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Seven Billion Cities

By Alyssa Loughery                                                   

The day begins with the infinite canvas of red and orange, the everlasting molasses in the sky. The color of mangoes hang above seven billion heads as the sun rises for the day.

Nuzar Buqri has seen her own sunrise, found in blaring alarms and black coffee. She reads the newspaper at the counter of Buqri General, waiting for the world to wake up and come in her store.

Nuzar’s seen people of all shapes, colors, sizes, everything. Not many have seen her, though. The dark woman’s head can be found buried in a newspaper or glued to a TV screen, with the news always turned on. She seldom can be caught with a magazine in her hands, but only if it featured an interview with a famous journalist. Customers come and go throughout the day but the only thing Nuzar notices is the turn of the page and, of course, the beep of the register.

She looks up and the dark skies left over from last night are gone, the heavens now lit up in a bright azure. The clock next to the register says 8 am and in fourteen minutes her sister will stomp down the hardwood steps leading from their apartment to the store.

“Good morning, Beela,” Nuzar says calmly, taking a sip of her hot coffee.

Abeela replies with a mumble or a groan or maybe a croak, but, to Nuzar, they all mean ‘good morning to you too.’

The sisters are right on schedule.  Nuzar grabs her purse and leaves the store with Abeela. On the way out, a note tucked into the glass door peeks out of its hiding place and Nuzar takes it.

It reads “GO BACK TO IRAN” and other obscenities scribbled on a piece of notebook paper. Another uneducated bigot who thought every Muslim came from Iran. She shoves it into her brown leather bag, hopeful that Abeela it.

“What was that?” The question her sister asks fills her with dread.

“Nothing,”

“Are you sure? Was it from our boss?”

“We don’t have a boss, Abeela. We run our own business.”

“Then who’s that guy who we give money to every month? With the key to our house?” The little girl quickly went off topic, and Nuzar was glad she didn’t have to find an excuse as to what the letter was.

“No, that’s our landlord. He’s a man who owns our house and we pay him rent for it.”

“Oh. Okay.”

That’s another thing she admired of Abeela, how she absorbs new information so easily. Nuzar may be a smart woman, but she didn’t start that way. A youth of ignorance leads to her somewhat educated self today. But Abeela has always been very bright, with a seemingly photographic memory. Once, she calculated a customer’s total in her head.

However, this is also another of Nuzar’s myriad of anxieties. What if she lets something slip? What if she doesn’t notice notes placed in the front door? She couldn’t do that to Abeela. She wouldn’t let her sister’s identity be reduced to a piece of loose-leaf. Those misguided words will stay in her bright mind forever. Even if she doesn’t have a photographic memory.

They make it to the metro stop, and Beela has finally woken up. Her slouch has retired itself until the next morning and she’s alert, waiting confidently for the train.

“How do they work?”

“What?” Her question broke Nuzar’s contemplative silence, but she didn’t mind. Her questions were always fun to answer.

“The train. How does it go? Who makes it move?”

The older sister laughed to herself, imagining the subway being pulled by a couple of minimum wage workers.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing, nothing. The train was made in the industrial revolution, but it looked very different than our modern trains. They weren’t underground or inside a station, they were outside so that way the coal fumes could be easily ventilated. They’re pulled along on tracks.”

“Why are they trapped down here?” Her imagination amused her, thinking of stations as a sort of prison where they keep trains contained on the tracks.

The aforementioned train interrupted their conversation, and Nuzar gave her little sister a kiss goodbye.

“Pay attention in school today. Have fun!” She knew she didn’t have to tell her to pay attention, but it was part of their morning routine. The small girl boarded the metal car, too occupied in her thoughts to notice what her sister had said. This was a key part of their routine as well. 

Nuzar waited for its daily departure and began to walk home. She got the usual stares but remained unfazed. Her hijab has been a constant barrier in her life since she was 13, therefore onlookers have been a part of her public persona for the past eight  years. She remembers that day like any other,  Aunt Qirat teaching her how to pin her hijab. She recalls Beela begged for her own headscarf. She was only three, and the picture of her was lying on Nuzar’s  dresser. It was one of their aunt’s t-shirts, but Beela looked adorable.  It was a fun day,one that Nuzar remembers fondly.

The reminiscence was interrupted by an interjected slur, another microaggression that comes with living in America.

In the New York crowds, it’s hard to determine who said what in the street, the perfect platform for the anonymous cowards hiding behind the singularity.

It is easily forgotten, and Nuzar goes about her day. Returning to the store, she sits back in her swivel chair behind the counter and turns on the small box TV.

BBC News is switched on as usual, but the headline for today makes Nuzar wish it wasn’t.

“PAKISTANI CITY SAMBRIAL BOMBED AS TENSIONS BETWEEN INDIA ARISE”

It was easy to miss – hidden away in the bottom bar where only titles fly across. Newscasters didn’t think the story was important enough for a speaker, or to even interrupt their current tell-all with a mother begging young girls to stop wearing leggings.

Sambrial. A city of Pakistan that is easily overlooked. It has no landmarks, and no notable history. The Western world doesn’t know of its grey skies and busy markets. Nuzar has seen every dirt path, old park, creaky store, and kind-eyed person that her city had given her.

But where were they now?

Her beating heart didn’t cease as she began to run through every person in that city. Mama, Baba, Teeta, Jeddi, Cousin Aasim and his son Baqar, Auntie Rumeha and Uncle Khazi. The shop owners, shoe shiners, taxi drivers, pedestrians, everyone. Everyone. Gone.

The phone rang.

Nuzar picked it up and said nothing, only listening to the red plastic receiver tied to the cord.

“Hello?! Is this Nuzar Buqri?” said the man with the thick accent. He sounded afraid.

“Yes, Baba. I just heard the news. Please, what happened?”

“Our house is down to rubble. We can’t find baby Tariq. His mother has been searching for days.” Nuzar had known the small boy in pictures, he had the same dark shade as her, and Abeela says they look just like each other. He’s only two years younger than her sister.

“Farha was in a restaurant when it collapsed, doctors are saying she’s lucky to be alive. There is only so much they can do here, Habibi. They couldn’t save her legs.” The nickname that usually makes Nuzar smile is easily forgotten when she hears the news of her best friend from childhood. They used to hide from soldiers together.

Her father lists the many losses that the war had given them. Each name made Nuzar gag. They were all once so happy.

She sat in her black chair, frozen. The tall woman didn’t know what to do. So she asked.

“Is there anything I can do?”

“I want you and Abeela to come home.”

“Are you serious?!”

“I want my daughters to meet their family before there is no family to meet. Pictures and status updates on Facebook aren’t enough. Please. At least stay for the memorial service.”

Nuzar thought about Farha and Tariq, and her heart ached for her home. She knew the consequences. She knew what would happen if Abeela saw Pakistan in its current state.

“Alright. I’ll let Beela know when she gets out of school. We’ll call you later.”

“Okay. Goodbye.” She missed her home.

The afternoon rolled around and Abeela had chimed herself into the store. The bell rang. The older sister didn’t seem happy to see that Abbela was home from school.

“I need to tell you something,” said Nuzar in a worrying tone.

“Okay.” replies,Abeela

“Do you remember the name of the country I told you we were from?”

“Yes, it’s Pakistan, right?”

There was that bright mind of hers. She doesn’t forget anything, does she?

“Yes, that’s right. We’re going to visit.”

The 11-year old’s smile went from ear to ear. She had wanted to meet her family, say hello to her culture, and be welcomed back to her city for so long. Nuzar could only wonder what it felt like to love a city that gave her such bad memories. Now her sister can make her own.

“Really? For real? Are you serious? I can’t wait! Oh my gosh, I have to tell cousin Farha! And Sadaf! Oh, do you think they know yet? I wanna surprise them!”

“Abeela.”

“What?” She knew something was wrong by the unusual sternness in her voice.

“It’s not – happy. We aren’t going for a family reunion. Do you know about the war? The one that makes me upset and stay up at night?”

“Yes, between Pakistan and India. It’s why we can’t go visit.”

“That’s right. We’re going because there’s been an attack. India has bombed our city. They bombed Sambrial, and a lot of people we know got hurt. Mama and Baba want us to meet our family before the next attack is even worse. I’m sorry Abeela, I didn’t want this life for you. I didn’t want you to grow up like I did, hiding away from big scary soldiers, hearing gunshots while you try to sleep at night. You’re only a little girl. You don’t deserve this. If it’s not you growing up with a warzone in your backyard, it’s people filled with hate and spitting it out at you. I’d give anything to make you happy. Even if it meant only me having to go through all of this pain.”

Nuzar hid behind her headscarf, hiding her tears so her sister wouldn’t see her cry.

Abeela hugged her big sister, even though she could only reach her mid-stomach. Nuzar didn’t notice, she felt her warmth all over.

“That’s why we’re sisters. We face the world together. Even if it means we have to go through bad things. We do it together.”

Nuzar was so, so proud of her little Beela. How did she get so lucky?

“I know that people are hateful. Girls at my school say that you’d be much prettier without that cloth on your head, but I tell them you’re already pretty. They don’t believe me. All the boys tell me that I should color my skin with white-out to make it lighter, but I don’t listen. My teachers blame me for what they say because they tell me I’m provoking the other kids. I know you tried to stop discrimination from reaching me, but it already has. And that’s okay.

It’s okay because I know that they don’t matter. The girls in my class are just jealous that they all look the same. They’re afraid of people who stand out in crowds. Boys tell me to whiten my skin only because someone who isn’t as pale as they are is terrifying. People are afraid of different. So why should I fear them? I am proud of my culture. I’m proud of you. No one can take that away from me.”

Nuzar had lived in fear for so long, afraid that Abeela might find the real world one day.

She had been so busy looking out for her little sister, hiding notes, distracting her from bad news and horrible people to see the brave and confident little girl that Nuzar never was.

“I’m so proud of you.”

“Me too.” It was the first time Abeela said it back.

Their last night in New York was spent in the living room, the two sisters made pillow forts and told stories of fictional princesses and train conductors. They didn’t stay up late. There were planes to be caught in the morning.

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Alyssa Loughery is a senior at FTCHS, and likes to write poetry as well as short stories. She also likes to learn new things, like ASL, and lives with her dog, brother, and aunt in Philadelphia, PA. Her friends call her the “astrology expert.” 

Opportunity

By Allison Lentz

It was a day I will never forget. The gentle hum of the spaceship was white noise in my ears as I silently slept. Slowly, my mind and body began to awaken. My eyelids fluttered open to the tiny, modern cabin where I was staying. I pushed the soft blanket off of my body and sleepily swung my legs over the side of my bed. My toes touched the cold tile floor, chilling my bones as I stretched. I walked into the small bathroom and turned on the shower, sighing as the hot stream of water hit my skin. I allowed my eyes to close and visualized my new life. I had no idea what to expect, but that was the exciting (and terrifying) part of it all.

I dried off with a fluffy towel and looked at myself in the mirror, taking in my long blond hair and ocean blue eyes. I could hear my deep breaths, and I felt butterflies in my stomach as I focused on the rising and falling of my chest. I quickly pulled my hair over my shoulder, putting it into a messy braid. I was too nervous to do anything fancy that day, despite the importance of the day’s events. Returning to my room, I slipped into the one outfit that wasn’t packed up. I wore a casual white shirt, knotted at the bottom, jean capris, and gray slides. I examined myself in the mirror once again. I pondered skeptically for a moment, before digging into my suitcase and pulling out a black jean jacket. That was much better. Much more… me.

“All passengers, please finish packing up and report to the main wing,” The loudspeaker blared, making me jump. I did a final check, thoroughly looking over the room. I wistfully sighed, saying a silent goodbye to the place that had been my home for the past two months. I pressed the silver button to open the door, resting my hand on its smooth steel surface. I turned, feeling some sadness about leaving this tiny chamber. It wasn’t much, but it’s been comforting to have it. Taking a long deep breath, I stepped out into the pristine white hallway and the silver door slid shut behind me. I was leaving this part of my life behind, and I wasn’t sure if I was ready.

A few hours later, I gathered with the crowd of passengers in the main hall. Frustrated, I tried to move through the group towards the window, but the people were like a strong stone wall.

“Excuse me,” I huffed, “I can’t see.” A tall, dark haired young man turned to look at me. He smiled warmly, stepping aside and gesturing for me to come in front of him. Taken aback, I smiled shyly, squeezing quickly through the gap. My cheeks flushed warm and pink. However, upon seeing the view, I quickly forgot about the handsome stranger as my eyes met our new home – #2896, otherwise known as Opportunity.

I was taken aback by the most beautiful, breathtaking sights I had ever seen. Shimmering lavender oceans stretched over the surface, surrounded by emerald land masses. Light pink cotton candy clouds danced in front of us, filling the atmosphere with a romantically stunning touch. The pastel color scheme of Opportunity was absolutely magical. I felt like I was stepping into a fairy tale. It was unlike anything I’d ever seen before.

“Attention passengers, we are preparing to land. Please find a seat for your own safety. Thank you everyone for joining us on this incredible journey.” As the ship slowly lowered towards the planet’s surface, I flashed back to the two months that I’d spent on this ship; enjoying meals in the beautiful dining hall, surrounded by views of vast outer space outside the windows. Days spent swimming, playing tennis, and watching movies in the theater on board had filled my time. It had been lonely, to be honest. None of my family had come with me, and I wasn’t the type to make friends quickly. But Opportunity has its name for a reason.

The heavy plod of the ship’s landing jolted me out of my thoughts. The passengers quickly erupted into a cheer. A bright smile stretched across my face as excitement took over. I grabbed my suitcase and shot up from my seat, joining the sea of people briskly walking towards the exit. I was grinning like a crazy person, but so was everyone else. As the doors opened and the light flooded in, the crowd started pouring off the ship. Someone pushed past me on their way out, and I clumsily stumbled forward, catching myself on my suitcase. I lifted my chin and was met by none other than Opportunity itself.

The gorgeous dark green grass shimmered under the light of the planet’s sun. A white marble fountain greeted us, the beautiful lavender water of Opportunity splashing gracefully into the pool at its base. The first city on the planet stretched as far as my eyes could see, its buildings made of beautiful metals native to the planet. They shone with vibrant colors, greeting us with emotions of joy and astonishment. The view brought delight to everyone who laid eyes on it. In the distance, navy blue mountains topped with crystalline snow protruded from the land, stretching up towards the rosy clouds filling the periwinkle sky.

The very terrain of Opportunity brought so many emotions, but I felt them all form into one – hope. A single tear of joy traced its way down my cheek, resting next to my nose like a tiny diamond. I felt a presence next to me, and I turned to look. The handsome stranger from minutes earlier held a tissue out to me, smiling warmly. I smiled back, accepting the tissue. As I dabbed the tear from my cheek, I noticed a phone number scrawled on the tissue. I looked up, but the man was gone. I stood alone at the base of the ship. What was I waiting for? I knew that the change scared me, but it was the whole reason I’d come this far. I’d come for a new life, for… opportunities. I would start by getting to my new home and calling this man. I felt the confidence to take initiative and do things that I never would’ve been brave enough to do on Earth. I can find love. I can chase my dreams. I can live the life that I’d been so lucky to be able to pursue. I took a step forward, and I walked towards the city – leaving my old life behind, and entering a life of opportunities.

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Allison Lentz is 16 years old and from Ephrata, PA. She loves anything creative, especially writing, art, and music. She loves to read and write super descriptive fiction and fantasy that lets her paint a picture in someone’s mind. She also loves to ride and spend time with her horse, Oslo, swim, bake, and, of course, draw or write.

The Dangers of Letting Your Skeleton Out

by Ayah Pearson

Imagine your skeleton broken and alone in a dark alleyway littered with candy wrappers. Your skeleton wants to get back to you but it can’t. Imagine how terrified your skeleton would be; you can’t even go save it. You know it’s past your skeletons curfew and you’re wondering what’s taking it so long. Soon you start to get worried and come to realize what happened. Don’t let this happen to you and your skeleton. Here are all the things that can happen to your skeleton in October.

Your skeleton should stay inside your body, especially on Halloween. Because it may be easily lost, it may become damaged if you haven’t had enough calcium. And finally, because you will be a brainless meatsack without it.

Your skeleton may be easily lost.

There are many skeletons around during the holiday. There are also costumes, decorations, and possibly other real skeletons! Your skeleton can blend in and be lost forever. Also your lil skelebuddy may be stolen! I don’t know who would do such a terrible thing but it can happen. So be careful. Someone may mistake it for their own because skeletons are very similar unless they’re missing a piece or have been chipped.

Your skeleton may become damaged if it goes out on Halloween. If you don’t have enough calcium, your skeleton may become brittle and end up chipping on its nice spooky day out, which is bad for you and your skeleton for many reasons. For example, a chipped or broken skeleton won’t be very comfy once it goes back in. It might pinch or scrape your insides, which can lead to organ leakage, gross. If your skeleton breaks, it might not be able to make its way back to you. And that sucks because you’re not exactly in the best shape to go find it yourself. Luckily there are skeleton finding services available during the month of October. You will be a useless meatsack l without it. When your skeleton leaves it’s most likely going to take your brain with it. It would be very time consuming and a big pain for your skeleton to take out your brain before leaving, so they don’t bother. You, now a brainless meatsack, would probably just slug out on the floor until your skeleton returns. Your heart and other organs somehow still work without your brain, how odd.

Just hope no one sees you in this state because once your skeleton leaves, everything that is in your intestines will drain, which is disgusting. Then, you’ll have to clean it up when your skeleton gets back covered in candy and other Halloween related things.

So, in conclusion, lots of bad things can happen to you and your skeleton during the month of October, especially on Halloween. Keep your skeleton safe inside your fleshy fleshy self and make sure to get lots of calcium.

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My name is Ayah Pearson, I am homeschooled and in the ninth grade. I like to write horror because I’m a big scaredy cat. That along with my vivid imagination gives me the fuel to write scary stories and thrillers. When I’m not writing I like to draw, read, design characters, and ride horses. I live in Philadelphia with my mom, brother, and my stuffed animals.

Doomed for All Time? A self-help essay

by M. Pearson

Sisyphus was known by the Gods as the most cunning of humans. He used his silver tongue to trick Hades and cheat death twice. On Sisyphus’ third attempt, Zeus stepped in, deciding to give Sisyphus a punishment worse than death. He doomed Sisyphus, forcing him to push a boulder up a hill. and when Sisyphus reached the top of this hill, the boulder would always roll back down. The Sisyphean task is a punishment not of pain, but of futility, of weakness, and of melancholy. The Myth of Sisyphus is a myth often seen as a tale of tragedy and sadness. However, it is believed by some that Sisyphus was never broken by his task, and that he lives a fulfilling life as he taunts the Gods and pushes the boulder up his hill.  You are living the Myth of Sisyphus, boulders aren’t that heavy and an eternity of punishment is inevitable so have fun with it.

Here’s what you did in Olympus. You thought about doing something. No. You, a peasant, practically vermin, trash in the gutters of this golden city, you  dare to even think about doing anything but crying about how pathetic you are and wading in your own filth? You thought about creating something and changing yourself. By even thinking about being something more than you are you angered the Gods. and they gave you a boulder, a hill, and an eternity.

You are in fact doomed to this hill for eternity. or what of eternity your mortal eyes will live to see. Being stuck on this hill for all of time means that you are more than likely qualified to do, literally only thing you can do, on this hill. The Gods would be fools if they didn’t make sure that you were just barely strong enough to roll this rock to the unstable peak. You can at least push the boulder.

What is your boulder? What eternal plight have you been continually putting off until next week? What book have you been wanting to write or what workout have you been saying you don’t have the time or energy for? What boulder have you avoided pushing? and what mountain are you going to push it to the top of?

If you are plagued by the Sisyphean task, then you are a story, a myth, or a legend. Live like a legend. Tell your tale of boulders and mountains, the tale of that marathon you ran, that book you wrote, or that time you read this really good essay (yes this one, please feed my ego on the way out). Live like you are still on Olympus. Treat yourself as if you were one of the Gods as you push an insignificant pebble up an anthill.

If the Gods punish you, take it as a challenge, see it as a workout, or a meditation of zen. Enjoy your task, simply because the Gods don’t want you to.  Spiting Gods seems like a petty thing to do, but you must understand that human mythology often represents the Gods as extremely petty beings

Just past the top of the hill, if you peer through the clouds, you can see Olympus, not the mountain but the city, the city of Gods. You went there once but it wasn’t as great as you had thought it would be. All the gold looked a bit tacky. The scenery at the bottom of the mountain was much nicer. You speak with Satyrs and other friendly creatures as they walk to the top of the hill with you. Even on this hill, you are not alone. Even on your hill with your task, there are things to see and people to talk to. You don’t need the scenery of Olympus. This quaint hill is all you could ever want.

The hill is a peaceful place to live: just you, the grass, the birds, the occasional Satyr, and the boulder. You can rest on this beautiful hill and just before the sun rises, as the dew catches the light of dawn,  you lift yourself and prepare for another trek up the hill. If there is an eternity of work, then there is an eternity of rest. But of course, there must be a place to rest.

If you cannot live in Olympus, you must simply make your own. On this hill you can build a great community, a city fit not for the Gods, but for you. Your own little paradise built out of a simple garden; there an olive tree, maybe some ramps, and small roads to make watching the boulder roll down the hill a little more interesting. To build your own Olympus is a challenge to the Gods and to be satisfied with it is a victory.

As you grow each day, so will your task. You will never reach the top of your mountain but the boulder is a dream you can’t give up on. and that hill is a beautiful place to live. You are Sisyphus. Live life as a challenge to the Gods.

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Mosadi Pearson is a tenth grader who likes to draw, write short stories and essays, create cardboard props, and play fighting games. Mosadi likes to use scientific concepts, mythology psychological phenomenons, and old songs.

Scarlet

by Rebecca Uhlman

Conor is gone from me, and no matter how many times I’ve tried, I can’t get into his head.

After catching a glimpse of him in a pub two weeks ago, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I returned in hopes that he might as well. I was dragged along by the desire for him to know my pain.

I perched on a bar stool in that dim, dusty pub, a glass in my hand. The amber liquid inside ran down my throat the way I imagine electricity runs through a wire — fiery and raw and strong. I shivered and took another sip to calm my nerves. It must have been the excitement that set me on edge. The promise of confrontation.

I picked at a loose string on the seam of my pants, pulling until the black fabric gathered and the thread went taut. With one quick jerk of my hand, it tore away. Obnoxious scarlet tile greeted its wavering descent.

Conor was nowhere in sight, so I fidgeted anxiously. My eyes darted around the pub, taking in smudged windows and chipping paint. I scanned the newspaper clippings that hung on the far wall. New Pub Opens on Barrack Street, boasted one faded headline. Garda Síochána Releases Info on Recent Killings, read a central clipping, held up by three gleaming tacks. My grip tightened on an empty glass. Those words swimming and slurring in my vision, I braced one hand on the bar and refocused my thoughts.

Without warning, a strange feeling began to creep through my veins. I felt Conor’s presence. His strong hands seemed to hover over my shoulders, waiting to touch me, scorching the surrounding air. He was eerily close. Tangible.

In a blur of rapid movement, I spun in my stool so that I could face his ghost, that silent shouting thing, and pull it from me thread by thread as if I were unhinging my own shadow — but that shivering apparition spun with me, staying behind. I clawed at my jacket. My skin seemed to be stretched too tightly over my shoulders, cramping muscles and fracturing bones — all while Conor scraped furiously at the edges of my mind.

The room wavered; his figure appeared in the doorway. Outlined by hazy streetlights, that brush of orange hair seemed to glow. Every muscle in my body tensed. Those glaring eyes, that clear, pale skin, it all reminded me of the past. Suddenly I was staring and staring and I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the profile of his young face. He glanced around; does he see me?

I needed to speak to him. My feet took me across the tile and blindly towards his figure, eyes cast down. If I didn’t look him in the eye, maybe I wouldn’t have to remember the searing passion he ignited in my chest all those years ago. My gaze slithered up his neck, hovering over the lips I used to kiss, dancing over ruddy freckled cheeks — eyes lingering anywhere but on his own. I watched him cross his arms and stiffen.

“Conor,” I whispered. “I need to talk to you.”

“I can’t. I…I’m done with this.” His familiar voice awoke a longing in me that I had forgotten about.

I clutched at his sleeve, my gaze flitting about his face but never making eye contact. “I love you. Nothing from my past could have rendered me incapable of loving you. Doesn’t that mean anything?”

“Look,” he started, voice weary. “You’re…you’re unstable, and you need help.”

I laughed. He really dared to assume things about me? Was it so impossible to believe that the only thing blurring my emotions was wasted love? I could feel frustration bubbling up in my body, red-hot and steaming from every one of my pores — he wouldn’t listen.

I was trapped, helpless to do anything to make him come back.

“Mark,” he began, “ever since that case, you’ve been unpredictable, aggressive. You need to resign from the Garda. Let yourself heal. You saw things that day that no man should ever have to see.”

His words dredged up memories in me — flashing sirens, muffled shouting, pools of scarlet. The visions were as red as the tile beneath my feet. I felt the cold weight of my gun in hand — I heard the click of the striker, my finger pressing firm on the trigger, the final deafening crack — I tasted bright copper and salt — I saw the limp sneer on the face of the man whose body thumped onto grass. The gross images of his victims throbbed in my brain. Mutilated, skinned, raw red bodies with eyes carved from their bleeding sockets, with dead dripping mouths pinned into animalistic grins, with tortured bodies flayed like the half-eaten corpses of unlucky prey —

“Mark.”

There was one, still alive. The body was intact in the barest sense of the word — drooling and spitting, slumped on the ground in a shapeless mess of wet crimson. Its swollen eyelids twitched at me, its lips formed a voiceless plea for help — God, someone finish it, just take away its suffering — when it’s dead, I won’t have to see the raw red fear in those bloodshot eyes —

“Mark, listen to me. You need to get help.”

Conor’s warm hand on my arm reminded me of his presence.

As I watched a tear slip down his cheek, I found that I was no longer angry. All the rage that I had bottled up in my chest seemed to liquefy in that moment, loosening until it became a blue, blue shade of sorrow.

“Don’t cry over me,” I said, but his silent tears only fell faster.

The sadness then gave way to a growing sense of control. He was still mine, after all, so I could fix this. I had caused his pain. Perhaps it was only right for me to take it away in the end.

He didn’t say anything as I pulled him close. My hand strayed to my belt, fingers closing on the cold grip of my gun. It was firm and sure in my hands as I brought it quietly to his chest.

“I’m sorry I made you cry,” I whispered, and pulled the trigger.

The click of the striker. The press of my finger. The final deafening crack.

I felt a little numb as he coughed in my arms. Too weak for any expression to form, his jaw went slack and his eyelids fluttered. I watched the blood as it pooled on the floor. It was red. Scarlet, and I was swimming in it, watching him drop to the ground and dissolve away.

The scrambling of feet, shattering of glasses, and shouts from the pub behind me blurred together. All that mattered was Conor’s face. It was relaxed; those beautiful eyes no longer bled tears.

“Goodbye, darling,” I murmured. “You won’t be in pain again.”

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Rebecca Uhlman is a junior in high school. She enjoys creative writing, reading, and photography. She would love to be a novelist one day.

16 Candles

by Nadia Ibbetsom

Skylar woke up very happy one morning, because it was her 16th Birthday. Becoming sixteen was a big deal to her, and she wanted to make the very best out of it. She went downstairs, walking past her mother who was in the kitchen, herr mother was just simply sitting there and did not say a word. Then her father came downstairs, he also walked right past her. Skylar kept wondering to herself, over and over, but was still so confused that she ran upstairs. She got dressed for school and fixed her hair. She walked into her little brother Justin’s room, as he was fixing his school tie in the mirror. Skylar called out to him, but he did not budge or turn around. Skylar was in a panic. She ran downstairs, and saw her family get into the car. She followed, thinking that ignoring her was just a prank or maybe a surprise? Her family stopped at a graveyard, walking towards a small tombstone. With the name of Skylar Williams. That was her.

It all started a week before on Skylar’s 16th birthday. Skylar went to a concert with her friends downtown. They went to see their favorite bank. Skylar was so happy.  She went with her two girlfriends, and three other boys. That night they all got drunk at the concert, and decided to still drive home. Because he was older and the only one with a license, Brandon, Skylar’s good friend, was the one driving. As they got onto the bridge, they drove over the long river beneath them. They blasted music, laughed, sang and did not pay attention to their surroundings. Brandon was looking away, until Skylar screamed, “Truck!” That was it. They flew off the bridge crashing into the river. Skylar remembers going down under the water, but then everything turned black.

Skylar broke down, dropping to the grass on her knees. Her mother placed Skylar’s charm bracelet on top of her grave, following with flowers and a pink candle – Skylar’s favorite color.  They cried in silence, while Skylar got flashbacks from the crash and started to put the  pieces together. The name Tara Richards caught Skylar’s eye on the tombstone across from hers. That was her best friend, who had been in the car. Soon enough, Skylar had found everyone’s name she had crashed with. Skylar was dead, nobody can either see or hear her. But she still decided to get more information, especially about why she was still lingering in this world where she didn’t belong.

Skylar walked to her high school, down the block from her house. Kids were crying everywhere, especially teachers and staff. Her locker, and the others were decorated by students with candles, flowers, and pictures. Signs saying, “R.I.P” or “We miss you”,and “Happy Birthday Skylar”. Skylar was so heartbroken, seeing her classmates and teachers walk through the halls with so much sadness. All she thought was, why did I go to that concert? After roaming through so many hallways she seen one of her best friends Marissa Lewis at her locker. Staring at a picture of her and Skylar, and slowly tearing up. There’s something you don’t know about Marissa. She was supposed to go to the concert that night, but she refused because she didn’t like the fact that they were drinking. Marissa felt guilty for the death of her friends, especially for letting Skylar go. Also, Skylar and Marissa got into an argument that night. Ever since then, they haven’t talked but now it was too late.

Skylar walked slowly through the halls, not knowing of what to do. She thought to herself, why am I even here? She was completely invisible, she had no way of proving she was still in this world. She had to show she was still here, looking over her family and friends. Skylar walked into the cafeteria, instead of everyone happily laughing all she saw was the sad faces of every student. Conversations were not about good grades, sports, or fun weekends, it was all about the crash. She found Marissa again, sitting by herself studying for a test. Marissa was super smart, she often helped Skylar with her math work. Skylar never got to thank Marissa for not wanting Skylar to go to the concert that night. So much guilt ran through her body, and hit her heart. She wanted to call out and scream, but could not. After many hours of simply wondering and  lingering around school, was over.

That night at Skylar’s house, her family had a small cake for her. A pink cake, with exactly sixteen candles. They had her picture on it too. They did it out of respect, and even Marissa came over. As they sat in silence, Skylar came over to the table and watched everyone celebrate her birthday. She didn’t want to leave them, and she wished this moment could last forever. If only they could see her. So, Skylar blew out the candles, after the song. She wanted to show a sign she was still there. Her family and Marissa saw the candles blow out, and finally saw Skylar’s reflection. They tried reaching for her, but Skylar was just a spirit you could not touch. They tried reaching for her, but Skylar was just a spirit you could not touchTheir eyes got wide, and they paused. No one could believe what was actually happening. Skylar felt happy she got to show them she was okay. She wanted to show her family that they should not feel guilty and to know she would always be with them.

Soon enough, Skylar crossed over, knowing now the only thing she needed was hope. The hope that her and her family lost due to the crash. Thankfully, everything was finally at peace. But, most importantly Skylar got to spend her last birthday with her family and best friend.

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Nadia Ibbetson is a student at String Theory Schools in Philadelphia.

SHORT STORY: THE WRONG SIDE OF HISTORY

by Ella Bianco

I feared I would go insane if I stayed in this wretched place, but the contract was already signed. There was nothing to be done.

The wind howled in my ears, mocking the screams I had to hear every day. I grit my teeth as the bone-chilling cold swept through the Bastille, filling the air with an even deeper feeling of despondency. Misery had inhabited this place and made it a home, for it was everywhere I looked. I could not run from it. I knew I was the root of this pain, and because I am an absolute cur, I am powerless to stop it. How can one conquer a fear in a place enveloped by it?

The terror was visible in their eyes, too. I glanced over, and the prisoners cowered, and backed against the tall, brick walls behind them, anticipating their end. A gaunt woman draped in battered rags with an infant in the crook of her arm let out a yelp as our eyes met, and her baby began to wail. She quickly looked forward again and stumbled on in a hurry.  Another family, this time a mother, father, and son, huddled in a corner and spoke in hushed tones. The boy took a glimpse over his shoulder and quickly swiveled his head back, pulling on his his father’s muddy coat. I focused my attention back on the woman with the infant. The woman was much further in line now, and was sobbing, begging a guard “Please sir, don’t take her! She’s only a few weeks old! She can’t survive on her own!” She began to run after them. (After the guards? Did they take the baby?) The guards did not look back, although two new officers emerged from the crowd to restrain her.

“Stay in line.”

The woman was hysterical. “My baby!” She screamed before collapsing. I felt sick to my stomach. I watched as the woman was dragged into a brick building by the guards. The rest of the prisoners would never kno what befell her or her child. I didn’t believe they wanted to know, either.

You could have done something about that woman and her child. I deliberated with myself, staring at the wall behind the prisoners. You could have saved them. But you are a coward. And so you will just sit here and wait in inaction until you are consumed by your guilt. Unless you do something, you will be your own downfall. But still, I dismissed these thoughts. If I did take action, a humiliating end by firing squad would await me, or worse, my family.

“Stabsscharführer Liskowitz, Sieg Heil!” A voice came from behind me, breaking me out of my coma-like train of thought. I was greeted with an outstretched arm, meant to show others they meant no harm, but to so many was a symbol of the despair and the cruelty humans are  capable of. A short guard stubby stood behind me and peered at me expectantly.

“Sieg heil,” I spat. The words left a bitter taste in my mouth. “Blockführer Mlynarz, is there anything to report?”

“Yes sir,” He began to walk away, waving his arm for me to follow. He passed dozens of distressed faces, not turning to look, not even batting an eyelash at the horror that surrounded him. A woman in a corner cradled a boy, weeping, who looked maybe three or four, whose ribs were visible through his taut, thin skin, and his dark hair caked with mud and dirt. His bony hands grasped at his mother’s hair, and he raised his head and met my eyes. They were shocking blue. His body suddenly went limp and he collapsed like a sandbag. His hands no longer pulled at the woman’s hair. She sobbed softly over her boy.

Still, we moved past them, ignoring the agony. A pit of dread formed in my stomach again. Something vile forebode me. I could sense it. But I could not turn and run. My feet felt like they were in cement. Run! Run! My intuition shrieked at me. I glanced around at the hideous sights that fenced me in. Ghastly visages surrounded me, cowering, as the wind wailed and chilled my body. Walking for what seemed like an eon. Through an iron gate and into a clearing.

A lump formed in my throat like a tumor. I could not breathe. My lungs refused to draw breath.  The most macabre prospect stood before me. Mlynarz stood beside me watching the spectacle with amusement. The trench in my stomach deepened. The gravel below my feet seemed to fade away. Oh God! Please! Spare me from this sight! I don’t think I’ll be the same if I witness this!

In front of me was women, children, the elderly, striking the dirt with their spades. I had heard about this barbaric method of execution. They were under the universe of discourse that they were excavating holes for rubbish. The world around me spun. These people were digging their own graves.

You can help them. You can save them. They don’t have to die. Do you want more blood on your hands? Do you? I couldn’t think clearly. The prisoners around me seemed to morph into vultures, waiting for their prey to lose their will to live. So… what will it be? Their sunken eyes peered into my soul, considering the extent of my sins. Will you save us? Will you? Our blood will on your conscience. You are a coward, Jakob Liskowitz, you–

“Kind of funny, isn’t it, Liskowitz?” Mlynarz chuckled, and snapped me out of my drunken nightmarish state. “They have no clue of what awaits them.”

I laughed nervously. “Blockführer Mlynarz,” still keeping my vision fixated on the prisoners, I uttered my query cautiously, scared of the response he would give me. “Do you think these people deserve this fate?”

I peered down at him. He looked up at me with a smirk, and tittered again. “What, are you having a midlife moral crisis, Liskowitz?” He looked at me with a grin that showed his rotting, blacked incisor. “Yes, of course they do, I have no doubt in my mind.”

“Ah…” I muttered, not any more satisfied than before. I turned back to look at the inmates, and a little girl caught my eye. She was in a dress that at one time might have been white, but now was torn to dirty shreds. She could only have been about five. No parents in sight…. Her strawberry blonde hair had fallen in her face, and she was plastered with sweat and mud. I could tell she was exhausted. And after a little bit, she took her shovel and laid it on the ground, wiping the sweat from her brow. A guard came from behind her and tugged on her hair, to which she started to scream, “No! No! No!” She must have caught my pitiful glances, and her alarmed emerald eyes pierced my soul, spurring the voices to commence their horrid conversations again. Save her! Save her! Do you care for nobody but yourself? You selfish scum!

The girl shrieked in pain, contorting her body to try to escape her captor. I was frozen in place, my captor, the fear. The fear that inhabited this place. The fear that called it home. I was both the jailer and prisoner, trapped in my own stockade of misery.

The Jewel

by Ishi Bhattacharya

I had only flown once in my life and that was to Disneyland when I was seven. Today the clouds were beneath me and my head was spinning trying to put the pieces back together of about  these past three weeks. The plane was coming to a gradual descent as I woke up from my nap. It felt like I had been on this plane for ages and was I was eager to get off and start my journey. The airport greeted me with smiling faces, welcoming smells, and bright sunshine….. The scene was so captivating that I almost forgot why I made the journey!

My name is Isabella and, I am on an expedition. I am trying to find out what my grandmother left me in her will only using the clues that she gave me. She was very vague, but that is just like her, always wanting to have a good mystery. I’m an only child and my grandmother’s only granddaughter.  I had just landed in Madrid, Spain, alone with no directions on what to do or where to go next. As I was studying the line of drivers,  a sign caught my eye with the letters, Isabella Johnson in big letters. As I stared at my name, an odd looking man with an exceedingly long beard noticed me, motioning for me to come over. I hopped on over, anxious for the trip to start.

His name was Carl and he was a friendly man who listened closely as I explained my background. We drove to the destination he was instructed to bring me to. Soon we arrived at a small apartment with vines growing all over the stucco and a small painting. Carl told me his instructions were for me to ring the doorbell and say the word “jewel”. Amused, I followed the instructions,but I was confused as to what to what the plan really was.

A sweet woman opened the door with a big smile on her face and asked, “How may I help you?”

I responded, “My name is Isabelle Johnson and…… I guess I am supposed to say the word jewel.”

Her smile seemed to grow bigger as soon as I said “jewel” and she welcomed me in, saying her name was Maya and she had been expecting me for months. I sat down and she offered mesome cookies and tea. Up until then I hadn’t realized that I hadn’t had a meal since yesterday. She was dying to tell me the story and  started  talking right away. We talked for what felt like hours about my grandmother. I was raised to believe that she had grown up poor with almost nothing. She fell in love with my grandfather and soon after they got married and came to America. However the story Maya told me didn’t line up with the one my family told me. It turns out my grandmother was a very wealthy woman who lived in a gorgeous mansion at the edge of Madrid. This was quite a surprise to me because I didn’t think my parents and grandma would be able to keep such a such an enormous secret for so long. She also explained to me that I was looking for a necklace with a stunning jewel clasped onto it. The next clue Maya was supposed to give me was on a slip that said I had to go to a tourist spot that my grandmother used to love and find a tour guide named Amada. Yearning to move on I thanked Amada (is that the woman’s name??? I thought that Amada was the tour guide??? for all the help and got on with myjourney.

I called a cab and they took me to Palau de la Musica Catalana. There I was confronted by gorgeous and detailed architecture that was generations old. I could tell why my grandmother loved this place very much. When I was inside I asked the receptionist for a tour guide named Amada. They called her on the speakerphone and she soon shuffled in. I introduced myself and told her why I was here. She led me to a corner and with excitement on her face, her words just came spilling out. She explained that her mother was friends with my grandmother because she visited here so often. So this practically made my grandmother Amada’s aunt! When my grandmother knew her time would, sadly, soon be coming to an end, she wanted me to have something special to remember her by. Hence the search for the jewel.

Amada wrote on a slip of paper the address I was supposed to go to next and wished me luck in finding the jewel. I took a bus and then walked the rest of the way to the address that Amada given me.

When I walked in,  my jaw dropped. The house had an intricate design and the  architecture was amazing.  I walked around  (or across the property?) the house for an hour or two and that’s when I noticed a small path going further into the property.  I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to go or not, but Ii decided to just follow it. To my amazement it led to a magical little garden which looked like it could be from my dreams. I slowly walked across the delicate scene when all of a sudden I remembered something. The fountain behind the benches reminded me of a picture my grandmother had shown me when she used to tell me a story. It was my favorite story about a little girl who would always have tea parties next to this fountain. Then,  one day she found a jewel necklace. I realized that was the story of how she got the necklace and I started searching. Soon I found it exactly where she described it to be. My eyes started tearing up realizing that she no longer was here. I stayed in Spain for a couple more days to take it all in. But too  soon was on my way back home.

When I got home, I realized that was the biggest adventure I’ve had for years. Most of the time,  I was  behind a desk working to get money. The thought popped up in my head that maybe that was the real reason my grandma sent me on this journey, to go live my life to the fullest. Ever since then I have travelled to all types of new places and met new people, including my husband.

“Wait so great-grammy did all of this?” my granddaughter Amelia asked.

I responded saying, “Yes, yes she did.”

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Ishi Bhattacharya is from Chester Springs, PA.