From the Outcast's Eyes-Elizabeth

I don’t really blame the other kids for the way they act. It’s hard for them to comprehend the fact that life sometimes hits you, even if you didn’t throw the first punch. You never consider the kid who sits alone at lunch when your table is swarming with friends. You don’t compliment the kid who wears used dingy clothing and doesn’t comb their hair. You don’t talk to the kid who, out of their awkwardness, can barely muster a reply. When they wake up happy to go to school, and to see their friends, and to carry on, they don’t think.  They don’t think of the kid who dreads another 6 hours of school every morning. They blow me off; give me as much attention as you would a wall. I’m only another face in the classroom after all. I go days without a receiving a single hi. Who would want to be nice to the outcast anyway?  Who would want to make them feel good? But then again, it’s hard to understand when life is giving you all you need. But you’d think that they would notice the kid who needs help. They’re just too busy walking high and proud, with a conceited “Life is good” look slapped across their face to notice the kid who’s screaming inside. When will they look down, with an outstretched hand, and help?

Summer~ Phoebe

We anxiously cluster around the door.
Our eyes glued to the clock.
One more minute.
I hear the scuffing of some feet,
trying to beat the bell
and the vast stampede.
Three,
Two,
One!
The bell rings.
Everyone spills out into the halls
screaming,"finally! School's out!"
Sooner or later, the crowd funnels out to the playground and busses.
I step onto the big, yellow vehicle,
kindly greeted by the driver,
and smile.
I find my seat in the back on the right side.
Bus stops go by,
of people getting off with a big embrace from a family member
congratulating the ending of school.
Then it's my stop.
With my head held high,
I trump down the three steps of the dirty bus.
"Have a great summer!" the man says with a face telling me
how badly he just wants to go home.
"You too" I say with a shy smile.
School is out!
Man, I think, life is good.

*I didn't really know how to put in the life is good part...

Grease Lightning? Noa

He's as slick as an oil spill. Smooth like butter. As cool as ice. He moves with the swagger of a movie star, with enough confidence and charm to make the prettiest girls swoon. Silky smooth black hair smoothed back across his head. Lips curled in a taunting smirk, while his penetrating gaze is masked by this dark shades. His crisp leather jacket sits on his shoulders perfectly and compliments his faded jeans and white undershirt. A typical greaser, or bad body, or whatever you want to call it. Everything about him is fresh and pristine. Nothing can stop this juggernaut of cool and fashion. Except maybe an innocently placed root that just so happens to ensnare his foot as he walks by. The greaser tumble flat on the floor, his pitch black shades cracking, his smooth hair becoming tousled, and his leather jacket becoming stained with dirt. He quickly gets up and looks around quickly, making sure no one has seen his embarrassing fall, but of course we all had. A look of annoyance is smeared across his face as he quickly escapes the scene.

Dreams (from 2 weeks ago)

Dreams. They come and go, invading your sleep then disappearing as soon as you realize they are there. Distorted images blurry and obscure, but somehow have so much meaning and can affect you even after you awake. They can impose incredible and unescapable fear, or an unmeasured amount of euphoria. But why do we dream in the first place? Are they prophecies sent from the heavens to show us something about the past, present, or future? Or are they just meaningless visions to amuse our brains while we lay dormant in our beds. Pictures flash across the imaginary screen in your head as obscure and impossible things happen. Human Bodies twist and contort into potted flowers. For some reason a llama is sleeping in your floating house. Weird things happen in dreams and although I cannot explain or half the time remember them, I enjoy them while they last.

Untitled, Beginning of a Story-- Lindsay

                 Josie

                
                 If you asked me about her, I would tell you that she always smelled like frosted roses. Her scent would follow her if she walked in a room. The sickly sweet scent of powdery blossoms was both intoxicating and pleasant. Pleasantly intoxicating.
                 The curls that wound down her back like someone twirled the black locks around a wand, and her golden eyes that were sharp like the jaggedness of a blade, brought her to all of our attention. The girls were green with hissing envy, and the boys lost their balance in her presence. She was a gem that sparkled in the darkness of the coal mine that was our school.
                  Ink tattooed her arm, a design that I always though made it look like a black and white snake winding up to her shoulder. The black of the tattoo made her eyes look even more deadly, yet I dared to learn more. I, Josie, have come to the conclusion that this girl is from nowhere, lives nowhere, and does evil things. Don't be fooled. This girl is the opposite of innocent.
                 
                  She doesn't talk. Ever. She writes in a notebook that she shows only to those who she allows to see it. I have never read what's in her notebook.
                  In my own notebook, I have been observing her. How she walks, what she eats, her facial expressions. All in a secretive, non-stalkerish way, of course.
                    
                  According to my written observations, never has she smiled. Not once.
   
                  What human being has not smiled? Even if it was by accident one time, or without meaning to, a smile is physically impossible. I am quite sure of this.

                   But I'm no detective.

~Untitled for now- Phoebe

The paper slides onto my desk.

with my arms shaking, I pick up my pencil.

All the numbers and letters glare up at me mocking my fright.

I slowly right my name, 

looking around to make sure no one can see how much I am sweating.

The first question.

I read it over and over again, hoping it will magically turn into the answer.

I have no idea.

Meanwhile, I look at my neighbor, rapidly writing things down.

I try to pass time by looking around the room for resources.

Eh-em.

I turn my head to see her giving me the look that all teachers have mastered.

Without thinking, I write down random doodles to make it look like I know what I'm doing.

The silence; so loud.

Tick-tock engraves it's rhythm into my brain.

Only 5 minutes left. All I need is to buckle down and think. 

But with 5 minutes left? 

No way I'm going to finish!

All I need is time.

The "Specialist's" Job Continued-Elizabeth

Continued…

Amid the darkness, there is a sensation of light. I can feel it, pushing and banging on my bubble of black, trying to pop it and release its luminosity. I don’t quite know what the specialists are doing to me, but I can’t feel it, so at least that’s good. They were mysterious about the whole procedure, when we got the call. I was worried that it would change who I am and what I think; that they would take a piece of me with them. There is no sense of time in my bubble. It’s impossible for time to not pass because you can’t stop life and everything just keeps going. Or does it?

            I have questions like these, that will probably never be answered but I think them anyway. In my own little space I call life. Maybe that’s why they chose me, because I am different. Or maybe because I think like no one else. Maybe they will figure me out, no one else can but maybe they will. I never liked the term freak but I've learned to accept the fact that I am one. Those were Mom’s words when she dropped me off the crowded home 6 years ago.

“You are a freak Ida.”

And she sped off down the road, probably to a casino or something. I had weird thoughts before that, but after that day, my head has become taken over by my thoughts and I’m just kind of brain dead with all my freakish theories and notions.

            I don’t know how much time has gone by, if there is such thing as time anyway, when the black bubble pops, illuminating the bare landscape before me. Everything is white. Everything. Then I start to get that fiery feeling in my head again. The light starts to drip away in to the cold,  detached darkness of the room.

Math- Liesl

Math

Math. What can I say?
Numbers. Symbols. Equations. Fractions.
Can I say… Whatever?
I know that I need it.
I want to be good.
But there is no part of me
That cares about
Pythagorean theorems,
means extremes properties,
how fractions can become decimals
or how to
determine what kind of triangle
that one in the corner is.
I mean yes, it is cool,
but I just don't like numbers.
I know I need it.
I want to be good.
But numbers don’t…
Line up in my head
Like I know they should
And what is this business
Of having letters and numbers
in the same equation?
Math just…
Doesn’t make sense.
I know I need it.
And I want to be good.
But math,
what can I say?

The Junkyard continued-- Lindsay

                  Chapter 2



 

                  I have been lying to my younger sisters for two years. To tell them the truth would mean scaring them and worrying them out of their little, lice crusted minds. At first it was difficult, but the lie came smoothly after a while. I didn't even have to think about it anymore.

                  The cancer had spread, invading my mother's muscular body and peeling away any strength she had left. Without any treatment, my mother was going to die. In my heart, she was already dead, but I would never tell anyone that. Not even Eddie, who I trusted wholeheartedly.

                  To my sisters, Mother was in the process of recovery. She was healing from a long-term cough. I thanked the Lord that Emmy and LooLoo were as gullible as they were.

                  Eddie came up behind me and slapped the loaf of bread on the table next to my fruit. He nodded approvingly. "You did alright for your first time, Josie." He didn't look impressed, but he looked satisfied, which was good enough for me. His face turned to stone, the crease in his forehead deep and dark. He stole a glance at the figure lying on the couch. You would have thought that there was just a heap of blanket there. My mother was hidden within the heap, just a frail little body of poking hip bones and leather skin weathering away like paper in the rain.

                  "It must be done today." He searched my eyes, and I nodded in return. It would be done. Lies would die away, like my mother. I had no idea when I was going to break it to Emmy and LooLoo. They would be devastated, their hearts the flaming ashes of a loud, screaming fire drenched with cool water. Their flame would be put out. And I would be the water that leaves them black and crumbling. The more I thought about it, the more I wanted to get away. Just Eddie and me, we could leave this place, fend for ourselves whereever we went.

                   My mother would be left to die her unfightable death, and my sisters would be forgotten, lost in the dust like two helpless kittens without their kin. If it weren't for them, I would do it in a second. Far away from this place is where I would go, on the other side of a mountain-- one so big it would separate me from where I was from and where I should be. I would get away from this life. Me and Eddie. Eddie and me.



The "Specialist's" Job-Elizabeth

"Ida Byrnes."

Her voice echoes off the cinderblock walls and bounces through my head. The seemingly "magnetic force" between my hands and the chair refuses to cease its pull. I can feel the panic setting in.

"Ida Byrnes?" 

My wobbly legs unsteadily pull me into a half stand, half crouch position. Judgmental eyes shift to my awkwardness.

"Follow me please."

To where? What will it look like? Dizzy and sick, I slowly inch my way to the door and glance back at the remaining patients, certain it will be the last time that I will see true civilization.  The door shuts with a loud *clank* as I turn my head down the hall. I dart forward to catch up with the woman. 

       The hallways remind me of a hospital. Everything is white; the walls, floor, ceiling, doors, even the thin robes we were asked to change into. Nothing is out of the sorts, except my stomach. The usual fluttery butterflies feel more like gorillas pounding on my insides. The woman looks forward, says nothing, doesn't even acknowledge my presence. She finally notices how I've been stealing glances and looks down at me. I slow down, expecting her to say something. She smiles and looks back up, quickening her pace.

      After about 5 minutes of navigating the twists and turns and corners of the facility, she motions towards a room on the right. 

"Aren't you coming too?" 

"No. The specialists will be with you shortly. Please wait here"

She closes the door and turns back down the hall. The handle is locked. I pace the area of the small room, examining all of its contents. A sink, some cabinets containing nothing but robes and tongue compressors, and a table in the middle. It looks like the ones you'll find at a doctor's office. But this one has close to 20 or 30 straps and some sort of head contraption. I reach for a latch near the leg rest when the door bursts open. People in white scrubs and masks concealing their faces flood in, wheeling carts of who knows what. They all busily get to work setting up their supplies I assume. I'm too busy trying to keep myself from a panic attack to focus on anything else. Two men grab my arms and lay me back on the table. The one on the left speaks.

"now this will be a lot easier if you just don't talk so please keep the noise down and try not to interrupt."

I try to intervene but he shoves some giant contraption into my mouth making it impossible to form each word I'm trying to force out. I can feel the "specialists" strapping me to the table and pulling the head thingy over my neck. They lock it secure and all 15 or so of them gather around me. I can move nothing but my eyes which I'm sure are presenting a wonderful show, darting from this concealed face to that. The men part and let in a guy with a gold badge on his chest. 

"everyone get ready for their assigned job"

I try to scream but my jaw feels too sore and clamped. The gold badge man reached for a tray and brigs forth a syringe. I can hear nothing over the screams of terror in my head. Without warning, he plunges the needle into my neck. My head feels like it's on fire. The cool serum slowly seeps into my veins and soothes the flames. It actually is beginning to feel good before everything turns black.

 

A Second Life-Elizabeth

A Second Life

Knowing-

that after your day of
work and exertion,
exhaustion and fatigue,
tedium and boredom,
you can always go home and
          Dream.


That your pillow is waiting,
waiting to engulf you in the
exhilaration and anticipation
of your
          Second life.


That you can escape
the struggles and plight
of your life
because the night is long and
          Promising.


That
You can control what
you think and
You can control what you wish and
You know that no fantasy is too
          Immense.


That we will go where we need to go,
see what we need to see,
be who we need to be,
because dreams are powerful and
dreams come true and
 
     Dreams
        Help
           You
              Fly.

The Junkyard-- Lindsay

                   Eddie ran down the sidewalk, blurs of people whizzing by as a sprinted behind him, trying my best to keep up. He had told me before this all started that it was no big deal. Yet, seeing as where I am now, I'm beginning to think he was lying to me.
                   The stolen hunk of warm bread wrapped in a pillowcase was held to his chest, his grimy hands holding it there, the little bundle looking almost like a small, hidden child in his arms. My own pockets were bulging with fruit, apples and oranges that I had grabbed so swiftly, Eddie had called me a pro. I had blushed when he said that.
                   Eddie and I lived in The Junkyard. It wasn't an actual junkyard, but a neighborhood of people living wasted lives and home of the walking trash. Nobody helped nobody. Every man was for himself.
                    My mother, my two little sisters and I lived in a house of sloppily nailed siding, no roof, and a hanging sheet that served as our front door. But we were fine. Eddie lived with us; his family all died except him from starvation. And no one really cared. We took him in as our own, my mother insisted we should. Now he was the man of the house, since my dad ran off to who-knows-where.
                   And it was Eddie who lead me to the marketplace in the center of the city, a couple of miles walk from The Junkyard. It was he who told me to steal. He told me that I shouldn't feel bad after I had food in my mouth later that night. That we needed it more. Guilt didn't really exist, it's just a trick of the mind. Guilt is unrealistic.
                   Then why did I feel so guilty?
                   Eddie didn't slow his run until we were safely inside the four walled home where my family waited for our return. Words were impossible to squeeze out of my gasping mouth, I was panting so hard. I finally caught my breath and set the fruit on the table. A frail cough came from the faded red sofa nearby. My mother lay there, her face drained of any color, sick and tangled in some dirty blanket. She had been running a fever for the past week, and her condition had not gotten better in that period of time. It was never going to get better.
 

Everthing Falls Apart in January- Liesl

You know that saying, “Everything falls apart in January”? I believe it now. More than ever. First everyone got sick, cold, fever, flu, and the student body at Holderness Central School was reduced by a third, all at once. Then, when everyone was starting to trickle back in, some still with runny noses, or a hacking cough that never seemed to go away, Wham. The teachers got hit (or at least I think they did), with the same cold or fever or flu that kept the students crippled for a week. Half your classes you would have a sub, and it would be total pandemonium. A week later, when it seemed like everything would calm down, and people would recover, the world collapsed again.

Not so widespread this time, but I definitely noticed it. All around me, people were breaking bones, losing pets, hurting their backs, moving to a faraway place, getting bad grades, losing bets or who knows what else, and nothing was just the calm, boring, everyday routine that I have come to expect. All I can say after this chaotic month? T.G.I.F. Thank God It’s February.