Why Me?

On one side of a busy street stands a home. The exterior is warm and welcoming; in the large front yard grow beautiful flowering trees. The grass is uneven and green in some places. There is a small garden filled with flowers and vegetables. The late evening sun bathes the home in a magical golden orange hue.

Through the large windows the cheerful home is glowing. In the living room a family is eating their dinner, merry talk and laughter can be heard. The smiles are true. As they finish, the dishes are put away, and the merry laughter continues. The parents try to get the younger children to get ready for bed as the eldest child heads to their room for homework. A perfect family, a lovely home. Happy people.

A door opens and in a lit up room stands an oak desk, papers scattered on the floor and desk. Homework by the looks of it. A yellow backpack is lying on the bed. The walls are a cheery blue; a beautiful picture of the galaxy is hung on the wall.     Otherwise, the room is empty.

Or so it seems.

On one wall is a closed closet door. Within the closet there is a figure curled up into a ball. Not a sound they make. Tears trickle down from the eyes. The figure is shaking. Memories from earlier that day swirl through their brain. The snide smile of the bully. The comments that echoed throughout the room. The evil glares that were received. The line of tears becomes a river, cascading down the red cheeks. The sadness within the small closet is suffocating. A sound is finally made. A soft whisper, no louder then a whispering wind.

“Why me?”

 

Anonymous

Fall is Here

As the leaves fall down, they create an art piece of the cold hard ground. The wind whisks by, causing the trees to commence their seasonal dance- and as the clouds shade the light sky, you know autumn has arrived.
She knocks on your door quietly; however, you weren’t expecting her- it was sudden, and she was cautious.
It is the time of year that brings warm sweaters and sickness; it allows children to dress up on one day, which is forever memorable and special.
While many may not enjoy this season, it brings happiness to many others. It brings pumpkins and warm tea, cuddles and sleeping beasts, a joyous fear that rains upon all. It is the month of fright- yet remembrance for the young.
And the rain begins to fall.
Jordan Percy

Last Dream

 

A lady in a beautiful white dress with pastel blue high-heels waltzed down the stairs. A man in a dark navy suit held out his hand for the lady, who then elegantly grabbed his hand and tapped the golden tiles with her tall heels. They stared at each other in the eye, only to realize there’s not much time left. They then hurried to the empty but elegantly decorated ballroom. Their dance was butterflies flying, their talk was soft words spoken by God and their kiss was the masterpiece drawn by the best artist of the century. They whispered love and sweetness to each other. They sipped their wine to calm down and walked out on the balcony for the cool air of the night sky. Stars were sewn into the sky, like a fairy tale.

“Did you have fun?” the man asked in hesitation.

“Indeed, I had so much fun thanks to you. You always bring joy to me,” the lady replied with a gentle smile, and then stopped suddenly, not able to finish her words. The man laughed quietly and assured her.

“It’s okay, my lady. Everything will be fine without me, because you are indeed a strong person.” The  man held back tears and depressed look, hiding behind a smile which the lady loved.

“Will you, will you give me a hug? Before saying good bye?” the lady asked and he hugged her tightly. The lady smiled brightly while tear drops were falling down her cheeks to the man’s chest. Farewell, every moment was beautiful with you, the lady whispered to him, finally accepting the reality of having to let him go.

 

The lady woke up from the sweet nightmare and curled in her blankets on the soft bed. The man is dead, a truth the lady was barely able to accept.

 

By Annie Cheong

Framed

Every eight seconds, the second hand made a funny noise. A ‘tock’ instead of a ‘tick.’ Sam had noticed that after three days. In “The Cave,” as he had decided to call it, thick concrete walls blocked out all sound. Unless he created his own, the only sound was that clock. He looked up at it. It was just like a normal clock, but instead of plastic, the sides were hard metal, with thick bulletproof glass. The glass distorted the numbers, making it hard to tell what time it was. Not that it mattered; he was stuck in that room.

In another week, assuming he was well behaved, he would be allowed into the exercise room, under strict supervision of course.

He looked again at the clock. It was bolted to the wall, presumably so he couldn’t attack anyone with it. The few other things in his room were bolted down as well. The un-blanketed bed, the sink, and the toilet with no seat.

Everything was metal and grey; he could almost feel it draining the hope from him.

This was all a mistake. Sam was in solitary confinement for killing four people. He had been deemed dangerous and mentally unstable, sent away to this dreary, soul-sucking room.

But he had never killed anyone. He worked for his father, doing paperwork in an office. Sam had just been caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was a bad habit of his, if you could call that a habit.

 

He had been walking through the forest on a late night walk. Maybe he was at fault for being out so late, but he didn’t think it would have made a difference in the end.

Either way, he had come across a body. There had been no blood at the scene, but her neck was twisted at an unnatural angle. Sam had leaned over her, horrified, and held her head, checking her pulse to see if she was alive.

She wasn’t.

Looking up, he had noticed a man standing on the path, watching him. Sam had shouted at him for help, but the man had just turned and ran.

Just as he was standing up to pull out his phone and call the police himself, he heard a shout. The police were already here, Sam realized a moment before he was shoved to the ground and knocked unconscious.

When Sam had woken up, he’d realized that the murder must have happened just before he had arrived. Someone must have seen the real killer and called the police. He had seen the real killer, he realized. Not well enough to give a description, but well enough to recognize him if Sam saw him again.

No one would believe he wasn’t the real killer. There had been three similar murders around town in the past month. Neck snapped, no evidence, not even fingerprints. Until Sam had left some when he held the victim’s head.

Those who had seen the murderer described him very similarly to Sam.

Everything fit together.

Sam still wasn’t sure why he was being held in such high security. All he knew was that in two days’ time, the soonest he was allowed, he would demand a lawyer.

It didn’t matter whom, so long as they could save him from this mess.

 

After two days of waiting, he jumped at the sound of his food latch being unlocked. He kept a respectful distance, not wanting to ruin his only chance.

“I’d like to see a lawyer. No specific preference whom.” Sam said diplomatically.

To his surprise, the guard on the other side agreed.

“We will collect you in three hours,” he said.

More hopeful than he’d been in days, Sam ate quietly and waited. For once the clock proved to be useful.

Eventually, the heavy duty doors opened and two guards stepped in. Sam stood still as they cuffed his hands and feet and led him down a dull hallway.

They approached a door labeled “Interrogation Room 1.” As one of the guards opened it, Sam’s blood turned to ice. Sitting snugly in a chair, a warm coffee in his hands, dressed in a three piece suit and shiny black loafers, was his lawyer, the real killer.

 

Alicia Shields

Save Me

My favorite people are fictional.

People who carry the world,

When no one else can.

The ones who risk everything,

To help the common man.

I look up to these heroes,

Men with metal arms

And astonishing bravery.

They help those in need,

Protecting the little man.

From the pages of my comic books,

To the Technicolour of my TV,

I support my heroes

In hope that, one day,

They’ll save me.

 

By Kaitlin Dyler (this poem will be published in Voices Visible in 2017)