's gaze halting it. Here under the moon stand five of us, each of us holding an item important to our ritual.

My cloak protects me from the biting air. My dark brown hair covers my sea green eyes.

"Tonight, we are gathered here for the Ancient Ones," Aria, our High Priestess, says. "Amanda, Caleb, Hailey, Arthur—we are here together as one, under the moonlight. Now we shall begin."

Aria and Amanda step forward. I take my place between Caleb—the only other man here—and Hailey.

Aria steps back and reveals a bag. She slowly tips it and starts to walk clockwise around the circle. Glittering salt sprinkles from the bag until she reaches her spot again and we are enclosed by a perfect salt circle.

I lift the green candle that is in my hand. Caleb withdraws a yellow, and Hailey a blue. Aria brings out her purple candle, and Amanda follows by revealing her red candle. We stand in the circle, holding our candles in front of us.

"We, your loyal servants, meet on this night to serve your kindness and generosity." Aria drops her voice as if it prevents the Goddess overhead from hearing her. "Remember, this is for Lia. She will not have died in vain."

We all nod, saying nothing.

" _I call upon Earth to this circle,_

As the protector of all,

I ask of you to protect us."

My candle bursts into a soft flame, and my worries seem to mean as little as a single piece of sand on a beach. I can smell the pine and maple trees and a faint trace of lavender.

" _I call upon Fire to this circle,_

As the blade of words,

I ask of you to be our blade tonight."

Amanda's red candle flares into a bright flame, dancing with the gentle breeze. Warmth surrounds us.

" _I call upon Water to this circle,_

As the flow of life,

I ask of you to flow through us."

This time, a flame appears on Hailey's blue candle. It is flowing and steady. The smell of the ocean rushes through the air.

" _I call upon Air to this circle,_

As the direction of power,

I ask you to point us in the right direction."

Caleb's candle lights. A wind passes through us that brings forth the smell of the surrounding trees. The wind causes them to moan.

" _I call upon Spirit to this circle,_

As the soul of us humans,

I ask you to be with us tonight,"

Finally, Aria's candle bursts with life. Like a spark, joy runs through us all. A smile forms on my lips.

Then, like an icy breeze, a coldness chills me to the bone. The sky turns black from an endless expanse of clouds, billowing and moving in an unnatural way. I glance at the others to see all four of them staring into the sky. Pain explodes in my head, forcing me to my knees. I close my eyes, and then I collapse.

I open my eyes to an intricately designed rug. On it is a woman with raised hands, cupping a moon. I inhale the scent of cinnamon. The rug and scent is familiar, but I'm not sure from where. Voices invade my confusion.

"We cannot continue to do this. It is wrong and I think the Goddess will not accept it."

The voice is also familiar but, once again, I'm not sure from where I know it. I slowly raise myself from the floor and take a look at my surroundings. I am in the foyer of someone's home. Two figures stand a few feet away. They are women, one a few inches shorter than the other, with long brown hair, holding herself with much poise.

"Are you saying you're backing out after we've come so far? We can hone our powers and become proper servants to the Goddess—honor the pure and punish the tainted." The other woman's voice holds power. I finally recognize them.

"Lia," I whisper as I take steps toward Lia and Aria. _She is here. She is safe, she's alive!_

"Aria, the demons are too strong for us. The Goddess doesn't approve of them because they are too powerful for any mortals." Lia's words stop me.

"Lia, what are you talking about?" I say and reach my hand out. _Why doesn't she look at me? I'm here for you Lia. You're not dead, we can ..._ My outstretched hand goes through Lia's shoulder. My stomach drops. This can't be real.

"No! Lia, how can you say that! And how will the Goddess ever know?" Aria's voice fills with her power. Lia takes a cautious step backwards, into me.

This is no dream, this is a nightmare.

"Aria! The Goddess sees everything. I love her and she loves me! I'm done; I will not betray her!" Lia says confidently.

The air becomes very still and tense. Slowly, Aria shakes her head.

"Poor Lia," Aria says. "I hope that the Goddess loves you enough to save you!"

She rushes forward revealing the Ritual Dagger she has been hiding in her cloak. Lia hastily dodges backwards and Aria runs through me.

"No!" The word rips itself from my vocal cords. Lia stumbles backwards and runs into the living room. Aria quickly follows her into the room. I start to move toward the living room, but there is another woman in the doorway. She watches them sadly.

The woman is tall with flawless skin. Her eyes are a beautiful black that seems to sparkle. Her hair is long and flows despite the still air. The woman turns her attention to me.

"Arthur," she continues, "I am sorry that you had to see this, but it was necessary. Lia wanted to tell you, but she was afraid. Aria had decided to leave the path and tried to tempt Lia. Lia was too pure. She had too much love." The woman's voice is powerful. "Arthur, I can't take back the gifts I give, the power of the elements, but I cannot stop people from doing what they will with them. The gifts are theirs to use, and I hope they use them well. But this is not the time for mourning, Arthur! You must be strong—and remember, Aria is a powerful woman. She has influence everywhere. Tread safely, "With those words the woman fades. Finally, she looks familiar. Never had I thought I would meet the Goddess.

Yells for help come from the living room. I rush forward to see Lia struggling with Aria. I rush forward and try to tackle Aria, but my body soars through her and lands on the other side of them. I watch in horror as Aria raises her dagger above her head and slams it into Lia's chest. Lia cries out. Tears run down my face as I watch, unable to help, so useless to protect the woman I love. Then everything goes dark, and I collapse on the floor.

My vision is hazy as I start to blink. My back is wet somehow and I cannot think straight. In a few moments the haze clears and voices are audible.

The air around me is crisp. I slowly raise myself from the ground. Aria's face is struck with shock, and she rushes to me. Disgust rises from my stomach like acid.

"Arthur, how could you?" Aria asks, her voice thick with anger.

Hailey, Caleb, and Amanda all stare at me with disdain.

"What?"

My voice shakes from keeping in the anger. Confusion must show on my face, because Aria starts getting red from anger.

Aria's voice is full of venom. "You killed Lia, and you didn't even have the guts to admit it! She loved you! How could you commit such a foul act?"

I see the others' silent agreement. My heart falls as I realize what she is doing. Anger overtakes my common sense. _I am not going to be blamed for my Lia's death! Aria will regret murdering her!_ An inhuman yell rips from my throat as I lunge forward. _I trusted this woman! We showed her respect and made her our High Priestess! She will pay the price for Lia's death!_

I tackle her, and we land on the wet ground. She claws at me, and my eyes catch a glimpse of metal in the grass; Aria's Ritual Dagger lies a few feet away.

With Lia in mind, I leap from Aria to the dagger, my fingers grasping the cold, wet leather of the handle. My body slides on the wet grass, but I am able to get to my feet. Aria, too, is on her feet.

This time she lunges at me. I leap sideways. She twirls on her foot at the last second and attaches herself to me, landing on top of me. A warm liquid flows over my hand. Blood. The blood reaches my shirt, soaking it.

I spin Aria onto her back, the Ritual Dagger sticking out of her body. She tries to say something, but her words come in gurgles. Her blood soaks the Ritual Grounds, and her soul leaves her body. To where, I do not know.

I take the Ritual Dagger from her body and stand up, the other three standing in silent shock. Before they can do anything, I turn on my heel and start to walk. The forest welcomes me.
About Eric Wheeler

Eric Wheeler is a fantasy-filled High School student who attends Bangor High School (Bangor, MI). He likes to write, twirl a flag in color guard and to act. Eric's writing is inspired from magic, fantasy, love, and religion. He is also inspired by the people and things around him. Eric loves to help with the community and spend time with his friends. He can usually be found twirling a flag, writing or acting for local plays. Eric is planning on going on to be an actor.

THE WAR ZONE

Elizabeth Miller

The leather book that had been my focus for the past few hours finally turned up under the remnants of my mother and father's bed, remarkably unharmed from the fires that had ravaged the village. I was proud of myself for even spotting it, considering it was mostly buried under a mixture of dirt and ash. Kneeling down, I gently brushed off the debris, inspecting it for any scorch marks or any rips on the cover. The bed, now reduced to mere wooden splinters, was piled up against what was left of the northern wall of our house.

I kept the book securely grasped between my dirt-ridden fingers as I stood up, surveying what was left of my village. Standing at this angle, I would have been able to look out the window over my parents' bed and see giant buildings, stores and clothing shops, and tons of people milling around, going about their daily business. Now, all I could see was the rubble of different buildings, the scorched ground, and blackened tree trunks. The sky still was a light gray despite the lack of clouds, the wispy smoke still floating on the breeze. What had once been a lush forest filled with green trees and sweet-smelling flowers was now smoking heaps of ash. The fire that had destroyed my town had only happened two days ago, but the place felt like it had been deserted for months, if not years. Tears brimmed on the edges of my eyes as I looked out onto the bare horizon.

It hadn't been like this last week; last week had been pretty much normal. Well, as normal as expected in a country in the middle of a war. We had been pretty lucky up until now. Our village had to send all our young men off to fight at the age of sixteen and several men over the age of thirty to government buildings to cyber-spy on our attackers. Otherwise, we had been out of the war's reach. What was really unnerving was the mood people found themselves in. Cheerful chatter had been replaced by somber nods, laughter replaced with near silence.

The place I lived in wasn't a major city, but it played a role in the city's apple exports. It also had a large river running through it, clean and full of fish. Now that the river was covered in ash and the soil was disturbed, there would be a food shortage along with a loss of happiness and general morale.

This war was causing a lot of losses.

I carefully brushed my long hair over my shoulder, watching to keep it clear of dirt. The hairbrush was a luxury, and I wasn't sure when I would have access to other luxuries, such as showers, so I was extra careful to keep myself as neat as possible. Normally, I wouldn't mind as much, but these circumstances called for changed actions.

Of course, I didn't _choose_ to live like this. Mom, Dad, and I had once been happy in our own house, along with our roommates Kendra, Josef, and their son (and my best friend) Andre. This situation was common within our village; two or three families were often crammed together to save room for farming. It was crowded, but we were like family—that is, until our town was infiltrated by enemy agents.

The day my life changed had started normally: Andre and I were playing cards at the kitchen table, our mothers were cooking dinner, and our fathers were out working. When the agents started to set fires, Mom sent the two of us out to the forest to hide, but Andre ran back to grab something from the house, leaving me behind. I haven't seen any of them since.

I was jolted out of my thoughts by a twig snapping. I whirled around, my hazel eyes carefully scanning my surroundings for any possible visitors, human or animal.

"Who's there?" I called out.

As soon as the last syllable sounded, I clamped my hands over my mouth, internally cursing myself for being so stupid as to yell out in a war zone. I dove behind some wooden beams and piled them on top of me, taking care to leave a slit open for my eyes. I lay underneath the decaying wood, hardly daring to breathe, for at least ten minutes. After that time had passed, I was about to move when I heard footsteps on the compact earth. They came right to the edge of my little hiding spot and paused before moving away. I sighed a huge breath of relief as I peeked out and, not seeing anyone, crawled back out to look at the book.

The book was my mother's old diary—something that everyone in my family had been forbidden to touch. I tried to open it, but I found that the cover only separated a little bit from the yellowed pages. Frowning, I turned it around so the front cover was facing me, and groaned in frustration. There was a large silver lock on the front. I had no idea where the key would even be at this point. However, the shackle on the padlock was worn out. Maybe with a little bit of force ...

I threw the book on the ground and stomped on the lock with the heel of my boot, smiling in victory as the lock popped open. Sitting down on the ground, I opened the cover with trembling hands and squinted to read my mom's handwriting.

More than one can open the lock on your heart, if you simply choose to give them the key.

I remembered that quote from a book my mother read to me every night before bed when I was younger. As I grew older, I no longer wanted Mom to read to me, but she continued to read that same book herself every night. I felt tears prick my eyes as I thought about everything she had done for me ... and now I would never be able to repay her.

"You okay there?" a voice sounded from behind me.

I whirled around in surprise, my eyes flying open as I saw a person standing no more than five feet away from me. He was young, probably a few years older than I was, with short black hair and bright green eyes. He wore dark green clothes, the uniform unfamiliar. His uniform wasn't the only thing I didn't recognize—his accent sounded foreign.

An enemy soldier ...

I let out a gasp and backed up, clutching Mom's diary to my chest. He walked a few steps forward, a smile across that now-infuriating face.

"Is something wrong?" he asked.

Something inside me snapped at that comment. My house had just been destroyed, and my family was nowhere to be found, and this person, this _enemy_ , was asking if something was wrong? I sent him one last glare before I punched him in the face, sending his head snapping to the side. I put Mom's diary in my jacket pocket and rubbed my knuckles balefully.

The boy blinked his eyes, a bruise starting to form on his cheek. I didn't look back again; I just started to run. I had always been one of the faster kids in the village, but this guy was much faster. He caught up to me with ease, wrapping an arm around my throat and speaking into my ear.

"Now, why would you go and do a thing like that?" he asked, loosening his arm so I could breathe. "Attacking people is not a good way to make friends."

"Judging by the fact that you burned down my village, what makes you think you deserve a response from me?" I gasped, kicking like crazy.

He dodged my kicks while keeping his arm intact, letting loose a low chuckle. "I suppose. But what makes you think I'm with them? What if I'm ... neutral? What if I'm just dressed like this to survive?"

I stopped struggling for a minute. "Why am I supposed to believe you?"

He sighed. "Do I honestly look like a soldier to you? I don't even have any weapons on me."

"I wouldn't be able to tell, considering you're still choking me," I wheezed, starting to see spots dancing in front of my eyes.

The boy rolled his eyes but let go, holding his arms up in a form of surrender. It was true; I didn't see any holsters or any weapons on him. Maybe he was okay after all. But what if he was a spy for the other side?

"What if you're working for them?" I demanded. "What's telling me that it's okay to even talk to you?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Okay, let's fix that. My real name is Miles Wheeler. I'm 18 years old. I don't live near here. My plane crashed, and I'm the only one who survived. I'm trying to get to the next country over to live with my aunt and uncle, but I'll tell you, it's hard getting anywhere around here. Believe it or not, I'm alone, just like you."

I had started to turn away, but snapped right back when I heard what he'd said.

"Wait ... what?"

Miles sighed again. "My real name is ..."

"No, not that!" I exclaimed impatiently. I awkwardly glanced down at my feet before continuing, my hands twisting my shirt into knots on my back. "You seriously don't have anyone with you out here?"

Miles nodded slowly. "Yeah, I don't exactly know anyone here, so it's kind of hard to have anyone in the first place." He sat down on the ground and sighed. "Traveling across a whole country is hard, especially when you barely know where you're going." His face brightened as he looked at me. "On the plus side, though, it gives you time to truly find yourself. For instance, I have learned I hate trekking through water for extended periods of time."

"Have you come across anyone?" I asked as I sat down next to him. "I mean, we're about in the middle of the country right now."

"Yeah, a few people. I just gave them a little punch to the head and they were out like a light." Miles shrugged. "I don't necessarily like knocking people out, but when it comes to survival, I'm going to do it."

I nodded as I looked at the ground, thoughts racing through my brain. As far as I knew, my family was gone. I was going to have to learn to survive on my own, but I had no idea how. Miles, on the other hand, seemed to know what he was doing. He could defend himself, and he looked pretty well off considering he had already gone through half the nation. Maybe if I were to go with him ... but he could still be part of the group of enemy agents intent on taking over our country.

Then again, what did I have left to lose?

"You know, I don't really have anywhere to go. I don't know where my family is. My main goal is just survival at this point. Would ..." I sighed in frustration. "Can I come with you?"

Miles smiled at me as I looked at him. "Why not?"

Satisfied that my future was now somewhat set, I clutched my mother's diary in my hands as I stared at the sun that was setting over the remains of my village. Despite the fact that I had already gone through so much, I knew I was going to be okay.

About Elizabeth Miller

Elizabeth Miller is a high schooler and a self-pronounced nerd with a love for reading and English. She never knows when to stop writing and loves to write anything fictional. In her free time, Elizabeth can be found playing or listening to music, reading, hanging out with her friends, drawing, or watching her favorite shows and movies.

THE EVERLASTING FIRE

Amy Lehigh

A fire that burns all

Its master

Its captor

Burning

Ravaging all in its wake

Without mercy

Without remorse

It is used to destroying

But none ever think of consequences

It rages against all

Turning its master

Into its captive

Destroying all that's lovely

Destroying all that's fearsome

Destroying all that's kind

Destroying all that's loved

Blind to all

Indiscriminate

It burns those who seek to wield it

Blinds their eyes

Blisters their hearts

Blights their tongues

Bloodies their hands

They notice nothing

Until the fire has faded

Or until it has swallowed them whole

They do not notice

That they are being consumed

And yet

Another always calls for it

Another heart always burns

It is a fire that never

Runs out of fuel

Hello Hatred

LOCKED AWAY

Amy Lehigh

I locked up my heart

In a little steel box

So that no one could poke it,

So that no one could crush it,

So that no one could break it.

Where it would be safe.

It flutters against the lid

Asking to be let out,

The metal echoing.

Everyone whispers to it.

Hush,

they say,

We are speaking.

You must be quiet.

And it begins to pound

Against the steel frame.

Hush,

they say,

You would only get in the way.

Stay in the box.

And they put chains around it.

It trills inside the box,

Trapped,

Its safety now a cage,

Unable to find a key,

While everyone whispers.

Hush,

they say,

We will let you out.

Soon.

MR. STANLEY

Anna Kowalski

Mr. Stanley was a little man who lived happily in a kingdom called Buckleburg, located on a small island off the coast of England. Unfortunately, this island sank into the sea after a nasty earthquake in 1872. But this story takes place sometime before that.

Mr. Stanley stood no taller than three feet; being part dwarf one could not expect much more. He had red hair which stood rather on end. His roguish mustache hung down past his bellybutton, which did get to be rather bothersome when he was working.

One might ask, "What was the profession of a gentlemen like Mr. Stanley?" He was a fixit man. His life's work was to fix the citizens' household appliances, as well as their worst problems. He lived above his workshop in a meager apartment with red siding and purple shutters. But below his workshop, in his hidden basement, was a room he used to fix problems bigger than broken bicycles. In the basement was his real workshop. He kept all his mysterious spells and potions in that secret place, along with his wand.

Yes, Mr. Stanley was a wizard. He worked tireless hours helping the dreadfully unfortunate who came to his fixit shop and had complaints much bigger than a de-springed toast popper. When he heard their woes, he took them right on down to the basement and got to work. Most of the time he never even left his office; however, this is a tale of when he _did_ have to leave the comfort of his home.

* * *

Mr. Stanley sat in his comfortable arm chair sipping his sugar plum tea when he heard the sound of a tinkling bell. This meant that his paper had arrived. He arose from his arm chair and walked past his fireplace where a jolly flame was prancing about. Upon reaching his window he opened it, letting the cool fall breeze float into his home. He watched out the window as the scrawny little paper boy walked over to the next house and threw their paper sloppily onto their front steps. To solve this problem at his own home, Mr. Stanley had invented a pulley system that he could use to pull his paper up to his living quarters on the second story. The paper boy simply plopped the _Buckleburg Times_ , into the bucket and rang the bell attached to the string, which let pudgy old Mr. Stanley know that it was time to open the window and use the pulley to haul up his paper.

Taking his paper out of the bucket and closing the window, he went back to sit by the fire and read the daily news. He scoffed at the news of wars with Treting and Thestrib. He said, "How many wars can our kingdom of Buckleburg have in one month? We were just at war with Hatsburg last week!"

The bell on the shop's door rang downstairs, meaning the first costumer of the day was already in. Mr. Stanley set down his cup of tea and the paper he held in his other hand, then he walked over to the top of the stairs and removed his robe of gray velvet, hanging it on one of the three pegs on the wall. Then he took down a green vest with his pocket watch in its pocket and pulled that on, buttoning it neatly down the front and being careful not to catch his mustache in the process. Over that he put a white apron with small drills and chisels and other tools in its front pocket. He glanced over at himself in the mirror hanging above the pegs and, satisfied with his appearance, moseyed down the stairs. Mr. Stanley was never in a hurry. He believed that, "The one who is in a hurry misses the great sights and smells of his lovely life."

He entered his shop and looked beyond his counter at the lovely damsel who had just entered his shop. She wore a feathered sun bonnet and a full-length pure white dress with ruffles all down the back in layers puffing out behind her. She had silk gloves and a pale pink handbag. Her chestnut hair flowed down in wavy cascades; this was very uncommon for a lady in her day and age.

She dashed up to Mr. Stanley with terror in her deep blue eyes. "Oh, Sir, you must help me," she cried. "My best dear friend has been kidnapped! No one will help me. They have no idea where he has gone. Oh, but I do. He took him. They said you were the only one who could help me!"

"Who, what, how?" Mr. Stanley replied in befuddlement. "Come with me before you say anything more." Mr. Stanley looked from left to right to be sure no one was watching him. Then he marched over to a lever in the wall of his shop. The floor below the lever creaked open, and a trap door opened, leading to some stairs. He led the young lady down the stairs and into his dim, deep, dusty wizardry shop.

The sweet innocent girl looked around in bewilderment at the exacted replica of the upstairs of his shop. It had a desk and shelves on the walls. But instead of tools and repaired items on the shelves, there were wands, vials, and books of spells. And there was the large cauldron in the middle of the room. Mr. Stanley closed the trap door, adjusted his glasses, and sat down on his stool behind his desk. He looked at the girl expectantly. There was a long pause.

"I...wow...well," stuttered the girl, "My name is Princess Lilyanna of Buckleburg. My aunt told me that you are a wizard. You see, what I was trying to say was that I am in love with Prince Florian of Treting. He also loves me in return. But my brother, Claren, must have found out about us meeting in secret somehow, and when I went to visit him, the maid, who had been helping us at his palace, told me he had gone missing during the last battle with Buckleburg! I haven't seen my brother since that battle, either, and I have reason to believe he captured my dear Florian. But I have no notion of where they would have taken him, nor do I have any idea of what to do!"

Mr. Stanley was so very worried. He had dealt with problems like this before, but it had been a very long time. He would have to conjure up his best fixing skills, but he hoped that this dear girl's problem was not entirely unfixable. He put on his best calm and collected smile and said, "No need to fret my dear. I will just find his location as fast as I can, then off we shall go." He stood up abruptly from his chair and walked over to the shelf to the left of his desk. He scanned the shelf with his finger, and a line was left where he had brushed the tip of his finger against the incredibly dusty books, showing the bright and vibrant colors of the books' spines hidden under the layer of dust. He did not find what he was looking for on the bottom shelf, so he grabbed his step ladder and began to do the same with the uppermost shelves. Finally he found it. Pulling the book down, he walked over to his cauldron and glanced from the book to a table that was covered in mysterious and colorful potions. He set down the book and began to throw a number of potions into the cauldron, each causing the liquid to bubble and bounce around.

After about five minutes of stirring the curious concoction Mr. Stanley grumbled in a low voice, "Floopa, Umpa, Clue, Shall reveal this place to you."

With that, out of the cauldron shot a magic bubble that hovered over the cauldron. Inside the bubble shimmered an image of a forest so deep, dark, and deadly that it made Lilyanna's legs quiver under her in fear. She cried out with shock. Mr. Stanley put his finger to his lips to signal that any sudden noise could break the magic bubble, and he would have to start all over again.

Lilyanna stood in awe, her palms sweaty and her throat dry from fear and anxiety. The scene in the bubble changed to a path leading out of the forest and over a gigantic bridge that towered above rushing water. After revealing the bridge, the bubble showed them a castle. It was very old, covered in a thick layer of ivy, and sat high atop a cliff. It had a large mote that had long since dried up, and its drawbridge had many holes in it. The tower in the left corner had collapsed into a pile of stone.

The image in the bubble moved forward toward a window in the right tower of the castle. In the window one could see three men; two were arguing with each other. One of them was wearing very fine clothes and looked uncannily similar to Lilyanna. The third was unconscious and had a gag in his mouth. He was tied by his legs and arms to a wooden chair.

Lilyanna gasped, "Florian! How dare you, Claren." As she cried out, the bubble burst, and the liquid fell back down into the cauldron making the concoction as steady as pond water on a calm summer's day. "Oh, I am so sorry! I didn't mean to break it," Lilyanna said apologetically.

Mr. Stanley shrugged, "Oh, no matter. I have all the information I need. He is on the other side of Deeridel forest and Turtle Falls Bridge in the old Count of Westles Palace.

About a half an hour later the two travelers stood outside of the old tavern to rent horses from the keeper, who often rented his two work horses to those who did not have transportation. The horses were very mellow and calm creatures that never bucked or lost their tempers.

The keeper whose name was George, brought them out of the barn. "There you go," George said, handing Mr. Stanley the horses' bridles. "Penny and Lacy are the kindest old nags I ever did meet. So don't worry about the lady here. They'll take good care of her."

Mr. Stanley shook George's hand saying, "Thank you my dear gentleman. I will be sure to repay you."

"You are very kind, Mr. Stanley. Have a good trip, wherever the two of you are heading."

"Thank you, sir."

Lilyanna whispered, "Mr. Stanley, I think I might have to ride behind you. I don't ride bareback."

"Oh, no my dear," he replied. "This is the nineteenth century. We shall rent a buggy until the forest path gets too thick. We shall not ride bareback like a couple of savages until we absolutely must."

They rented a buggy and rode on through town and then out into the countryside. They were galloping gaily through lush pastures and green fields of little wild flowers. They rounded a bend, and out of nowhere, there it was—the dreaded forest of Deeridel, menacingly towering above them! Mr. Stanley did not even flinch; he kept right on driving toward the forest as if it were the same as everything else they had seen so far (he had been to this place many times before).

They broke through the edge of the forest and plunged into the trees and out of the sunlit fields. They slowed the horses to a trot, all the while hearing some very strange noises. Soon the path became too thick, and they had to stop the buggy and ride bareback through the trees. Lilyanna rode with Mr. Stanley, and they left the other horse picketed near the buggy.

"Don't worry about the horse my dear," said Mr. Stanley when Lilyanna looked concerned about leaving the poor creature there. "We shall only be gone for a few hours from the way I predict it."

"How do you know?" Lilyanna cocked her head inquisitively.

"I just know these things, my dear."

They had been riding on the thickly overgrown path for about five minutes when they heard a long moaning sound from somewhere up ahead. It was deep and loud and sounded like it came from something very big. They cleared a corner and there, in the middle of their path, sat an ogre. The huge beast was wailing and glared at them as if it were ready to charge. Lilyanna cowered in fear. Mr. Stanley did not move; he sat contemplating, his eyebrows knitted together.

The ogre continued to roar. Mr. Stanley got down off the horse and walked toward the ogre. Lilyanna closed her eyes in fear. Mr. Stanley reached the ogre and, standing in front of its huge foot (which was about four feet tall), pulled a stick out of its little toe. It winced but stopped screaming. Then Mr. Stanley took off his suit vest and wrapped it around the ogre's bleeding toe, buttoning the buttons to keep it on.

"Oh, thank you!" cried the ogre. "I have been sitting here and crying for hours, and I just couldn't get that thorn out of my foot."

"You are welcome. I don't think all that blubbering was entirely necessary, and if you had stopped carrying on, you probably would have gotten the branch out of your foot—my apologies...the thorn. You must understand that to me, who is much smaller than yourself, it looks like a branch. Now if you would please get yourself out of our path we would take that as our thank you."

"Oh, I just had a super superb idea!" exclaimed the ogre. "I could come with you and work for you. I get so lonely out here in the forest with nobody to be my friend. I would do anything you told me to, and..."

"Let me stop you right there," interrupted Mr. Stanley. "What is your name?"

"Herbert."

"Well Herbert, my name is Mr. Stanley, and," he pointed toward where Lilyanna sat on the horse, "this is Lilyanna. We are on our way to rescue her true love. I am sorry to say that I am in no need of a personal ogre, so we shall have to depart as soon as you move out of our way."

Herbert Began to wail, "Oh, please Mr. Stanley, all I ever wanted was a friend. Can't I please come with you? I won't be any trouble, and I will be quiet as a mouse." He wailed on louder and louder, which began to spook the horse.

"Hush!" Mr. Stanley was extremely annoyed with Herbert at this point. "Look, if you get up and move out of the way, I will let you work for me."

"Really?" Herbert leapt up in excitement.

"Yes. But only until we rescue Lilyanna's love."

"Hooray!" Herbert jumped up and down in excitement.

About an hour later they finally rode into an opening in the trees. Mr. Stanley told Herbert, who had been walking along behind them, to stay in the trees and watch over the horse without being seen by anyone. Mr. Stanley and Lilyanna began to creep up to the Palace. They reached the moat, slowly crossed the drawbridge, and entered the castle without any sign of being spotted. They made their way through the large courtyard and up the stairs to the tower where they had seen Florian tied to the chair.

Mr. Stanley slowly opened the door at the top of the stairs, but it still creaked loudly on its rusty hinges. Inside the room the man who had been arguing with Claren was sleeping in a chair by the window. It appeared as though he had been left to guard Florian, but he was obviously doing a pretty bad job of it. Florian was also still asleep.

Mr. Stanley and Lilyanna soundlessly untied Florian and tried in vain to carry him. This, of course, was not as soundless. "Oh, forget this!" Mr. Stanley whispered in exasperation. Then he took a two-inch wand from his pocket and whispered a spell onto it to enlarge it. He whispered a spell onto Florian, who immediately woke up.

"Why didn't you just do that in the first place?" Lilyanna asked

"Because it is only good to use magic on humans if you absolutely must," he said. Then he mumbled under his breath, "Because it can have strange side effects."

Florian began to come about. He looked up at Lilyanna, his eyes lit up, and he said, "Darling Lilyanna, you should not have come here!" Standing and hugging her, he said, "But I am ever so glad you did."

"Run now, hug later!" cried Mr. Stanley.

They followed Mr. Stanley's gaze and saw that the guard had awakened and was bearing a musket; he shouted, "You aren't going nowhere!"

They turned around to run down the stairs but saw that Claren stood in the doorway. "For shame on you my sister!" Claren cried. "No sibling of mine shall ever marry a man of Treting." He charged toward them, but Mr. Stanley pulled a cloud of sparkling dust from his trouser pocket and threw it in Claren's face. Mr. Stanley dragged Florian and Lilyanna to the window; they leapt out and plunged into a large lilac bush that broke their fall.

Off they ran as fast as they could. But they were quickly pursued by Claren and his companion, both of whom were now on horseback. Mr. Stanley whistled for Penny, but instead of Penny, Herbert came bursting out of the trees, carrying the horse! He grabbed them all and ran as fast as he could through the forest. Claren and his companion had to stop their pursuit, as their horses could not keep up with Herbert.

When they were a safe distance from their pursuers, Herbert put them down. "Good call, Herbert," Mr. Stanley said. "I really don't think we could have gotten away without you,"

Herbert looked to be on the verge of tears. "Oh, thank you!" He grabbed Mr. Stanley and hugged him tightly.

They all traveled on foot until they reached the buggy. Everyone—except Herbert—got in and began to ride out of the forest. While they rode, Florian told the story of how he had been captured by Claren because he had tried to make friends and reason with him about why they were at war. He explained that it was a simple misunderstanding and could easily be fixed, but he had accidently said something about having already talked it over with Lilyanna. Claren had accused him of trying to turn Lilyanna into a spy for Treting. In an attempt to explain to Claren that their two kingdoms could get along, Florian had told him that Lilyanna had visited him of her own free will and that they were in love with one another. But Claren was furious and attacked and captured Florian, giving him a sleeping potion which had made him sleep for four days.

They rode on until they reached Buckleburg. They went to the castle and demanded that the king negotiate with Treting for his daughter's happiness. The king refused, but Mr. Stanley used a little magic persuasion, and in the end, the two kingdoms became great friends and celebrated Florian and Lilyanna's wedding and the union of the two kingdoms. Claren and Florian became good friends, and together, the two kingdoms defeated the kingdom of Thestrib.

Mr. Stanley lived on with Herbert as his personal assistant. Of course, Mr. Stanley had to raise the ceilings in his shop a bit to accommodate an ogre of that size, but Herbert proved to be a very helpful and insightful assistant.

* * *

And everyone was happy.

Survivor

Amy Lehigh

Frozen cries echo around.

Rivers of red litter the ground.

A single wail shatters the silence

Amongst the fallen, their swords and their shields.

A child wanders without aim,

Hand tight around a plush arm.

Eyes scan the earth

While a salty rain falls at their feet.

There were shields of lions

And shields of boars;

Neither were what the child looked for.

Tattered flags wavered in the wind.

Trudging along in the carnage,

They hear a whimper.

Gaze darting to and fro,

Their eyes land on a ragged mutt.

With a sniffle and a gasp,

They kneel next to the creature,

Mangy old fur and single eye,

Torn ear and tattered tail.

They were as beautiful as always.

The child's mind flashes with fresh memory,

Cuddling with their ragged friend.

A horn sounds.

Attention grabbed,

The dog drags the child to the stable,

Growling until they stay.

The dog then runs away.

Shouting, clanging, screaming,

The air rings with the sounds of pain.

After thundering heartbeats, and an endless time of fear,

A horn rings once more, and all is silent.

Back to themselves, the child looks at the dog,

Whimpering, gasping.

She looks at them with an eye

That threatens to overflow.

Stroking their fur as they choke down sobs,

The child shushes them with a whine and a sigh.

Her tear falls,

And her chest does not again rise.

Biting their tongue and closing their eyes,

The child places their toy pup

Beside their only friend,

Surrounded by death.

From dirt and filthy sand

The child rises,

Tears still staining their cheek,

And they begin to walk.

METEOR

Amy Lehigh

I...I'm going to die.

Oh God.

How did I get here?

There was a problem on the shuttle...it broke apart. With me inside.

Glad I was in my suit.

God, but now I'm just...drifting.

Alone.

I move my hands, my feet, anything to get me back to the shuttle.

But it's not working. No ground or air to move against in space. Only inertia and Newton's laws like, "For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. "Well, there's nothing to "act" with out here.

I laugh bitterly.

I _am_ bitter.

Signed up for an outer-space voyage. I got what I asked for, all right.

God.

Well, at least the view is nice. The blue planet, surrounded by thousands of lights. Distant stars. Great view.

I want to be back on that planet now.

The silence is consuming me.

My oxygen will run out soon.

Then I'll be just as quiet as the rest of this cold darkness.

Will I drift forever?

Will someone find me?

Will I fall back to Earth like a shooting star? Like a meteor?

Hah...how _poetic._

A meteor just shot into the atmosphere. I saw it.

It flickered into it and flickered out.

An instant in this "grand scheme."

A little, insignificant spark.

My life will do the same thing, comparatively.

I am like that meteor.

Snuffed.

SHARED EMPTINESS

Autumn Clark

It was early spring, and the cherry blossoms were just flowering with their pink blooms, only for their petals to drift off and fall onto the ground like winter's snow. The village, resting in the shadow of a great mountain range, was celebrating this time as a reminder of life, fertility, and growth, the resurrection of nature after its period of dormancy during winter. Tucked away from the village that glowed with festivals and joy, just over that mountain range, was the sad little hut of a simple old man, a hermit who found what was once pleasurable about society tedious, so had stolen away into isolation to comfort his depression.

Built of hand-cut wood and straw by the man and his family in his younger years, it had held up for decades through many a harsh season. From the tempests of summer to the blizzards of winter, this hut had become weathered and worn but remained strong and tried and true, a reflection of its resident.

The valley where this house stood was once a very bright one. But all of that was gone now. Only the house and the father remained. It was a lonely existence. The hermit was not always this way, but his spirit had become shriveled in the face of trauma, loss, and the emptiness of what it left behind. His appearance was suffused with this. His bare feet and overworked hands were calloused and scarred, his limbs bony, feeble, and sore. His leathery, wrinkled skin hugged his skeleton in malnutrition, and his face was petrified in sorrow, his eyes already dark with despair. He did not bother taking care of himself to the point that his hair and beard grew longer, grayer, and bushier so that he resembled a yak more than a man. He reeked of death, but it never bothered him. The hermit seldom had visitors, anyway. The only friend he knew was the watchful moon above him, that shined like a smile he remembered but desperately wanted to forget.

The hermit knew his house as empty of life, of people, of happiness. The only footsteps he recognized on the floors were his own. In his solitude there was safety. On a night in early spring, the hermit dozed to the pitter patter of rain on the cherry trees and the roof of his humble dwelling, the moon continually guarding his slumber with its light. All was tranquil in the hut of the sorrow-shaken hermit...

Until suddenly, slicing through the thick black gauze of darkness and silence, came a sound echoing within the hall. It shook him from his sleep, and it was too human to be a rustling of nature or furniture in the night. No, it was not a something, but a _someone_. The sound continued as the hermit sat up in his bed, his aching limbs throbbing awake and his vision returning to him as he adjusted to the blackness. The sound rang loud even in his ears blunt of their sharp ability. It was sobbing, a woman's sobs, sniffles, and moans. He knew melancholy well, but the emotion that came from these disembodied cries he knew even better. This emotion was one that had been woven into his very being; it was an essence, an instinct, not a learned emotion. It was grief.

The hermit looked outside at his old friend, the moon, who was a mute and shining crescent, like it had been when he set down to sleep. He got out of bed and lit a lantern before exiting the bedroom to find the auditory figment in his abode. The rain had stopped when he first heard the cries, making them vivid like black against white, substance amplified by absence. The red-orange light of the hermit's lantern, a dangling red orb with designs of mighty tigers traced in gold, stalking against the crimson, acted as a shield against the shadows that conspired against him, a forcefield that kept him from seeing the source of the mournful noises that grew louder as he weaved through the corridors.

"Hello?" the hermit managed to ask quietly. He was not afraid, not yet. There was no reply as he kept walking with his lantern, his footfalls against the floor, causing it to creak. He lifted his lantern toward the end of the hallway where his front door stood closed. The hints of white iris-less eyes caught the light before they vanished under it. As he shined the light on these eyes, a shrill scream of pain, rage, and even thicker anguish shattered the quiet, and after the scream came a whisper that sent a chill down the hermit's spine. Its words were indistinguishable, but its volume made it seem like the speaker was standing right behind him. He whirled around frenetically with his lantern, but the apparition he thought he had seen had already disappeared. His eyes moved wildly around as he searched the corridor for any other signs of the spirit. There was nothing.

In preparation for the long night, the hermit hobbled to the kitchen. He set his lantern on the countertop, his hands trembling with anxiety of the vulnerability that came with leaving himself exposed to the dark. He rummaged through the drawers—spices, pots, pans, plates, bowls, cups—but what he really wanted were the _knives._ In his frenzy, he even opened the junk drawer, a hoard of memoirs he never dared to clean. On the top of this pile of random items was a painting of three people: a man—tall, strong, young, happy—and beside him, a woman dressed gaudily in full makeup and her nicest kimono with her gentle hand resting on the shoulder of a little boy, dirty but innocent in his playful and naive smile—his son, the heir to his house, his honor, his knowledge, his name. The hermit froze as his eyes met the woman's in the painting. The grip of memories turned over like a boulder in a powerful tempest. Those eyes...the man could not face them without recognizing them in their final form, teary and orange, reflections of an unstoppable blaze.

The man closed his eyes tightly, swallowed, insistent on avoiding confrontation, and looked from the painting to another relic: a trinket the little boy in the painting had made, a small bear woven of intricately braided wool and silk. It had been a gift for him, he recalled. He fingered it lightly but quickly shied away as if the plush was an active coal. He slammed the drawer closed and quickly found another with the knives in it. He drew the largest knife there, a sharp, multipurpose dagger. He slashed the air three times to threaten, closed the drawer, snatched his lantern off the counter, and was off to bed again. He kept his lantern lit on his nightstand, the flickering flame mesmerizing in its dance, to drive the spirits away from him.

A gust of wind, an aftershock of the rain, quaked the house slightly, not enough to wake the man. But the fragment of the breeze that passed through the house was enough to extinguish the worn and dying flame of the lantern. It coughed up a curl of smoke as a final breath when it died. The moonlit bedroom was a reflection of the smoke's color, gray except for the areas where the light could not reach. With the guarding light from the lantern now gone, the sobbing started again, and it fused with heartbroken moans and wails. They seemed like the source was in the bedroom now, not in some desolate part of the hut. The hermit rustled awake and rubbed his eyes. His heart immediately began to pound when he realized his lantern had gone out, and the pounding intensified when he saw the body that accompanied the white eyes.

It was a specter of a woman. She was young and beautiful, her skin of silver translucent gossamer, and her kimono that seemed to be sewn of spider's silk. In her arms she held what looked to be a swaddled child, and she clutched it tightly. Her long hair, gray and streaked with alabaster, billowed over her shoulders. She had no legs but floated just above the ground, the bottom of her kimono ripped and red like blood had spilled over it. The hermit sat up in disbelief; mortal and spirit eyes met. The spirit's were without color or depth, soulless, whereas the man's were endless portals to his weary heart wounded by tragedy.

The man's fear overcame all logical thought. He instantly felt provoked, knowing that although this ghost was not attacking now, it must, at some point. The specter was like a raven, a harbinger, a reminder of death and the unknown, and the very idea of the unknown moved the man to aggression. He reached for his nightstand and quickly jumped up on his bed, wielding the knife and slashing at the ghost woman. Her form would not go away, reforming after every cut, crying and cradling her child tighter until she had had enough. She howled in fury and flew toward the man, showing her decayed teeth and void-like mouth as she roared. The man flinched, closed his eyes expecting pain or possession, and held his hands in front of his face. However, he only heard the same whisper and felt a sudden cold run through him. He opened his eyes, eased his stance, and the ghost was gone.

He sank back down onto his bed in shock when he realized the apparition had left something behind: the child she had been holding. It looked real, but its face was expressionless, and it did not squirm or cry like he knew a baby should. He picked it up endearingly, feeling a sense of comfort in holding the weight in his arms, in rocking it paternally, and with shaky fingers, feeling the silk cloth in which it was swaddled. He held the child tight to his chest and felt a strange entitlement, a need to reunite the child and its mother.

He got out of bed again, this time not lighting the lantern. He began wandering down the hallway with the child in his warm arms, although its body was strangely freezing cold, like it had been outside all winter and was just melting with the spring. As the man walked through the house, he felt the child growing heavier in his weak arms, starting slowly then going quicker. Nonetheless, he clutched it, even though in only a few minutes it felt like he was cradling the pull-cart of firewood he had to wheel back and forth in the winters. He called out for the apparition. "Hello? Spirit, reveal yourself. You left your child with me, and I assume you want it back, right?"

The man stopped in the middle of his hallway, looking toward the front door but not behind, where the apparition appeared with a sound that resembled a deep exhale. The man sensed her presence and turned to look at her. Her face was frozen in lament, like his. She stood reserved, poised with perfect posture, her hands tucked in the sleeves of her kimono. The man smiled apologetically through his fear as he presented the baby to her, holding it up in front of her despite that it was even heavier than before now. The woman's form faded like windswept candlelight and reappeared right in front of the man just as quickly. This startled the hermit, and he dropped the child; it hit the floor with a loud thud. He gasped and bent down to pick up the baby, only for him to find out that the infant he had held was not alive, but a lifeless effigy carved of stone. He stammered as he handed the effigy to the woman. "I-I'm so sorry, about that, ma'am. It seems no harm came to it, though. I mean, your child is tough as a rock," he said awkwardly before catching his mistake when it was too late. Reminded of her loss, the man saw more tears flow out of the woman's eyes as she quietly whimpered. "Oh...wait... sorry!" The man tried to cover up his mistake before the ghost could think to curse him.

The woman wiped her tears with her sleeve, cradled her effigy tighter to her breasts, and began to turn away and fade into the shadows again. The man, still trying to appease the spirit, spat out, "Hey, you know, I know what it's like to lose someone you love." The woman looked back at the man wistfully but was silent. "Yes, I've lost two, actually. My wife, and my one and eldest son."

The woman turned all the way around to face him. "Disease?" she asked, her voice choked.

"No, forest fire. We were getting lumber when..." The man was uncomfortable talking to the spirit and rehashing the trauma he had avoided discussing for so long; he had struggled to push it into the back of his mind the same way one repeatedly swallows to keep acid from rising into his throat.

"How did the fire start?" the woman continued to push on.

"I-I don't know. It's probably my fault. Maybe I dropped a match on accident or something." The man shrugged. "Hey, how 'bout you tell me something?"

The woman seemed surprised, her shoulders tensing. "Um...like what?"

"How about..." The man pretended to look around and study her from top to bottom. His eyes stopped at the effigy. "...that."

"This?" the woman asked, stalling for time.

"Yes, that." The man nodded.

The woman took a deep breath and released it in a sigh. "I died before I got to hold my own child. My family and I, separated by a wall unclimbable, impassable. I still long to hold my daughter, to feel her warmth in my arms. But alas, it's only a wish. You hide from your past, I live in mine forever." The woman mumbled just loud enough for the man to hear. Her story seemed so similar to his own, and yet so different. This realization was somehow comforting, like a hug or a fire against the cold. He did not feel so isolated or lonely simply by sharing these sorrows and wishes with the apparition. It was true, he cowered from his emotions as though they were a beast, stalking behind him as close as a shadow, but the woman found solace in reveling in the joy she never got to experience, seeing her grief as a safe embrace rather than a demon to fear.

The man smiled at his thoughts, and the woman seemed perplexed. "Will you be off by dawn?" he asked.

"I don't know. I'm sure you don't want me here," the woman said. She had grown submissive in her vulnerability.

"No, you can stay as long as you need. You can rest here too," the man said.

The woman tilted her head quizzically.

"But on one condition..."

The woman awaited the man's request.

"Give me your effigy. You won't need it here."

"But..." The woman attempted to protest but found no arguments in her favor.

"It'll be safe with me, don't worry." The man grinned, holding out his hand for the infant sculpture. The woman swallowed nervously and hesitated briefly before giving the sculpture to the man. He cradled it gently and looked up at the woman. "You're welcome, and, thank you."

The woman finally understood. She smiled and faded away into the night again, but the hermit knew that she would be back again and again to visit her new, and possibly only, friend—the gateway to a long overdue recovery.
About Autumn Clark

Autumn Clark is a mild-mannered high school student with a writing alter ego. Although this is her debut work, she constantly works on other projects in pretty much any genre, from science fiction and fantasy to realistic fiction and poetry. She finds inspiration in the animes and cartoons she loves, fairy tales and literature, world mythology, and real life experiences. When not studying or writing, Autumn can be found watching anime, playing _League of Legends,_ making bad puns with friends, or with her nose in a book.

IN DREAMS

Amy Lehigh

My hands are not my own

My hands are someone else's

My mind is someone else's

I do not exist

But they do

So I exist

But not as me

And we/I know what we need to know

Preprogrammed

We know about this world

This world that will be gone

Soon

Eight hours

Maybe less

Four hours

Only a little longer

An hour

We are not aware

We continue

We fight

We are hunted

We are protected

We protect

We are strong

We are afraid

We live

We continue

A minute

We don't know

We still don't know

We're in the middle of

I wake up

I WANTED TO STAY

Amy Lehigh

I wanted to stay three years old,

catching grasshoppers in the yard.

I wanted to stay seven,

where conversations were full but meaningless.

I wanted to stay thirteen,

painting a Christmas gift for my grandparents.

I wanted to stay on the phone with my grandpa,

paint still on my hand,

just beginning to dry.

I did not want to take the phone to my mother

when he asked for her with a tone that sent cold fingers of dread down my spine.

I did not want to go downstate

where my grandmother lay in a hospital.

I did not want to go the next day,

the day that she died.

I did not want to go to the funeral

where everyone would be crying.

I did not want to go up to the casket

with my grandfather at my shoulder,

tears in his voice.

I wanted to stay ignorant

as long as my family stayed alive.

I wanted to stay young,

when I was not aware of death;

it was not real.

I wanted to stay in a world

that knew nothing of death,

of loss.

I wanted to stay where life was happy

and meaningless.

I wanted to stay three years old,

catching the grasshoppers.

I wanted to stay seven,

when my grandmother was still alive.

I did not want to go to a world

that stripped me of what I loved.

I did not want to go;

I wanted to stay.

I wanted to stay.

I HAVE NO REGRETS

Amy Lehigh

I have no regrets.

The courtroom jeered, hundreds of angry faces turned to me, papers, amidst other things, being flung my way. My friends sat in the stand as well; their faces were not only angry, but a mix of hurt and guilt. Some of them yelled at the other spectators.

"Order!" the judge boomed, pounding his gavel. The court soon fell into a grudging silence, settling in to listen to the story.

My story.

"Jyro Horde. You have ten minutes to tell the court your reasoning for sending an entire city up in flames. And remember, if you fail to sufficiently portray your case, we will proceed to the execution."

I'm going to be executed either way, old man. I already know.

I have no regrets.

"Hey!" Droka snarled, standing in his seat. His hands were balled into fists and his green eyes glared at the judge. Opal hurriedly pawed him back down, glancing around nervously and shooting me an apologetic look. It was dangerous to be a disturbance in a dragon's court, even if we were all in human skin right now.

"Begin, Horde."

I nodded. "My kin, I know how this must seem. But I did not murder those thousands of people out of pleasure. I killed because people of our species were taking refuge in that city and threatening to expose us. They managed to take some of us hostage," I said, glancing at my friends in the stand.

"And, after doing so, they began to sprout wing around the city. I assume that they were sick of hiding."

"My son was there!" one dragon screamed, his face an agonized torrent of emotion. I kept my ground. Security led him out. Convenient that they weren't here while there was a flurry of projectiles.

"They pretended to be human, acting as though the innocents were the ones who ravaged some of the human territory nearby. And they showed our true form, forcing the hostages to change. We know how quickly word travels amongst humans—phones, cameras, things that connect directly to the internet.

"The city itself was rather unremarkable. It was an isolated area, far from any other humans, and still quite small. However, five thousand is enough to take down a dragon that refuses to fight.

"The hostages were of that sort. They would never harm a human, even if it meant they would be killed. As they began to threaten our innocent children, I decided we could not allow this to stand. So I burned them all."

I turned my head toward my friends, who looked afraid for me as the crowd began to roar again, the mighty gavel banging on the podium. I turned away from them and to the judge; the slightest of smiles barely nudged the corners of my mouth.

I saved my friends.

"I have no regrets."

**PART ONE:** _Business_

**PART TWO:** _Psychosomatic_

**PART THREE:** _Obsolete_

**PART FOUR:** _Committed_

**PART FIVE:** _This Far_

**PART ONE:** _Business_

Melody

"Oh, if you only knew what we'd been up to, I guarantee you'd keep it secret." King tilts his head at me. "You don't want to know. Don't ask again, Melody."

My breath catches as I nervously glance at his blood-splattered shirt. "Yes, sir," I mumble to the ground.

"Not that you wouldn't keep it to yourself." He laughs, raising an eyebrow at me. "You're a good aide. You've never spilled. I don't suspect you will this time."

"Sir?"

"I've got another job for you," he continues. "Some...unfinished business."

Another aide, Lyra, hands me a file. Upon opening it, I find a man's face. Though he doesn't smile, obvious wrinkles have been wrought into his skin: under his eyes from smiling, in his forehead from worry. I glance at the information under the paper-clipped picture: 34 years old. Brown hair. Brown eyes. 142 pounds. But none of these things seem to capture this man in whole. When I look at this man, he gives out more of a middle-aged father aura than enemy-of-the-gang. He seems like a pleasant man. His eyes gleam with a calm happiness, not the usual maliciousness I happen to deal with.

"Thomas Williams. An old enemy. He's spending the weekend in Las Vegas with some family while on a business trip for the banking firm he works at now." King taps the face on the paper absentmindedly. "This man. Bring him here. I'll send a team of your choice with you. You're the leader. You leave tomorrow." He faces me intensely for a second. "I trust you'll get this done."

"Yes, yes, sir." My stomach quivers as my eyes meet his nasty mud-brown ones. Mine immediately dart to the side.

"That will be all, Melody." He brushes past me and continues walking down the dim hall. I stop, Lyra by my side.

After King's out of earshot, Lyra says quietly, "You've got your work cut out for you. He wants him dead. Every one of the people who 'killed' his daughter."

Lyra, a short, brown-eyed, timid, mocha-skinned, shy, bushy-haired, casually dressed, and rather insignificant human to others, doesn't strike me as violent-minded. But here we are. I suppose being quiet and unassuming has its advantages, one of them not being considered a person who listens.

Lyra doesn't seem like much. She almost blends right into the wall. When I first met her as the person to replace King's previous aide, I didn't think she was much. The more we spent time together running errands for King, the better we knew each other, and I don't know how anybody could ever ignore her. A face was simply a face until a face was a person with a beautiful mind behind it.

"Why does he want _me_ to do this?" I rub my arm where an amber-yellow armband is wrapped tightly around my bicep. King forces us to wear them as identification of loyalty.

"To make the others jealous. To prove yourself, your worth. To see if you can do it," she whispers, nudging my side.

"But if this guy is so important, why does he want someone to do the job who's less skilled and less qualified?" I scoff.

"Because the peaceful attract the violent."

"So quick witted." I glance at her sideways.

"Alas, I admit it." She giggles quietly. "Or he's just lazy."

I snort. "You can come on my team."

"Why me?" She laughs.

I raise an eyebrow at her. "The peaceful attract the violent, don't they?"

**PART TWO:** _Psychosomatic_

Three Days Later

Las Vegas, Nevada

"Villains spend the weekends here," Lyra mutters, the city lights reflecting in her eyes. "This is where bad people come to play."

We sit on the roof of one of the tall Vegas spires that pierces the night sky. The harsh neon lights make Lyra seem inhuman, maybe cruel. Instead of filling her with the playful atmosphere of the city, they appear to fill her with despair and lies. This city lies. King lies. I lie. She lies. Why shouldn't anything else? With a long-range rifle loaded with tranquilizer cartridges aimed across the street at a clear vantage point of the roof, we rest and wait for our chance to complete our mission.

"We're bad people, Lyra. This is our place. Stop trying to be poetic," I mutter.

"Just because we have to do bad things, it doesn't mean we're bad people." Her voice is poignant and urging.

"It sort of does."

"That's messed up," she scoffs, crossing her arms.

"Our lives are messed up. It's just an affectation." I shake my head.

"You've always been a pessimist." Lyra sighs. "Give me the rundown one more time."

"We have to trap Thomas Williams and take him to the compound. No questions asked." I sigh, repositioning myself on the roof and thinking of the man from the file. He didn't look like he was supposed to be there; it looked like someone had switched the pictures with some other file. It reminded me of innocence.

"Do you think there's something wrong with us?" she mumbles.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"What if he's not guilty? Why do we have to condemn good people?" she questions passionately.

"Because if we don't, we condemn ourselves," I say, sighing, not wholly believing the words pouring from my mouth. If we desert we die. But I've always thought there was something wrong in doing this, everything King orders me to do to serve an underground regime that secretly rules everything above it.

"What if we could escape, you know? Not have to live like this, doing bad things." She tries yet again to reach me with her voice.

"Being bad people?" I pucker my eyebrows.

"Do you think we would have a chance? If we disappeared? Deserted?"

"I suppose I'd have to give my life for it. Then it'd be useless." I scowl and lean back on our mat from my position manning the gun.

"Give it a chance. Do you think, by some miracle, we could be the ones who don't have to worry about being condemned?"

"Why would I want to when it could get me killed?"

"I'm saying, Melody," she grips my shoulder, just above the yellow armband, and our eyes meet, "that I don't want to be a bad person anymore. I'm tired of doing bad things. I want to escape. I want to change."

"And how do you propose we do that?"

"Fake our deaths. Do something good for once. Save this man. Take him somewhere safe."

"You're insane." I return to my position at the rifle. "We can't. Even if we wanted to."

"Please, just listen."

"We'll talk about it tomorrow. Please." My armband suddenly feels too tight, as if I'm trying to break free from it.

She sighs and brings the pair of binoculars to her eyes. "The group is on the roof. The meeting lasts an hour. We have an hour. We can talk now."

"Fine," I mutter, not taking my eye from the scope.

"Have you been seeing this man's actions over the past three days? All the files? He's an innocent man. He may not have been once, Mels, but he's righted whatever the charges against him. He loves his children, his wife, his friends. He hasn't done anything to provoke anybody for the past fourteen years, Mels, believe me. I've read all I can on him, and all there was was a faulty transaction, one simple meeting." She spreads her hands.

"And that led to King losing a bunch of money, and then losing his daughter, and that led to a gang, and that led to an all-powerful underground organization that stretches through the most powerful countries on Earth. He's the only person to blame anymore." I roll my eyes.

"So why give in to that kind of anger, that kind of maliciousness, that kind of power?"

"Because I have no other choice. You don't either," I snap.

"I don't see how you can go about this as if there's no choice. Don't force yourself into a false dichotomy. It's psychosomatic. You _think_ that there is no hope, so, therefore, there is no hope. Only for you, though. I've tried my best for you, Mels. But your cynical mind doesn't make it worth it." Her voice holds so much earnestness that I can't help but feel guilty. "We could start something. Would you change it if you could?"

I take my eye from the sights and bend my head toward the ground. I can't do this. I've always thought about deserting and the glory and peace I could bask in, but now the chance for a life faces me, its fangs bared, and I cower in its presence.

"Melody Turner, please, do this for me, just this once. Believe me. We're the violent ones now. But it doesn't have to be that way."

"And once we're out, the gang will find us again. They'll come looking for us as traitors who denounced violence, and it'll go round in a circle until we die or get ourselves killed. We'd be swimming with sharks until we drown. How do you like that?"

"Plenty better than the life I'll have to live if we don't."

I think about it. "Fine. We're calling off the mission."

Her eyes brighten, and suddenly the city lights don't seem so cruel anymore. I see them in a new way, and I remember that the lights reflect off my eyes too. I'm in a new light, just like she is.

"Really? You're rethinking?" she asks incredulously.

"Lyra, get your stuff. We're going," I announce. I grab the gun, unloading and dismantling it. "Please, Lyra, just do it."

Lyra reaches for the radio and whispers into it, "The mission is off. Return to the motel. Shut down...No, Arsen, just do it. We called it off."

"I need to explain some things," I say to her as I pack up our gear.

She smiles at me. "I knew it."

**PART THREE:** _Obsolete_

At The Motel

"What are we doing here? We had the perfect chance!" a voice shouts.

Sitting in the driver's seat of the truck, my hands twisted together, I pluck up the courage to face a disgruntled team.

Lyra is outside arguing. "Look, Kayl, Melody just needs to explain something, so if you could calm down and stop trying to get it out of me..." Lyra continues calmly before being interrupted by an irate Kayl.

I take a deep breath and open the truck door, stepping out, the ground almost swaying beneath my feet.

Kayl turns to me from affronting Lyra. "Can you explain?"

I open the door of the canvas military tent and give a jerk of my head toward the interior. "Inside, Kayl." He gives me a frustrated glare. "Oh, just go in," I snap irritably.

He ducks inside. I follow and take the seat at the head of the table lined with the team, all expectantly waiting, looking at me. I let out a deep breath. "I know you think the decision I made was a terrible idea."

"No kidding," Arsen mutters.

"Listen to me, Arsen. It doesn't matter if you agree," I snap again.

"What is it, then?"

"We're bad people, Arsen, working for bad people, with even worse morals and goals. For one second, do you think you would want something else? Something normal or good?" I hear a hushed chorus of barely audible murmurs.

"What are you thinking of doing?" Tiny asks.

"Lyra and I want to quit," I spit out with a quick breath, lifting my eyes defiantly toward the team surrounding me. A small squeak is emitted from the far end of the table, in front of Lyra who is huddling in the shadows, probably glaring at Kayl.

"What?" Arsen says angrily, standing.

"Have you never wanted to be good for once in a lifetime? Not wanted to be the good guys instead of working for - what? - a gang?" I stand, facing Arsen, with an incredulous Kayl beside him. "Have you seen this man? If he has ever done anything to King, he has it washed from his hands now. He's been a good father and a good man. Do we lead an innocent man to his death? Do we have the right to murder him? We're the ones with blood still on our hands. He's worth saving, and we have the ability to save him. What I've been taught is to notice what could lead me to his death, but the human in me wants to notice the emotions he shows. We've been taught to ignore that. I've had enough of blindly following whatever King has said. Since when are we just machines?"

"It's just our job, Mels, we don't have to pay any attention to it," Kayl calls.

"We can't ignore it any longer. There's too much suffering without us adding to the violence and killing and everything that happens to come from King." I sit again and motion to Arsen to do the same. "If we quit," I speak calmly, "we leave this behind. Someone lives for once. Someone other than us. It's not about us anymore. It's about the world we live in. We're all small in the end anyway." I take a deep breath. "Will you join me?"

I glance around the room. Lyra stands and steps forward. "I will."

Three more of the five stand: Fia, Tiny, Emma. Finally, Kayl stands, Arsen with him. I feel the corners of my lips tugging at a smile, and I stand back up with the rest of the team. "From now on we're radio silent. We leave every trace of King at this site, anything that could track us. We go in. We save Thomas Williams. We disobey our orders. We leave. And we disappear. We never existed. Who we were before this moment is obsolete." I untie the amber piece of cloth from my arm and tear it in two. "No armbands."

Emma, Lyra, Tiny, and Fia follow suit, though Arsen and Kayl are hesitant to do so.

Lyra glances at everyone around the table and says, "Get some sleep. Goodness knows you'll need it."

I give Lyra a tight-lipped smile as everyone files out. "Thank you."

"You're a good person, Melody Turner." Her soft brown eyes meet mine earnestly, the amber light reflecting off them again, like two little fires welled inside her skull. "I never doubted it. From the moment I met you." Lyra heads for the door.

"What about them?"

"If they think they're turning for the good, they will. It's psychosomatic." The door cracks open, the night air wafting in. "We're starting something. Till the morning greets your eyes, Melody." The door clicks shut behind her.
**Part Four:** _Committed_

In The Hotel

Deep breaths. Deep Breaths.

Standing in front of the door, Thomas Williams' door, confronting the future, I don't feel very brave or very rebellious. I had barely remained steady walking through the corridors and street feeling as if I were blinded by my decision. I'm about to break the code. Right here, right now, this is where I become the traitor. I remember the yellow armband stuffed in my jacket's breast pocket. Do I run? Am I a coward? Or do I rise up? With a few deep breaths, I knock on the door to the hotel room, feeling bare without that armband.

Behind the door I can hear the muffled giggles of a child, a woman laughing along with her, and a man's voice. A few seconds and it all quiets, and I hear footsteps near the door. It's not long before he answers.

"May I help you, ma'am?" he asks politely. This man—polite, gentle, loving, fatherly—this is the man I was to condemn. Now it seems impossible.

I swallow. "Please listen very carefully to what I say. I was originally sent by a man you might know as King to capture you so he could kill you, but through hard thought," I muster all the courage I've ever had hidden inside my bones, "I have decided to save you. Twenty-four hours after King and his gang find out that we've gone radio silent, he'll send a surveillance company to check what my team is up to. This morning at 3 AM, six hours ago, we went radio silent. We have eighteen hours until we are discovered and face the consequences."

"What?"

"Years ago, a bank refused to supply King a loan, one that could have saved the life of his daughter. He lost his daughter, lost himself in the midst of it, let it take control of him. He became a mogul on the streets and in the black market, killing people for a living. Today, King is blaming everyone he can get his hands on. You were merely a secretary, but he blames you nonetheless. And my team and I have decided that..." I pause a moment, "...that you no longer are—or never were—guilty of any crimes King thinks you committed."

"What's happening?"

"Ajax Mulligan. Known as King. He's coming for you if we don't run away fast enough. Please, get your wife and child. They'll be safe with us."

"How do I know you're telling the truth?"

"Do you know those yellow armbands he makes his people wear?"

"Sure," he says, his eyebrows puckered.

"They're a symbol of loyalty." I reach my hand into my pocket. "And you can see I'm not wearing mine." From my pocket I retrieve the one I had worn, shredded, ripped and torn to pieces.

His eyes flood with understanding. "What's your plan?"

"I and two others take you to a safe place, a government asylum. We have a group of four waiting outside the hotel for your wife and daughter. The two teams reconvene there."

"Don't you work for a gang?"

"I did. But asylums are made for the innocent to hide, along with the guilty. It just matters who you're being chased by." I stare at my feet, unable to look him in the eye. "Pack up what you need."

He nods, turning into the room, muttering urgently to his wife. After a few minutes, they return to the door, their daughter in her mother's arms. Thomas leans in to his daughter and kisses her on the head, whispering, "I love you, Abby."

"Come with me." I lead them to the elevator, hand lingering on my side where a gun is holstered. "The compound is near Utah. Lake Silencio. It's seven hours away. If we hurry, they won't find us."

"Why did you decide to help us?" his wife asks softly.

"Because I'm not a bad person. And neither are you. We shouldn't have to be condemned for that." The doors to the elevator close; it's final.
**PART FIVE:** _This Far_

Near Lake Silencio

"How much farther?" Thomas asks.

"Not far. Two miles," I say tiredly.

"We must be by Area 51," Arsen laughs.

"Shut up, Arsen, you know better," Kayl retorts.

"That's where we're going."

I sigh, feeling like a mother with two-year-olds on a three-day road trip. "Don't be stupid. It's a lone asylum. We're near the Utah border. That's not even close to Area 51."

I've been glancing at the mirrors constantly. Every mile we forge closer to the asylum, a little more weight falls off my chest, like sand falling from the top to the bottom of an hourglass. We're running out of time before the surveillance company comes. I press the gas a little harder. As the vehicle accelerates, I notice a slight jump in the car, as if the car has run over a rather sizable rock, or maybe something else, but I don't really want to think about the "something else." All day I've been jumping at the slightest things: yelling in the songs on the lone rock station we found, and rough, bumpy, tar-scarred roads, and sharply spoken words laced with sarcasm from the lips of a half-dead soldier.

"Wh – what was that?" Thomas stutters, stress rising in his voice. The man is in the midst of a breakdown: sweating, panicking, and taking things a bit too seriously. Maybe the sweating is just the Nevada sun, although I shouldn't be criticizing, because I'm in the same boat.

After a few long moments, I swallow and nervously say, "Nothing."

The "nothing" goes off behind us. My driving is rendered useless, the car swerving and spiraling off the road, banking on one side for a few seconds, finally heavily returning to the ground. My body, thrown forward by the shockwave from the explosion, pulls back in its seat, being wracked with immense force in a few seconds and rebounded by the airbag. I groan and force myself to move, unbuckle, and carefully slide from the driver's seat to the desert sand. I kneel, clutching my head. Nothing seems to banish the ringing wracking my brain. I groan, sinking my nails into my skin. Agonizing in whiplash from the crash, I barely notice the other Jeep pull up beside us, or the others stumbling out of ours.

Lyra runs to my side. "What happened?"

Between groans, I manage to mumble, "They're here. Need to get to the asylum."

She yanks me upwards, her arm threaded under my shoulder. The others are picking up the rest and piling them into the car. "Hurry!" she yells. "We don't have much time!"

Exhausted, I slide into the car and fumble around with my seatbelt as Lyra climbs in beside me and floors it. The seatbelt clicks just in time to save me from the jerk of taking off. I marvel at her quiet ferocity. When I first met her, she strapped bricks on the pedals of the car to reach them. To my knowledge, she still does, although she won't admit it. But she hasn't changed any. Calm inside and out. However, when the time comes, that body, which houses a heart too big for itself, makes "small" seem like a skyscraper cutting through the sky and reaching to the veil of stars.

I glance at the load of dazed and confused people behind me. Everybody seems to sway around numbly with the bumps and jostles of the car. Lyra drives furiously as I regain a little clarity and sanity. I shake my head and look at Lyra. She clenches her teeth and grips the steering wheel with white knuckles. Her furious driving finds us in the middle of a trap; a platoon of King's gunmen appear on either side of the road, weapons aimed at our car.

"We had the surveillance company on us already," I moan.

"We had a rat. We figured it was Kayl or Arsen. That's why I told Emma to leave them," Lyra says, staring determinedly at the road.

I turn to look into the rear of the Jeep where Thomas and his wife sit, while Emma and Tiny flank the sides of the Williams' daughter. Fia rests her head against the window beside me. "What are we going to do?" I breathe.

Lyra's eyes move to the rearview mirror. She shouts, "Everybody duck down! Make yourselves as small as possible. Make sure Abby's protected!" She swerves left off the road at a sharp right angle, missing the two groups' gunfire and catching them off guard. "The compound is this way, right?"

"You're asking me? I can barely remember my name." In the rearview mirror I find a clear view of King's soldiers climbing into their vehicles. "They're chasing!" Looking over at her, I seethe, "You better get crafty soon, young lady."

A crack pierces the air and results in a hole in the windshield just past my head. "They're shooting!" Lyra cries.

"Wow, you think?"

More shots ring, hitting the car. A lucky shot nicks the back tire. We bounce off the ground and tip into a mound of sand.

"Out!" I yell. "Out!"

I climb from the Jeep and start limping toward the compound, now in sight, maybe a mile away in the middle of a desolate badlands, with a lake next to it. The others, too, are making their way for the building, but Thomas remains next to the vehicle.

"What are you doing?" I shout at him. "We've got to go!"

"You go ahead," he says calmly, not turning from the two approaching vehicles. "Get my family safe, Melody."

"Go on!" I yell to everybody else. I return to his side, my knees buckling under me. "We can't risk you. After all this?"

"Please," he begs. "They've stopped. They'll hurt you."

His wife arrives at our side. "You can't leave. Not without me. We took vows, remember?"

"Love, go." Thomas's voice is urgent.

"You can't leave me," she says calmly, but I can tell she's breaking underneath. "You can't make me." Behind us, Lyra, Fia, Tiny, and Emma struggle to get Abby away from the car.

Someone else is coming closer. King. Him. He's coming.

"What can I do?" Thomas says. "I'm helpless. It won't stop until I'm dead."

King nears, a cruel grin plastered on his face. He's not too far now.

"Melody!" he yells, a comic lilt to this voice. "I always knew domestic life would take hold of you. Oh, it's so pretty." The lilt disappears. "Let me tell you, they're only lies, affectations, and sensations. You're lost in a dream."

"And you!" He points at Thomas. "Don't even make me mention you!"

My throat twists. I can't say a word. I pull my gun from the holster tucked in the waist of my jeans.

"Get her out," Thomas says, squeezing my arm.

I pull away from Thomas as King wanders closer with every step.

"Your entire team?" King scoffs. "All of them?"

"Except Kayl and Arsen," I respond quietly.

"Figures." He meets my eyes, but for some reason, this time I don't shy away. "I guess I should've expected this. I guess I kind of did." He laughs sardonically. "I took precautions. I'm not here for no reason. Kayl notified me last night. You're swimming in the deep end. I never wanted it to come to this."

"It has to." Something new inside me whispers, _You gotta get up. After all your fighting, you can't let him win. Get up! "_ You're a bad person, King. I'm not your little song anymore." I find enough strength to stand. "I can swim in oceans, not just the deep end." Passing the belly of the car, I notice a few packages on the bottom. I pause.

"Ah, you noticed my precaution. Isn't it so perfect?" King laughs. "The road bomb was supposed to kill you, and as a precaution, I could set off the ones on the bottom of your car. And the firing team would kill anything that got past that. I don't know how you keep escaping death. Maybe you're lucky. I kind of liked you, Melody."

"You wouldn't," I whisper. _Explosives. They're explosives._

"Get her out, Melody," Thomas whispers. "Please."

King turns away. "Detonation in a minute and a half," he says casually. "Win until the curtains come down, dear."

I hesitate a few seconds. _I can't take this anymore. He's twisted. He twisted me. I can't change anything. He has control._ I whip around. _No longer. No more. The song falls_. With my gun raised, I don't hesitate. I pull the trigger. The shot hits him in the head.

"Go! Melody, go!" Thomas pushes my back.

With one last glance at King, lying on the ground, I turn on the spot, sprinting away from the car. Even when pain aches in my chest, I don't stop running, running...running. My breath catches in my throat, and I think about the gun. The metal, though warm, feels like a stone in my hand, heaving with the weight of another death. I always was a good shot.

I near Lyra, who's clutching Abby to her chest. The girl jumps to the ground and runs toward me as I reach them. My legs and body are dead. I collapse onto the ground.

"Where are they?" Abby cries. "Mummy? Daddy?"

I look upwards, exhausted and spent, as she falls into my arms, clutching me tightly. My arms shake, my hands shake, my breath shakes. I killed a man, he's dead, they're dead. My head spins in a frenzy.

"Where are they?" she asks, nearly in tears. "Where are we? I want Daddy. Where is Mummy?"

I take in the scene around me. Evening is falling, the sun setting and burning to the west, hiding behind a wall of mountains, scorching just the tips of the peaks. In the distance, the lights glow in contrast to the dark, silent earth. _The lights, the lights._

The time should be about now; I clutch Abby tightly as the car explodes, King, Thomas, and his wife along with it. I turn my face back to the asylum seeing the harsh orange light brighten the dim evening. It shows the emotions of those before me, keeping the shock and anger and pure awe from hiding deep beneath their skin. Its all-too-surreal light bids them shed their masks.

I would change it if I could. I would change all of this.

If I could.

The shock sets in—I killed him. I clench and unclench my trembling hands. I take in a shuddering breath. What happens next?

My fingers twist in the folds of Abby's shirt. I hold in a sob and tilt my head into her neck. "I only know we've made it this far, kid." This doesn't feel real. Like a dream. Maybe a nightmare. "We've made it this far."

FOUR, TWO

Amy Lehigh

I will not make the same mistakes again...

The star warmed my back as I stood in its light, gathering the dust that floated around space. I began to crush it between my hands, adding my breath as I molded it into a sphere. _This will be Gala,_ I whispered to it as I let it go to float freely before me. Looking at it, I shrank so that it took up the entirety of my hands when I held it again.

"It needs more," I said, beginning to make valleys and mountains on its surface. As it began to take form, I shrank further to stand as a giant upon its surface. Closing my eyes, I began to think of what I had done. Images of massive wars ravaged my mind, my children coming together to kill one another.

_Four was too many for them,_ I thought.

Four races with my tongue. One was a warrior with scathing pride. One was a philosopher with immense mind but no taste for blood. One was a farmer, docile and warm. The last was a fellow creator with a mind as great as a philosopher but greater vision.

They could not get along.

Tears fell from my eyes as I thought of the blood and death and hate my children had caused amongst themselves, the pain they had inflicted upon each other. From my tears rained rivers and sprouted plant life.

As I picked up mud from beside my feet and began to mold it, I thought, _This time, the four will be two._

FLAMES

Written by Sydney Johnson, Cover by Maya Vanderau

Chapter One

Myra Hudson stared at her feet as she and her sister, Rayla, walked into Kohl's. Myra couldn't stand it when people stared at her. She knew she was different; she accepted it. Why couldn't other people?

"C'mon, look up," Rayla said. "You're going to run into things." Myra looked up, hesitantly. Most people didn't notice her. _Good. Maybe Blue Springs will be different,_ she thought.

They walked into the Juniors Department. Only a few other girls were there. One stared at her phone, the other stared at Myra. When Myra looked back, the girl smiled and waved. Rayla was already across the aisle.

"These would look cute on you." Rayla picked out a blue quarter-sleeved shirt and a black skirt. Myra looked at the outfit for a while until Rayla started waving her hand in front of Myra's face to get her attention.

"Can I get a pair of jeans too?" Myra asked. Rayla checked her wallet.

"I guess," she said.

Myra took her clothes into the dressing room and locked the door. The walls were surrounded in mirrors. She stared at herself for a moment; her eyes were drawn to her long, red-orange hair. Then she looked at her scars. Myra knew why people stared, even she couldn't help staring at herself. Eyes were just drawn to Myra's multiple burn scars.

When she had moved to Missouri with her sister, Myra was scared. She had to start at a new house, new town, new school—and looking like _this_. She tried to hide her scars, but one covered one-fourth of her face. It was impossible for her not to be noticed.

Myra tried on her clothes and put her red sweater back on.

"Do they fit?" Rayla asked when she walked out.

"Yup, thanks." Myra was happy to leave. As soon as they got into the blue jeep, Rayla gave her a smile, and they drove home.

"Don't worry, you'll make new friends. You have the best personality I know!"

"The kids at my new school will only know that after they get over the way I look, and I'm not sure that will happen," Myra responded, looking up at her sister. They didn't look much like sisters. Myra's wavy red hair and Rayla's straight brown hair didn't look the same. "What did Mom and Dad look like again?" Myra asked. She could barely remember, even though it had only been four years ago.

"They were always smiling," Rayla said, blinking back tears. "Mom had blond hair, and Dad had brown." Their parents had died in a fire in 2012. Rayla had been fourteen, but Myra was only ten. They had lived with their aunt in Wisconsin until she got a contagious and fatal disease, then Myra and Rayla had moved to Blue Springs, Missouri.

They drove back to their house in silence.

Chapter Two

"Myra, you have to wake up."

"What time is it?"

"Six fifteen." Rayla turned on the light, and the brightness filled the room.

Myra pushed the grey blankets off, got up, and headed straight into the bathroom for a cold shower. _I don't need to hide,_ Myra thought. _Might as well wear the skirt and show Blue Springs who they're dealing with._ She went back into her room, put on her clothes, and spent almost ten minutes brushing her hair. It reached all the way to her torso, and she just left it down. Myra applied her mascara and lip gloss. Aunt Nora would never let Myra wear makeup, but Rayla told her she could since she was in ninth grade now.

Myra walked through their tiny apartment to the kitchen. Rayla had a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch waiting for her. "You look amazing!" she said, giving Myra a big hug.

"Thanks." Myra ate her cereal and then texted her best friend, Casey, from her old school. She didn't text back.

"Let's go," Rayla said. Myra had butterflies in her stomach. She slipped on her white sneakers, grabbed her backpack, and headed out the door with Rayla right behind her. "You'll be fine," Rayla said.

They turned a corner, and Myra got even more nervous when she could see the school in the distance. "I sure hope so," she said.

They pulled into the parking lot slowly. Myra took her polka-dotted backpack and walked in slowly. "Bye, Rayla," Myra called to Rayla over her shoulder.

Myra looked up at the students filling the hallways. She smiled and waved. They all stared; about half of them smiled and waved back. Myra walked down the checkered hallways to locker 223. She checked her schedule: _First Hour—Geography, Room 13._ The desks in classroom thirteen were in rows. Cliques of students were sitting together. When Myra walked in everyone stopped and looked up. No one seemed to welcome her, so Myra stared at her shoes and sat down by herself near the back.

The bell rang and a teacher in a flashy dress and huge glasses entered the room. "Hello class," she said. "I'm Mrs. Ryans. Welcome to Geography." Mrs. Ryans went over all of the rules and warned a chatty group of girls not to talk. The girls all had their hair in high ponytails wore at least one item of pink clothing each.

Another group near the back were all looking down at their phones in their laps. Myra was surprised the teacher hadn't noticed yet. They all had brightly colored hair and "edgy" clothing. There were a couple of other groups Myra recognized as the jocks and the preps.

Myra looked at Mrs. Ryans, who was staring at her but looked away quickly when their eyes met. _At least no one's making fun of me yet,_ she thought.
Chapter Three

Myra walked out of science class and got in line for lunch. A group of boys in front of her gave her a look and then burst out laughing. They didn't say anything after that and walked off. Myra sat down at an empty table and looked around. She noticed all of the groups that she had seen during first hour, plus a few more. Geography was the only class where everyone sat where they wanted so far. She had been assigned a seat in second and third hour. She sat by Macy Renolds in Math, who stared at her phone the whole time, and Julian Mikhalski in Spanish, who talked to her a bit. With a fork, Myra started poking at the grilled cheese sandwich on her plate.

A girl with dark hair walked over with a smile and sat down across from her. "Hi," she said, "I'm Abby."

Myra noticed that the ends of Abby's hair were dyed bright pink. "I'm Myra. I like your hair."

"Thanks. You're in ninth grade, right?" Abby asked.

"Yeah. I saw you in Spanish." They spent the rest of lunch talking, and when the bell rang, they both headed to Home Ec.

Myra rode the bus home after school, and Rayla met her at the door and gave her a hug.

"So, how was it?" Rayla asked

"It was great." Myra answered. "I made a couple of new friends, and no one really made fun of me."

"What do you mean ' _really_ made fun of me'?"

"A group of boys laughed, that's all."

Myra walked down the narrow hallway to her room. She lay down on her bed and stared up at the poster on her ceiling. It had flowers bordering her favorite quote: " _Sometimes the things we can't change end up changing us."_ She grabbed her phone and texted Casey all about her day. Casey was so excited for Myra and proceeded to tell Myra about her day.

Myra kept herself busy doing homework and texting with Casey and Abby until dinner. Rayla had ordered Hawaiian pizza, Myra's favorite. After they ate they sat on the green couch and watched a movie.

About ten minutes into the movie a salesman knocked on their door. Myra got up to answer it. "Hello my name is..." He looked up at Myra and paused for a moment, "...James. Would you be interested in buying a kitten from me this evening?"

"I don't know. May we see them?" Rayla asked as she joined Myra at the door.

"Of course, follow me." They followed him to a blue sports car with a dozen kittens inside. They were all grey kittens with orange fur poking up.

Myra walked up closer and noticed the tiniest kitten. "Aw, can we get this one, Rayla?" Myra asked, picking up the kitten and running her hands through its soft fur.

"How much are they?" Rayla asked James.

"Thirty-five dollars."

"I guess," Rayla said, giving in. She paid James, and Myra took the kitten inside.

"What should we name her?" Myra asked.

"I don't know. What about Phoebe?"

"No. What about Clementine?"

"Okay, I like that," Rayla agreed.

They finished the movie, then Myra went to bed with Clementine curled up at her feet and her head filled with dreams.
Chapter Four

_I woke up sweating. All I could see was orange, and it took me a minute to realize what was going on._ Fire _, I thought,_ my house is on fire.

" _Mom! Dad!" I called, but I got no response. I ran across my room and threw open the door. Flames flew in and surrounded me, and a stinging, hot pain made me scream. I started crying, and all I could think was,_ I have to get out of this house.

The ceiling started creaking, and ashes sprinkled down. I ran straight through the flames and into the kitchen. I heard the ceiling come crashing down behind me. I climbed out of the window and onto the lawn. My vision slowly went dark as I lay on the grass, crying, and watching my home burn.
Chapter Five

"Hey, Myra! Wake up." Rayla shook Myra awake. "Time to get up."

Myra rubbed her eyes and groggily rolled out of bed. She put on a pair of jeans and a purple sweatshirt, pulled her hair into a ponytail, and went into the kitchen for breakfast.

"How did you sleep?" Rayla asked.

"Good," Myra answered, quietly. She took a bite of her cereal.

"You sure? When I came to check on you, you were tossing and turning a lot."

"Yeah, I'm sure. I just had a bad dream."

"Do you want to tell me about it?" Rayla asked.

"I have to catch the bus." Myra dumped her cereal into the trash can and walked outside. She still had ten minutes before the bus came, so she sat down under a tree. Myra looked across the road and let a tear roll down her cheek.

* * *

"Hey, Myra!" Abby called.

"Hey, Abby,"

"Do you want to stay the night at my house tonight?" Abby asked.

"Let me text Rayla and see." Myra was a little unsure of what Rayla would say because of what had happened that morning. But Rayla said she could as long as Abby's parents were home.

After school Myra and Abby rode the bus to Abby's house.

"Hi, girls," her mom said when they walked through the door and set their shoes on the fuzzy mat. Abby's mom had long black hair and big brown eyes. "You can call me Prisha," she said with a subtle Indian accent. The house had flowered wallpaper and smelled like cinnamon. There was a big, white staircase that the girls walked up to get to Abby's room.

"Your house is huge!" Myra said. "And your mom is really nice."

"Thanks," Abby said. "You'll meet the rest of my family at dinner."

They spent the time doing their homework and listening to music, but it took a while because they couldn't stop talking about things like new movies, clothes, and what they think of people at their school. Time seemed to fly, and soon enough, it was dinner time.

"Girls, time for dinner!" Prisha called from the kitchen. When they got downstairs, Myra saw the big family sitting at the dinner table and felt a little jealous.

She and Abby sat down, and everyone introduced themselves: Violet, Abby's seventeen-year-old sister, who had long, brown hair and a studded nose ring; Jacob, Abby's six-year-old brother with black hair and green eyes; and Mr. Nolaine, Abby's dad.

Even though the family was very welcoming, Myra was aware that Jacob was scared of her, and Violet kept glancing at Myra when she thought she wasn't looking. Mr. Nolaine didn't say much to Myra. She tried to ignore this and enjoy her dinner. They ate spaghetti and had cinnamon cookies for dessert.

"Thank you," Myra said after Prisha cleared the table, "That was very delicious."

"Anytime." Prisha answered with a smile.

Myra and Abby went upstairs and watched a movie. They were halfway through the second movie when Myra dozed off.
Chapter Six

I heard the beeping sounds of Kenosha Mercy Hospital. Rayla was curled up, asleep in a chair, and my Aunt Nora was knitting. She looked up when she saw me awake then shook Rayla awake. Rayla rushed over to sit by me.

" _What happened?" I asked._

" _There was a fire," Rayla answered._

" _How long have I been asleep for?"_

" _Only a couple of days."_

" _Where are Mom and Dad?" I asked. Rayla started crying as she looked over at Aunt Nora._

Aunt Nora let out a sigh and said, "Myra, your parents are gone." I already knew they were, but when she said it out loud it actually hit me for the first time. My vision went fuzzy, and my stomach hurt.

Rayla hugged me and whispered into my ear, "We're going to live with Aunt Nora for a while. But I will take care of you. I promise."
Chapter Seven

Myra woke up in Abby's colorful bedroom, and it made her feel a lot better. She rolled over and saw that Abby wasn't there. Myra smelled pancakes and let her growling stomach lead her downstairs.

"Good morning, Myra," Abby said when she entered the kitchen. "Do you want some pancakes?"

"Yes please," Myra answered. The pancakes were delicious. Abby, Prisha, and Jacob ate some with her as they watched the morning news. Mr. Nolaine was at work, and Violet was still sleeping.

Myra saw Rayla's small car pull into the driveway. "That's my sister." Myra said. Rayla rapped on the door.

"Come in," Prisha called.

"Hey, I'm Rayla, Myra's sister. Myra, are you ready?"

"Yeah. Hold on." Myra ran upstairs and grabbed her backpack and her phone. As she skipped down the staircase she heard Prisha say, "Myra is a very lovely girl." That put a smile on her face as she walked out the door with Rayla.

"Bye," Abby waved, "See you at school Monday!"

"Bye."

"So, did you have fun?" Rayla asked on the ride home.

"Yeah," Myra answered, "except I had another bad dream."

"Will you tell me about it?"

"Um, well, it was more like memories."

Rayla looked confused.

"Like from when the house burnt down," Myra explained.

"Oh."

"The one the other night was from when I was in the house and it caught on fire. The one from last night was when I woke up in the hospital," Myra said. Rayla pulled into the driveway, and walked straight into the house.

* * *

Later that night, Myra walked into the living room where Rayla was working on her computer. Rayla asked, "What are you doing up? It's three in the morning."

"I'm afraid to fall asleep and have another dream," Myra answered.

"Come here," Rayla said as she closed her computer and held her arm out. Myra sat down and let Rayla wrap her arm around her. Rayla whispered, "I will take care of you. I promise." Then she said in a louder voice, "Let's watch a movie."

As Rayla turned on the movie, Myra asked, "What were you doing on the computer?"

"Working on my classes."

Myra snuggled up close to Rayla and soon fell asleep with Clementine on her lap.

Chapter Eight

Myra woke up to the sound of bacon sizzling in the kitchen. She rolled off the couch and groggily walked over to Rayla.

"How'd you sleep?" Rayla asked.

"Good," Myra answered. "Great actually. I didn't have any bad dreams."

"That's good. Want some bacon?"

"Sure." Myra sat at the table and nibbled on the bacon, happy that she didn't have to go to school until tomorrow. "Hey, Rayla, did our old house ever get rebuilt?"

"I think it did," Rayla answered.

"Do you think we could ever, like, um, go visit it?"

"I don't know, Myra. Kenosha is about eight hours from here, and we don't have much money right now. That would be at least thirty dollars for gas, and we'd have to eat and probably stay at a hotel overnight once we get there."

"Oh. I understand," Myra said, gloomily.

"But I'll think about it," Rayla said with a smile, then got up to do the dishes.

"Are you going to college online?" Myra asked.

"Yes," Rayla answered. "I'm majoring in nursing."

"I know. You'll make a good nurse. So you're going to get a job soon?"

"Well, it will be a couple of years before I finish school. But, yes, I'm going to get a temporary job."

"I'm fourteen, that's old enough to get a job. So if you need any help, I'll help you." Myra said proudly.

"Thanks, Sis. But I'm going to look for a job this week."

"Okay, good luck." Myra got up and went to her room to read a book.

The next morning Myra rolled out of bed and went straight to the shower. The water was freezing! Myra's eyes popped open as the cold water hit her. Myra put on a pair of black leggings and her Harry Potter sweatshirt and slogged into the kitchen where she saw Rayla, who was wearing a black skirt with a navy blazer. "Job interview today?" Myra asked.

"Yeah, at Applebee's," Rayla answered.

"Nice."

Rayla drove Myra to school and parked right outside of the door. "Have a good day," she called as Myra walked through the doors.

Myra saw Abby by their lockers and caught her eye right away. Abby was wearing a rainbow dress. "Wow," Myra said. "Nice dress."

"Thanks."

Chapter Nine

Myra stepped off the bus onto the rocks of her driveway. She walked inside and started her homework.

Rayla walked into the kitchen. "How was school?" she asked.

"Good," Myra answered. "How was your interview?"

"I didn't geft the job. But I'm going to an interview at Sears tomorrow. They need help in the Marketing Department."

"I think you'll get that one."

"Why?"

"Because you're better at marketing," Myra said as she put her finished homework in her backpack. She turned on her phone and saw that she had gotten a text from Casey. The text was surprising; Casey's eighteen-year-old sister, Carrie, was in the hospital. Myra asked why, and Casey texted that Carrie had been in a car accident. Myra said that she was sorry but had to go, because honestly, she didn't want to talk about it.

* * *

The next morning Myra woke up and saw a note taped to her door. It read: _Early job interview. Ugh. Make sure to feed Clementine, and don't miss the bus!_

Rayla

Myra fed the cat and quickly got ready. She had a bowl of cereal for breakfast and made the bus just in time.

When she got to school, Abby was waiting for her by their lockers. "Hey," Myra said.

"Hey," Abby said. "Did your sister get the job?"

"No. But she had an early interview for Sears this morning. I really hope she gets that one."

"Yeah, me too." Abby said. "So, what's new?"

"Nothing much. We might go back to Kenosha and visit the property that our old house was on."

"Really?"

"Yeah. That's mostly why I want Rayla to get the job, so we can have enough money to drive up there," Myra explained.

"I'm not trying to be rude, but that doesn't sound like much fun. Why the sudden interest?"

"Well..." Myra stopped shuffling around in her locker and looked down at her feet. "...it's kind of hard to explain."

"We have, like, fifteen minutes before class starts."

"Okay," Myra gave in. "I had a couple of dreams—well, more like vivid memories—of when the house burned down, and I just want to check up on it."

"Check up on it?"

"I told you, it's hard to explain," Myra said. The first bell rang through the hallways.

* * *

Myra walked into her house with a hopeful grin. Rayla was waiting at the table for her. Myra sat down, eagerly. "Did you get the job?" she asked.

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about," Rayla said.

Myra was confused. "Huh?"

"I got the job!"

Myra jumped up. "Yay! Way to go!"

"Sit back down," Rayla said laughing. "There's more." Myra sat down. "My first paycheck is on Thursday, if I'm doing good at work. My paycheck will be enough to get us to Kenosha and back this weekend!"

"Really?" Myra said excitedly.

"Yes."

Myra could hardly wait for the weekend. She was going to go on a road trip with her sister, check on the house, and maybe even see Casey. But a pit filled her stomach, and what-ifs filled her brain. _What if we get in a car accident like Casey's sister? What if the house isn't okay? What if we can't even go?_
Chapter Ten

When Friday finally came, Myra and Rayla hustled to get everything done. They woke up early, and loaded the car.

"Got everything?" Rayla asked groggily

"Yes, and Abby is watching Clementine."

They got into the small car, and Rayla started driving.

"How long is the drive?" Myra asked.

"About nine hours. We'll be there around five."

"I'm taking a nap," Myra said as she snuggled down into the car seat

When Myra woke up, she looked at the clock: 10:27

"How was your nap?" Rayla asked.

"Fine."

A few more hours passed while Myra read her book. "Can we stop at Starbucks?" she asked.

"I guess so."

They pulled into the drive-thru and decided what to get. "Hello, and welcome to Starbucks! How may I help you today?" a lady asked through the voice box. Myra ordered a caramel frappuccino, and Rayla ordered an espresso. They sipped their coffee as Rayla drove.

At about one o'clock, the girls stopped at Burger King for lunch. They had already spent half the day driving, and they still had four hours left. Myra was getting bored, but she knew there was nothing she could do about it.

* * *

Finally, after hours of nervousness crept on, they pulled into the driveway of a newer-looking house. The house was beige with red roof shingles. The light was on in the living room, like a supporting heart to the rest of the house. Myra wasn't sure at first if this was the right property, but then she recognized the trees. She recognized the tall oak tree that she used to climb. She recognized the tree with no branches at the bottom that she had run into with her bike.

"Hey!" Rayla said, getting Myra's attention, "You gonna get out?"

"Oh! Yeah," Myra said, climbing out of the car.

Rayla rapped on the house's wooden door. A little girl who looked about four years old opened it, smiling. "What's your name, sweetie?" Rayla asked.

"My name's January. What's yours?" the little girl said, almost singing. January kept looking up at Myra, looking scared. But when she looked back at Rayla, she kept on smiling.

"I'm Rayla. Can I talk to your parents?"

"They're in Germany. I live with my Grandma Rose. Mommy says that her medicine makes her sleepy, so she's napping. Do you want me to wake her up?"

"Yes," Rayla said, "thank you." January skipped off into the living room.

A couple of minutes later, an old lady hobbled into the foyer, her walker knocking against the baseboard. "Hello girls," she said. "I'm Rosalynn."

"Hi ma'am," Rayla said. "I'm Rayla Hudson, and this is my sister, Myra."

"Would you like to come in?"

"Yes. Thank you," Rayla said.

Rosalynn led them into a living room, and Myra and Rayla sat down on an uncomfortable red couch. January plopped down in a polka dotted bean bag chair. Rosalynn, shaking, struggled to sit in her recliner. When she was finally settled, Rosalynn asked, "Would you girls like anything to drink?"

"No thanks," Rayla said then looked at Myra. Myra shook her head, even though she was extremely thirsty.

"Rosalynn," Rayla started.

"Please, dear, call me Rose," the old lady interrupted.

"Okay. Rose, sorry if we are barging in, but we used to live on this property. Our old home got destroyed by a fire in 2012. I wasn't home at the time, and Myra got out, but both of our parents died that night."

"Oh honey, I'm so sorry."

"Thank you. But we were wondering if we could maybe just visit our old property."

"Yes, of course dear," Rose said.

"Thank you so much. We'll be out of your hair by eight."

"Where are you two coming from?"

"Blue Springs, Missouri."

"Why don't you girls stay here tonight?"

"Thank you so much, but we haven't eaten dinner yet. We can just get a motel room."

"No, I insist. We have plenty of supper to share." She pointed at Rayla. "You can stay in the guest room, and...oh I'm sorry dear...I forgot your name," Rose said, looking at Myra.

"It's Myra."

"And Myra can stay in January's room. She has a bunk bed," Rose finished.

"Yay! A sleepover!" January yelled, jumping up.

"I guess we could if you're sure it's all right," Rayla said, caving in.

"Well, I'd better get supper going," Rose said, getting up.

"Let me help," Rayla said, following suit.

"Why, thank you dear." Rose smiled.

January got up and ran over to the couch, plopping down next to Myra. "I have a fish named Bubbles," January said. "Do you have any pets?"

"I have a cat named Clementine," Myra answered.

"I bet you miss her."

"I do. But my friend, Abby, is taking really good care of her."

"My best friend's name is Jamie. Hey, I'm sorry about your parents," January said, looking down.

"My mommy and daddy are in Germany. I miss them a lot. Do you miss your parents?"

"Yes, I do...a lot."

Chapter Eleven

Myra, Rayla, January, and Rose ate a delicious dinner of chicken and mashed potatoes.

"Thank you," Myra said when they all finished, "that was very good."

"My pleasure, sweetie," Rose answered. "Well, I'd better get started on the dishes."

"I'll help you, Grandma!" January called, running to the sink.

"Why don't you girls go look around," Rose suggested to Myra and Rayla.

The sisters walked outside to see if their old fort was still in the woods. It was, but not in good shape. Half of the stick roof had collapsed, and their "furniture" was strewn all over the grass.

They entered the house again. "Is it okay if I look at your room, January?" Myra asked.

"Yeah!" January yelled from the kitchen. Myra wandered into the little girl's room. The house had been rebuilt exactly the same as it was before. January's room was where Myra had slept when she was little. She remembered the plastic vending machine ring she had hid in the framing so Rayla wouldn't take it from her. Myra crept to the closet and slowly pulled back the wallpaper. She felt bad for hurting January's home, but she needed to know if the ring was still there.

It was. Myra gently picked up the half-melted plastic. The fake diamond on the top was untouched. She slipped the ring into her pocket and tried to glue the wallpaper back with school glue she found on January's desk. She wandered back into the kitchen. "Do you have any string that I can use?" she asked.

"Sure," Rose said, "follow me." Myra followed the old woman into a room filled with scrapbooks and crafting tools. _This used to be Rayla's room_ , she thought. Rose handed her a thick, white string.

"Thank you," Myra said.

"No problem." Rose responded, and hobbled back into the kitchen.

Myra slipped the ring onto the string and tied a knot at the end. She slipped it around her neck and tucked it inside her shirt so that Rayla wouldn't question her,
Chapter Twelve

At ten o'clock sharp Rose made Myra and January go to bed. January fell asleep immediately, but Myra stared at the ceiling, for what seemed like an eternity, until sleep engulfed her. She woke up feeling extremely warm. She knew what was going to happen, even before she sat up. She climbed down the ladder from the top bunk and felt the door. It was hot. She could hear the flames crackling through the house like bubble wrap.

"January! Wake up!" Myra yelled.

January crawled out of bed, rubbing her eyes. "What?" she asked.

"There's a fire!" Myra kept yelling, hoping her sister would hear.

January's eyes popped open, realizing what was happening.

The flames burst through the door like intruding soldiers! Myra ran to the window, opened it, and shoved the screen out. It wasn't too far off the ground; she was sure they could jump. She grabbed January, wrapped her safely in her arms, and took a deep breath. Then Myra half rolled, half jumped out of the window. She landed hard on the ground. A screaming pain rushed up her arm, but January was okay. Myra pulled the little girl out of the way just before a mini explosion puffed out of the house.

January started crying, and Myra hurried to carry her farther away from the house.

Myra stood, watching the house burn for a second time. Sirens were coming closer. She wrapped her arms around the crying girl. _I guess history is doomed to repeat itself_ , Myra thought, and let one of her own tears slip out, too.

Sydney Johnson

Sydney Johnson was born on March 18, 2004, in Sault Ste. Marie, Michigan. She has lived in the small town of Pickford, Michigan, with her dad and Anya (mom) her whole life. In her free time Sydney plays basketball and volleyball, she runs track, and she reads.

Maya Vanderau - illustrator

BURNING

Amy Lehigh

In the house owned by my great-aunt,

The one who died,

Flames flicker up walls,

Crackle in the air,

Swallow the kitchen,

The table,

The chairs,

The refrigerator.

The cool white room

Is orange and yellow

And hot.

So hot.

But it doesn't touch me.

Amid the flames I stand,

And I watch.

I lean in close to the fridge;

The flames lick my face but do not bite,

And I lean in close

Because on the fridge is a ladybug,

Bright red with black dots

On white glowing yellow

Amongst bright burning oranges.

It crawls up the fridge

Slowly.

Sure,

Calm,

Like it won't burn,

But it has to burn

Because that's what fire does to things.

But it walks,

And it isn't burning.

It will...

When the house burns and falls

It will burn with it.

And it knows—

It has to know—

But it walks anyway,

A bright ladybug

In a dying house.

Amy Lehigh

Amy is a proud dog owner, an animal lover, and a college student. When she isn't reading or writing, she's probably daydreaming, fishing, or riding four-wheelers. She enjoys a life full of dog fur with a Pomeranian/Japanese Spitz mix named Rusty (and yes, he is the white fur-ball in the photo).
