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Kristen has learned to accept that her grandfather will not know her face apart from her siblings. She is his grandchild, non-differentiable from the other dozen, and he knows little more of this stranger than of someone off the street, and less than if she had had a conversation with him.

“So, when’s school start for you?”

“In just a week.”

“And you’re going into…”

“…12th grade.”

Kristen never participated in sports like her sister; she was never Homecoming Queen. It took her the first three years of high school to accept that there is much more to her. Her qualities, although not as keen towards recognition, are qualities she has grown to love. There is so much she could share: the art exhibit she’s invited to in the winter, the anticipation and fear when considering years after graduation, the anxiety of deciding the next step of life when she cannot even decipher if she is on the right path. These are the variables of her life that become flat in his presence, smothered by repetitive questions.

“12th grade.”

Her grandfather directs the conversation to her father, “How’s work going for you?” He shuffles his feet towards his son and then away, as if unsure if the question is appropriate.

“It’s alright.” Her father stands with his arms crossed, as if a guard to his own kingdom. His expression is not unwelcoming, but unresponsive to any attempt at engagement. Expressionless. He has trained himself to preserve his emotions for the ones who can appreciate them. It’s difficult to sympathize with an impassive father after having children of his own, children he cherishes and longs to be with, a trait he certainly did not inherit from this man whose only offering to the world is peripheral anecdotes: the number of times a robin pecked his window sill, the current success or failure of his watermelon patch, stories of childhood friends who, last week, he either saw at church or their funeral.

The house hasn’t changed since Oma’s death. If anything, Opa’s collection has grown. It overtakes the garage, organized but growing rapidly. Beat up softballs line the back wall, worn and discolored from their previous settlement in roadside ditches. Dozens of forgotten basketballs acquired from school playgrounds are trapped in metal trash cans behind the red truck planted at the heart of the garage: a relic from his days as a carpenter. The freezer– thoroughly stocked with Dollar Store dumpster hotdogs and candy bars- – is accompanied by scooters on either side. Every item– every tennis racquet, every snowshoe, every roller skate– has a story. They belonged to a young Amish boy: a shadow cast from Opa’s childhood into the next generation. They were tossed aside, outgrown and unwelcome by a group of teenagers. They were treasured by school kids, and then discarded when new trends overshadowed traditions.

It’s been 20 years and still Opa keeps Oma’s belongings in the back room, unvisited and steadily collecting dust. Light filters through the single window, casting a dim glow over the room’s inhabitants: her rocking chair, countless piles of miscellaneous fax papers, a typewriter, National Geographics from the 30’s, photo albums, and books. Hundreds and hundreds of books. Novels on nursing, science, history. Stories of death and world catastrophes, of religion and end times. They pervade every corner, line the shelves, weigh on tables. They permeate the atmosphere, shed their warnings of doom while simultaneously offering their knowledge, as if doing a favor to the curious wanderers.

Intertwined amongst the books stand family photos. Black and white and sepia-tinted replicas, time capsules of the familiar yet distant past. Oma and Opa’s wedding day, a family portrait of their three sons, her father sitting in the front yard as a young boy. They sit under a haze of time, as if the decades have rubbed out the edges. As if one day, as fewer and fewer understand the handsewn dresses and head coverings of their upbringing, they may altogether fade.

Opa does not acknowledge the room, and yet cannot bring himself to rid the house of her belongings. And so the house tilts perpetually to one side, laden with the past that creeps steadily towards vapor as he cannot forget her, and yet he cannot even speak her name.

Hotdogs from a crockpot and stale chips are set out for lunch. Kristen and her family sit in the sun room, avoiding the actual consumption of the food but trying to maintain polite gratitude for the effort made.

“I was in my truck when I saw this shoe on the side of the road– the road behind White Horse.” He points to his left foot, adorned with a bright blue sneaker with neon soles. “Didn’t really think much of it, but then about a quarter mile down the road I see the other shoe, so I pick it up and drive back to get the first one. Some kid probably threw them out without thinking about it. But now I have a nice pair of sneakers and didn’t pay a buck!” Her brother pokes her shoulder, whispers, “Are we leaving soon?”

Kristen shushes him, but feels the same restlessness that comes with his monologues of the monotonous details that suddenly become very interesting in old age.

Kristen has been told that Oma got in an accident on the way home from a party. She pictures a party with boxed cookies and stale coffee and women with weary attitudes. The kind of party where ladies get together to discuss quilting, their kids, their husbands, church, anything so as not to talk about the expanding hopelessness and nullity of their lives. She imagines Oma sitting in a cold folding chair in a circle of women, looking at their faces and wondering what purpose she has there. She imagines Oma’s bent back, forty years weighing upon her shoulders, exhausted by her marriage. Instead of relief, her empty house brings despair; a sure sign her boys are past needing her help, having families of their own. Inundated by the forlorn sense of growing old. Kristen wishes away any regret in Oma’s decision; she replaces it with gratitude for her children and the optimism of new lives in the world. Oma believed she earned a better life than what she got, after working night shifts at the hospital to supplement her husband’s meager paycheck as a carpenter; being present for her children while her husband developed his collection of dumpster finds. Oma must have been struggling with the idea for years, ever since their first kid.

Kristen had been told there was an accident, but the tree was Oma’s opportunity, her way out.

There is still a memorial along the highway.

Oma never met her seventh grandchild. She knew about her, but left just weeks before Kristen was born. Eight months into the pregnancy. They say Oma would have loved her, but it’s easy to say how someone would have cared when that someone is dead. Oma would have loved her, but she would not have known her. When isolation and disconnect is a family pattern, it’s foolish to think one grandbaby could change the dynamics between parents and their children.

Kristen has been conditioned to understand that grandparents are not friends; they are obligations. They are people she has dinner with when guilt rises after months have gone by without a visit. She hears her parents’ critical analysis of their childhood and watches the pattern of detachment continue. They feel no responsibility to the people who raised them, no obligation to their siblings. They see a problem and remove it. She fears she will do the same.

Her parents give up on conversation. A silence falls over the company. Opa must feel some burden, some anxiety at his inability to carry the conversation.

“Opa, could I borrow a book or two sometime? I saw some interesting ones in the back room.”

“Oh, yes, of course! Help yourself! I have some suggestions if you’re interested.”

She walks with him, through the kitchen, down the hallway, to the back room. It’s a start.  

Olivia Stoltzfus is a senior at Solanco High School where she is involved in a variety of arts programs, including National Art Honor Society. She works to further develop her literature skills by analyzing advanced pieces of literature in her AP English class, and writing both in and out of school. After graduation, she plans to continue her fine art education at a post-secondary art school on the East Coast.

“You know, I never liked winter.” Tammy turned her head to the sound of her old friend Donnie’s voice, her eyes lost in the milky night sky. They had encased themselves in the freezing February dusk, struggling to search for help. They had first found themselves trapped after taking a wrong turn from a hiking path into the immense Malsano Grove. According to Donnie’s extensive knowledge of mystery movies, they were supposed to be found in at least 3 days. However, it was already weeks after and civilization appeared to be a faint dream now. The brisk air cut at their skin, their hair practically frozen in thick locks, while their fingers were red with frostbite.

“They say it swallows you whole,” Donnie mumbled to herself. “The winter. It takes away your sanity.” Tammy nodded in agreement as she reminded herself that the person before her was not a meal. Delusions like this had plagued her since she arrived in the woods, her mind unraveling with each passing day. Some days the hallucinations were simple, a mysterious sound or fictional shadows. On bad days she saw people, dead relatives or old rivals. But the worst days were the ones she dreamt of eating, feasting upon imaginary meals created by her warped brain. It didn’t matter if what her eyes saw was inedible, she perceived it to be otherwise. Even now, as she sat next to the girl she’d known all her life, all she could envision was snatching off a limb, maybe even just a hand, and sinking her teeth into the bloody human flesh to have some form of sustenance inside of her stomach. 

“Have you been able to sleep at night?” Tammy questioned quietly. Donnie shook her head, her mind flashing with the images of her nightmares. They only occurred at night, unlike Tammy’s hallucinations, and only boiled down to one vivid dream. She was alone, locked within the depths of her mind, lacking any ability to move or even think for herself. At first, the only comfort she had lay in the piercing silence, leaving her with only hollowness. That’s when the shadow appeared. It was sleek and abstract, lacking any real physical form besides pure darkness. However, as time moved on, the darkness began to transmute, forming into the very person it stood behind. It began its movements by raising its arms in a gun-wielding position as Donnie’s body mirrored it, the actual weapon lying within her large hands. The barrel was cold against her skin, paining her fingers as she held on. The shadow placed its hands on the trigger, staring down the barrel towards its target. It was then that a massacre was committed, blood splattering onto Donnie’s face as the screams of her victims reverberated in her ears. And then, she’d wake up, body quaking as her fingers tingled from grasping the phantom gun.

“I sleep fine,” Tammy joked as Donnie slowly returned to reality.

“Good for you.” Donnie huffed, jealous of her friend’s clear conscience.

“I think a storm is coming,” Tammy remarked. Donnie rolled her eyes, skeptical of the sudden claim.

“You said there was going to be a storm last week. There wasn’t even a little snowfall.”

“I know. But this time is different.” Tammy turned to gaze into Donnie’s eyes then, the soft grey coloring matching the night. “Something bad is gonna happen.” Donnie bit her lip for a moment, lost in thought. Tammy’s predictions were usually close-calls at best, but otherwise entirely incorrect. The likelihood of her ideas being correct was 0 to none, although she’d never say it aloud.

“Whatever you say. Let’s just hope whatever it is leaves just as soon as it comes.” Donnie sighed while lying on the ground, pulling her jacket closer to her body. Tammy soon followed, lying on her arm with a small hum.

“Can you promise me something?” Tammy questioned.

“Depends on what it is,” Donnie chortled. Tammy closed her eyes then, her mind deceiving her with more delusions of feasting.

“If we ever get separated, I want you to run. Doesn’t matter where we are or what you heard, just run,”Tammy said. Donnie widened her eyes at the girl, surprised she would suggest such a thing. They had been trapped for so long, what point was there in separating after all they had been through together?

“Are you sure?” Donnie mumbled. Tammy nodded, her eyes locked into the stars as she came to terms with what she must do. It was with that bitter note, the two slept, allowing the soft chills of the night to lull them. That night, Donnie did not dream of her shadow, only the stark darkness that came before morning, content that Tammy’s delusions would never fall through. The following day, a sheet of white had immersed the Malsano Grove. The trees, the dirt, even the tracks that had previously been made, all were submerged in the snow. The scent of cold water mingled with dirty foliage to form something foul and reminiscent of death. Donnie opened her eyes with a start, the snow clustered on her eyelashes while her face felt like ice.

“Shit,” she huffed. “I guess you were right, Tam.” The wind whispered past, encompassing Donnie’s body with even more snow.

“Tammy?” Donnie turned to her side to find a blank patch of snow. Sirens rang through her head as Donnie jumped to her feet, her eyes scanning the woods.

“Tammy?!” Electric-like adrenaline pumped through Donnie’s veins as her heart pounded within her chest like a drum. Where could Tammy have gone? She’d only fallen asleep for a few hours; what could she be doing? Suddenly, like a faint, haunted memory, Tammy’s words from last night came to mind.

“If we ever get separated, I want you to run.” Donnie opened and closed her clammy fist, tears prickling the corners of her eyes as she realized what she must do. Nausea rocked her stomach like a ship caught in a storm, crashing in waves within her. She put herself into a running position, counting to ten before she decided to make a decision that would change her life forever. Her feet were light as she fled, each footstep worsening the ache in her heart as she ran away from the same girl she had grown to love. She could barely register her location as she ran, the snow blending together to make a prison of white. Why? Why? Why? Why was God so cruel to her, unforgiving and malicious? First imprisoned in this winter spell, and now forced to leave behind the one girl she loved, how could the world curse her so? However, as she continued to dash within the nightmare, she failed to realize the shadow that began to take shape behind her, lifting its arms with its cold barreled gun.

BANG!

The sound rang across the forest, slowing down time itself. Donnie could feel her heart go still within her chest as a bullet propelled itself through her gut, staining the crisp snow an ugly crimson. Her body collapsed to the ground, her knees giving, followed by her upper half. Her eyes struggled to peer behind her, only to be met with that shadowy monstrosity.

The shadow held up the gun once more, staring down the barrel into Donnie’s eyes that were draped in betrayal. The shadow placed the gun against Donnie’s head, a devilish smile across her face as she came to accept her delusions. The death was quick, another shot echoing throughout the grove as ruby red blood pooled under Donnie’s head. The shadow showed no remorse as it leaned down towards her friend’s limp body, grabbing onto the flesh as she prepared to feast.

“You were right about the winter,” the shadow whispered. “It really does swallow you whole.”

Anisa is in 12th grade and lives in Camden, NJ with her older sisters and her mom. She enjoys writing in her spare time and plays clarinet for her school band.

I saw him get hit, I didn’t cry.

I was outside of the emergency room, I didn’t cry.

Even now at my father’s funeral, I wasn’t crying.

Many people tried to comfort me, not for me but because they were scared, scared of judgment, scared of mortality, scared of me. I wish they were braver then. No one saw me leave; I just slipped away as my father had from life. I ran. I wasn’t missing my kendo tournament, not for my dad, the man who had missed my first words. The man who had missed my birthday three times. I wasn’t backing out on the one thing that made me feel strong like he never could. I wasn’t missing that tournament for a dead man.

I had been having bad dreams lately. Every night I was killed by a beast ten feet tall, with grey cracked skin and glowing red eyes. He chased me down and swung his giant flaming claws towards me. His rage radiated with the power and heat of one thousand suns.

I arrived at the Golden Hilt Dojo soaked in rain and my family’s tears. My coach was stunned to see me that day, but he knew me enough not to say anything.

I solemnly stepped into the locker room and put on my protective gear. As I lifted my kendo stick out of its case, I heard a grunt come from my left. I turned to face the kid who had the audacity to try to scare me, intimidate me, the boy whose dad had just died. This proved that even though he was taller than me, Jacob Mchazer really was someone who deserved nothing except downward gazes.

Jacob was leaning on the third locker from mine with a dissatisfied scowl. He loudly ordered me to go home or else. I didn’t respond; the satisfaction of a response was one of many things that Jacob didn’t deserve. At the time he was still a white belt, but Jacob walked around like he owned the place. He was at least three inches taller than any kid at the dojo, so he was intimidating at first, but he never did anything. All bark and no bite. At this point he barely had any teeth left.

“Go home and cry, kid.” He speaks but my mind doesn’t register, his words pass right through me. As he opened his mouth again, the blade I had been slowly raising out of its case with my left hand quickly whipped over my shoulder, falling in an almost perfect arc. I spun at an angle, thrusting all of my weight into my sword as I slid my right foot, setting my center of balance straight. Every single movement fell into place, a perfect symphony of blade and dance.

His insolence was met by my rage, and my sword was met by his blood. I wish I was braver then.

I continued beating Jacob until he cried. I swung that kendo stick so hard my hands bled before Jacob did. Before I could do anything to seriously harm him, I was pulled away by my coach, who had heard Jacob screaming. I slipped out of his arms and rushed to the door, running into the rain once again.

The crimson falling from my fists hit the pavement the same way my father’s did when he died. Just ten seconds before the accident everything was just as it always was. My mom yelling at him just as she did everyday, he put on his suit just like always, everything was just like always. Dead before he hit the ground; the truck slammed into him as he walked away from us for the last time. I think he was brave.

By the time I got home, the sun had set. I didn’t want to go to sleep, I didn’t want to dream, but as I sat and watched whatever was on TV to keep myself awake my thoughts drifted, my mind slurred, and I fell into dreams once again.

As always, I was in the burning woods with a finely crafted katana in my hand. The beast’s footsteps came down hard and heavy, so loud they filled any space no matter how big. You could never tell where he was coming from. A sudden burst of heat whipped at my back, he was right behind me. I leaped to the left, awkwardly falling into an into a combat roll. I just barely evaded his swipe. He recoiled his arm back making a fist this time as if to show that he took me seriously. His second blow was fast, way too fast. How could something so huge move so fast? My left shoulder had been embedded into a nearby pine tree. Chips of wood had stuck themselves deep into my arms, almost reaching my bones. He reared back once again; this time, if I was hit, it was all over.

The second hit came down even faster than the first; this time I expertly ducked underneath his punch. As his fist hit the ground, I used the hilt of my sword to pick myself up. Using the inertia stored in the blade I pierced the beast’s ribcage. He was weakened. I felt strong, strong enough to kill this monstrosity. I began releasing a flurry of blows but I soon realized that the hits I had been aiming at his ribs were now aimed at his thigh.

I kept slicing and stabbing until my hands were sore. I stepped back and looked up. The monster was at least twenty feet tall now. The bent, cracked, and melted hunk of steel that was once a fine Japanese blade slipped from my charred palms. I wasn’t scared but I wasn’t brave either.

For a moment the forest felt like limbo. Nothing moved, there was no more fire, no more rage, and no more fear. A calm sadness spread across the beast’s face as he began to crumble away into golden flower petals. He blew into the wind. I watched as the petals danced in the breeze, shaping and forming around me into a loving embrace. My father gripped me tighter and tighter and then slowly released me, his warm glowing eyes wet but unblinking. He spoke to me. He spoke to my soul. “I love you, my son.” The words resonated within me, warming my heart, and the petals descended from the sky as the silence burned my throat and just like that, my father was gone, gone once again.

That morning I awakened brave enough to cry.

Mosadi Pearson likes playing video games and drawing. He usually listens to progressive rock while writing. After trying to write an action-heavy story and failing, he decided to go with a sadder tone. Mosadi is a proud Mighty Writer.