They weren’t just plain nightmares anymore; they were something bigger, more in depth, almost real. She could hear the creaking of the floors in the hallway, almost like he was standing outside her door, waiting for just the perfect moment to strike. His voice seemed to flow constantly in her ears, but he had no mouth. His cold stare would look right through her tiny soul, but he had no eyes. He was always there, always. Especially when night drew near, he’d be more powerful. It must make him happy to know that I have been suffering from the wrath of his little mind games. This goes on throughout each night until my savior, the morning light, comes to recue me from the tossing and turning.
Her mother tells her it’s all in her head. That nothing will come to hurt her, and that she is safe here at home. I am not quite so sure of that yet. Actually, she knows it’s not true. She will never feel secure again, not as long as he’s there. No one can save her now. But no one will believe her either. She is completely, utterly helpless. The time comes around once again. Tonight, he’s closer than before. He stands there outside my bedroom door. That’s his favorite place to lurk, in the darkness he hides from me. If he knows he can just get me now, why must he wait. To torture me so that I’ll just flat out die from the suspense? No, he has better plans. Wait, just then there was a scratching at the door. Her eyes slowly shift from the ceiling to the door as she tries not to make any other movements with her body. The scratching got louder and deeper, turning into a banging. Then it stopped, all at once. She was relieved, but only for a second. The feeling of a person grabbing her arms and legs came over her and a cold stale feeling made her flinch. Then she heard it. “I’m coming, you’re done, give up.” The words were so clear and fluent, she new she couldn’t have been dreaming. But the better question would be: Was it true? The feeling left her and she was alone. But the cold still clang to her bones, shifting it’s way I her body making her terribly unnerved. She couldn’t find herself to go back to sleep, so she just waited out the night. It seemed that the morning came late that day, and it took a toll on her. When her mother asked why she looked the way she did, she just replied: “Because.” Her mother took the response anyway, said see you later, and went out the front door for work. As her mother shut the door behind her as if by magic, he appeared again. She didn’t want to have to worry anymore, she simply uttered these words: “I give up.” Later that afternoon when her mother came home, she entered the door abruptly and called to her daughter. No one answered. She called again, this time in a much louder voice. Still no answer. She looked all around the house for her daughter but she was nowhere to be found. She was gone.
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As you progress from childhood to adolescence, and so on towards adulthood, the parts of your body continue to grow and change. Arms get longer, legs grow taller, feet increase in size. However, it can be said that the most important changes stumbled upon during aging are the growth of the mind, and the opening of the eyes to see the surrounding world.
As a child, the goal was to make everything as perfect as possible, though this was left up to the adults that cared for you. Hardships were few and far between, and the biggest worry was making it to the bathroom on time, or hoping Santa didn’t give you coal that year. You may not have realized it at the time, but the first few years of your life are the easiest years you would have for a long, long time. In kindergarten, the conflicts taking place were stupid (yet oh so important at the time) squabbles that, if we were to remember them now, would probably be looked back upon and laughed at. But our eyes were shut tight and covered by our hands then, adamantly refusing to be anything but oblivious to the world around us. First grade, the conflicts decreased in quantity, and increased in significance by an infinitesimal amount. This process continued, so on until around sixth or seventh grade, when the “squabbles” became fights, and the fights became arguments, which progressed into feuds. Even then, most of it was over young, flimsy things such as calculators, homework, projects, sports, et cetera. However, in the minority were the makings of what was to come in the future: rumors, drama, things such as these that we as a group would have to deal with for the rest of our years spent in school, and forever after that. Eighth grade is when it all truly begins. This is the year where we step across the threshold onto the side of adolescence, and once this has occurred, the door shuts and locks behind us, forbidding us from turning back and forcing us forward. By now, our hands have been ripped away from our eyes, so even if our eyelids still blind us from the world, its light seeps through. Though no one wants to admit it, we all secretly have “friends” who really aren’t our friends, but they’re funny, or they’re rich, or they’re fun to make fun of behind their backs, or they’re mean and being friends with them is the only way to stay out of their war path. Either way, we use these people, and these people become topics for discussion with our “true” friends, who in reality may be in turn using us. You may wonder who they really are, behind their lies and gossip, telling tales of others you don’t truly believe but agree with anyway, because it would be unacceptable to say otherwise. Once this is realized, your one eye opens the teeniest bit, giving you a glimpse of the true world around you before your mind panics and the eye snaps shut once again. Nevertheless, as the conflicts continue, the rumors spread, and the arguments escalate, you begin to wonder what it’s really like around you, and your eyes eventually flutter open, squinting in the bright sunlight that you’ve never truly experienced before. After your eyes have full view of the surrounding landscape, it is much easier to tiptoe around the mines that, if stepped on, would become arguments. You may stumble a few times as your eyes struggle to interpret the meaning of your surroundings, but there are far fewer falls than you had while you were blind. You see people you thought you knew, now fully exposed to your judgement, and they become simpler to understand, yet at the same time oh so much more difficult. Yes, this world you can see is harsh and sharp, with every turn a possibility for yet another reason for resentment by your peers, but this is the world you live in. People are gossipy and backstabbing, and you are no better, no matter how much you tell yourself otherwise. Yet this is the human race’s nature, preying upon the weak to gain favor, and the sooner your eyes open to that, the safer you are. “Great minds discuss ideas; Average minds discuss events; Small minds discuss people.” –Eleanor Roosevelt She always felt like someone watched her, whether in her house or outside. Always felt the eyes of a stranger staring at her. Maybe she was a just a little paranoid; that’s what her family told her anyway.
Late in the afternoon and she sat–on an old broken park bench with a book in her hand, so absorbed that she did not notice the silence. It was never silent in this part of town because of the highway across the street. The wind began as a small whirl, turning into a loud roar; this got her attention; looking up from her book she took note of the silence and thought “Weird”. Tilting her head to the side she tried to hear something-anything: only to come up with nothing. The air seemed to thicken as she did this, which made her fidget. The wind brushed lightly against her cheek making her jump; “Hello?” she called out. No reply came, which made her think it was just her imagination. Then she heard, “Mary,” her name, a whisper so soft it could have been mistaken as the wind whistling. She felt hot air; a breath down her neck making her freeze, “Mary,” she heard again and realized that she should leave. Up from her seat with a jolt she took off running–running away, running into the woods--. Looking around, she became aware that it was dark; how long was I sitting on that bench? The snapping branches behind her immediately terrified her more! She took off–running faster then she ever had before only to trip over some tree roots. “I can hear you,” the voice said again, “there’s no point running away.” Trying to get up, she noticed that her foot was stuck and begun to pull and break the roots and branches of the tree. Pulling her foot out, she breathed a sigh of relief when she got it free; only to scream when she felt a hand touch her shoulder, “found you.” She slowly turned around to face a pair of steel, cold, gray eyes before everything went black. We Lost Everything
It had blown through our small town destroying everything in sight. The part down the street had been thrown into the lake across the street. We huddled in our tiny, protective basement hoping it would find us. Winds were blowing seventy- five miles per hour my father had told me. At night when we all went to sleep I slept in the top bunk. I knew it was late when I was reading my magazine. Every so often I’d hear a tree branch fall onto a house or a power line or I’d hear the blaring sirens. I just couldn’t go to sleep, what if something broke through the metal doors, it might fall on me. I climbed out of my bed with my sleeping bag and a pillow, quickly, but quietly shuffled over to my golden retriever, Larry. He was curled up in his bed in a corner. I put my pill near his warm belly, set up my sleeping bag, crawled back into my sleeping bag and fell asleep. “Wake up, the house it’s gone,” I heard my older brother, Tim whisper shout to my parents. When my parents sat up my brother took my dad up the ladder and outside. My mom put her slippers on and walked over to me. She shook my side a little bit and asked me to help her make breakfast, which was only cereal, so I’m not sure why she need my help. When my dad and Tim came back in told my mom he needed to talk to her outside. “What’s going on,” I asked my brother curiously. “Nothing,” he lied. Everyone always lies to me because they think I can’t handle the truth. When in reality I was twelve years old and knew way more then they thought. When mom came back in she was in tears. I handed her cereal to her, but instead of eating it she gave it to Larry. My dad told me to take Larry outside when I was done. I knew what was going to happen, they were going to talk about whatever was going on without me. When I finished my cereal I grabbed Larry’s leash and took him outside. That’s when I knew was going on, our house had been destroyed. Once Larry was done I took him back in the basement. “The house is gone and none of you decided to tell me,” I shouted at everyone. “Sweetie-“ my mom started, but I cut her off. “Don’t sweetie me, you guys always keep things from me, but I know way more then you think,” I continued to shout. “Audrey-,” my dad started to explain, but I cut him off too. “Just leave me alone,” I demanded. I climbed up into my bunk and lay there staring at the wall, I stayed that way for a couple hours until my mom came up and started to talk to me. “Sweetie, please come down we want to talk to you,” my mom asked. “Oh, so now you want to include me,” I mumbled and climbed down. When I got down I sat next to my brother even though I was still mad at him along with my mom and dad. “Drip, drop, drip, drop,” the pitter patter of light rain pelts the sidewalk as I trudge along, “drip, drop, drip, drop,” the rain pelts the thick black cloth of my burqa as I try to keep pushing along the wet city streets. I step in a warm puddle as I cross the street to the next block. Now I’m just five blocks away. It would take me so much less time if I didn’t have to wear this thick piece of cloth over everything except a little slip near my eyes so that I can see. I wear my Burqa because of my religion. I am Islam. I wear it because I am serious about it. People think just because I wear the burqa around thatam happy with wearing it. They are horribly wrong. My body whole body drips with sweat, and it’s hard to breathe since the cloth covers my nose and mouth. It’s hard for me to walk since the thick cloth is always pulling against my legs. Wearing a burqa feels like I am wearing a long skirt that is too long and ten sizes to tight. Not to mention a lot hotter. I have seen the locks that people give me. I see them point, I see them whisper to each other. I hear people talking and calling me names to each other, not worrying whether I hear it or not. I have felt the sharpness of their glances. It is as if I was responsible for the September eleventh
attacks just because I am a Muslim. I have felt the pain of peoples words, and I have felt the heaviness of their glances. I sometimes question whether it is necessary for me to wear a burqua. After all this is America, and I am in what they call the city of brotherly love, but I dismiss these foolish thoughts before I have time to think about them more. And as I trudge towards the train station, staring straight ahead and thinking about the glorious moment it will be when I get home, I realize no matter what people say or do, I will always stay true to my faith and my religion. Feet hit the ground, so soft so silent,
No sound is acknowledged. Your the only one alive, or so it seems, though dim yellow lights spill softly down white slopes like melting butter. Nothing matters but the world, which is the only thing that should matter. Yesterdays argument and Saturday's confrontation are far behind you. No more headaches press on your tired mind. You have lost yourself, but not entirely. You still exist, just not at the moment. Your so silent. Feet barely hit the ground. You know you'll be back, in your unknown town. I didn’t want to play. I didn’t want to touch the keyboard but I must. I
sat at the piano bench intertwining my hands together. A small tear floated: landing on my black dress. I drew my hair behind my ears sitting perched on the edge, ignoring the tears. I wished for home; I wished I were far away. Anywhere but this church. The ghostly white keys and black bars seemed odd to me. The notes printed in front of me seemed like a foreign language. I hadn’t played in weeks. My mom hadn’t noticed. I hadn’t even noticed. My dad would have noticed. Sending me directly into our study practicing “Hey Jude” until I completed it smoothly without mistakes. This is how it had always been. His love for piano stretched farther then mine. “Imagine”. That was his favorite. He would play “Imagine” by John Lennon on Saturday nights, the music that lulled me to sleep. I always played. I was good. When I was little, I would assemble on my father’s lap, and we would preform a Beatles song together. I was in charge of the high notes; he, the low notes, and I would sing while he hummed. My mother would stop drying dishes, come in, sit on our big burgundy chair, and sing along. Piano…my father…my life, were gone. I would never again hear the harmonious notes slicing through he warm air of our house. My father, sick for a while, chose to evade the circumstance and relished living everyday to the fullest potential. Near the end of his life, he was in the hospital for weeks being treated for cancer. Eventually, he insisted going home; it was the last time he was home. He called for me and demanded me to take him to the piano. We sat side-by-side on the solid-oak bench. “One last time,” he required as I started the high notes of “Imagine”, and he joined in. His voice was gone, so I sang for him. After we were done, I led him back up to his room. He died that night. My mind wandered back to where I was now, in front of everyone whom my father had ever loved. The church grew still as I plucked a short note to make sure my hands still worked. The tears flowing from my eyes, I played. “Imagine there’s no heaven…” my voice in rhythm with the notes, and although I was crying, my voice was clear: full of hope. I kept going, my melodic voice filling the steeple. The words of the song and my singing brought the comers to tears. Singing, I blocked out every antagonizing recollection of my father’s death, for this was for him. This song was our one last time. |
All work on this page was created by Middle School & High School students. We hope you enjoy reading their amazing poetry, essays, and stories.
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