I look around.  My eyes scan the streets for anything dubious. I walk anxiously as I follow my platoon, trudging behind. It’s tiring waking up early each day, having to patrol the streets. However, I am getting used to it; it’s my job. I continuously walk down the quiet street. Suddenly, the squadron comes to a halt. I glance up, curious to see why we had to stop. I see my patroon leader staring up and squinting in the bright daylight. The platoon commander’s face slightly pales. I slowly follow his gaze and spot a single plane.

“Run!” Run to safety!” Lieutenant Miyazaki, our platoon leader, bellows, his voice in dismay.

My stomach drops at his words. I suddenly feel nauseated, my legs quivering under my weight. Lieutenant Miyazaki points to a street opposite of where the planes headed and starts running. The troop starts running too, following the lieutenant. I run after them, hoping to not get left behind, as I am not the fastest. What is happening? Why is he so frightened? As we keep running, I get farther behind. I can feel my heart pounding against my chest, the blood pumping through my body. As we run longer, I get further behind. I try to catch up, but I can’t. 

I feel the wind hit my face. I reach my hands out in front of me. My eyes shut close, waiting for the impact. I hit the hard ground, but I quickly recover. I stand up, almost falling over again. I look in front of me, only to see the street empty. I look around...nothing. Did they run off without me? I think. I start sprinting forward...still nothing. I eventually reach an area where there’s a dirt path that trails to the right. Should I follow it? I debate this idea in my head. I stand there, panic, dread, fear, the feelings overwhelm me.

I’m laying on the ground, flat on my back. I groan, trying to get up only to feel an odd weight on my body. Thoughts race through my head, and I can’t even comprehend the majority of them. I try and sit up, my hands forcing myself up from the hard gravel ground. I sit up and push the rubble and debris off of me. I’m barely injured. The building must have blocked most of the blast, and the building was a light beige color, so it could reflect most of the heat radiation. I remove the rest of the debris off my leg, and I stand up with great effort.

I look in front of me. The scene puts me in absolute horror. I absorb the surroundings. The city that used to be my home, and the home of hundreds of thousands of other people too, is gone. Everything is charred, broken, lifeless. Bodies are everywhere. The buildings are reduced to soot covered debris, although some distant buildings are still standing. The sky is a muted purple and grey, and the smell of burning flesh is overwhelming. The trees are charred, and many are fallen.

I notice a ragged movement to my right. I realise it’s another person, and I rush to go to help him. While trying to get to the man, a sharp pain sparks through my leg. It must have been the debris from the building. His skin is a raw red color, and his clothes are torn. I help him up, ignoring the acute pain in my leg. 

“Are you alright?” I ask the man, even though I know he isn’t.

He nods slowly. I look around again. Why would they do this? I reflect. Anger pulses through me. So many innocent civilians died because of this. Families were killed. Lives were taken. Why would they do this? I think again. This question keeps popping up in my mind, but the only thing I’m focused on right now is survival. 

The rest of this atrocious day I help other survivors. Many have large, vile burns and are severely injured. Grime coats their frightened faces. Blood soaks into their clothes. My anger still rages on. I will never forget what happened today, and I’m sure others won’t too. 

-Emily Zhong 

A YEAR AGO TODAY…

THE CRASH

JAN 15, 2009

I screamed and writhed underwater, struggling to the surface. I gasped for air, but water rushed into my lungs instead. I was drowning.  

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! I was torn from the nightmare by the shrill voice of my alarm clock. I’m not superstitious, but this dream freaked me out. It was easy to fathom my flight in three hours crashing and me drowning. I looked over at the clock. It read 4:31. I had to get up right now if I was even going to make that flight, but I was questioning whether I really wanted to board that plane. Whatever, I told myself, I would be a chicken to not board. What would my family think? Besides, this would be my only chance to see them before the next visit in six months. I rolled out of bed, slapping on sandals, my favorite jeans, a Black-Eyed Peas shirt, and combing my short, blonde, messy hair, a popular hairstyle now.

Half an hour later and I was sitting in my cab, scarfing down cereal and a banana. It may as well have been my last meal the way I ate it. That wouldn’t have been far from the truth, though, because my chances of death went up every moment I got closer to the airport and flight 1549. I tried to shake the dream from my head, but it kept coming back, my lungs resigning to the water, and all hope with it. The plane probably won’t crash, I’m just overreacting, I thought, trying to push the dream out of my thoughts.

Finally, two hours later, I had boarded. Next to me sat a woman who carried a baby. “Hi!” she announced. “I’m Tess; today is my first time flying.” 

“Nice to meet you,” I replied. “My name’s Brenda, but you don’t have to worry, because I fly every week for work; you’ll be safe!” We quickly went back to our own activities. I put in my earbuds, got comfy (well, as comfy as you can get on a stingy plane in economy class) and turned on my favorite playlist, ‘2009 Hits’ featuring Lady Gaga, and of course, the Black Eyed Peas. 

I was only two songs into my playlist, and we had taken off only a couple of minutes before when abruptly, the plane jolted. I thought nothing of it, but seconds later, the woman next to me, Tess, tapped my shoulder. No one had ever tapped my shoulder so vigorously, so I was concerned. I took out an earbud and we met eyes. She was pale and had a look of angst on her face. She studied the face of her baby, tears welling up in her eyes. “What's wro-” I started to ask.

“The plane!” she proclaimed. “ We're going to crash!” And right on cue, the speaker dinged on. 

“Brace for impact.” They were emotionless, terrifying words. She hugged her baby tight to her chest, and I felt a pang of contrition. 

The flight attendants ran up and down the aisles frantically, like chickens with their heads cut off, getting people into the brace position. “Donna! You take the first 12 rows, I’ll take the middle, and Sheila can take the back 12!” one shouted. 

“Bend over, cover your head and rest it against the seat,” Sheila repeated to our rows, moving the praying passengers, the screaming passengers and even the ones just sitting in shock. After she moved my head, I finally accomplished a good brace.

Some tried to call their loved ones, but time was of the essence. We had only been in the air for a few minutes, so we hadn’t been very high up when the plane began to go down. I was still. My life felt as if it was flashing before my eyes. I thought about my family and my friends. I thought about my biggest failures and successes. I thought about the past. I thought about what could have been my future. I should’ve listened to my gut. I should’ve done things differently. I should’ve spent more time with the people I loved. I should’ve cherished the life I had. But I hadn’t.

Wait, I thought, I might actually have a chance of survival if I can play my cards right. What do I need to do to survive? Aha! The safety card! I whipped out my safety card, re-reading the instructions. I needed to be quick, but I was at an advantage because I always listened to the safety demonstration before the plane took off. I skimmed through to remind myself of the procedures, looking out the window to see how far we were away from the ground. 

Glancing out, I saw we had just missed the George Washington Bridge. The Hudson River glimmered in the sunlight, and the shiny poles and taut wires of the bridge gleamed.  We were going to land in the Hudson River. Oh my god, we are going to land in the Hudson River!!! I dropped my safety card and re-adjusted myself into a better brace position, knowing that I only had seconds until we would crash into the Hudson.

I was right. Seconds later, the plane hit the Hudson, everyone aboard jostling in their seats. As soon as we hit the icy river, the belly of the plane ripped open.  Frigid water flowed in, passengers still sitting shocked in their seats. I needed to act now before it was too late. I jumped up, scrambling into the aisle and making my way into the deformed, lopsided line. But suddenly, something strange happened. 

I felt a sense of compassion and fear for everyone else on that plane. If I died, at least I would die knowing I helped someone else. Tess!, I thought, I didn’t even check to see if she got out into the aisle! What would happen to her baby? How could I be so vain? I turned my head, looking back for Tess’ short, dirty blonde hair, and I spotted it, just not where I expected. She was crawling over the seats, legs flailing and hair falling all over her face, attempting to protect her baby while making it to the exit safely. 

She probably hadn’t been able to make it to the aisle in time, I thought. Tess struggled indolently over the chairs, grappling to get a strong hold on her little infant. I nudged my way down the aisle, like running against a stampede, trying not to get run over by the bulls that were the evacuating passengers. 

“I’m coming, Tess!” I exclaimed to her. When I finally made it to her, the aisle was almost clear, and the water was rising, almost up to my knees. I knew I had to be quick. Hastily, I lifted her up, dropping her back in the aisle with her baby and stumbling to the emergency exit. 

“Thank you,” she mumbled. “For everything.” I nodded at her, just like the humble superheroes did in the movies before flying off. But I wasn’t a superhero, and I couldn’t just fly away. I had to brave the rest of the crash, even if it wasn’t nice.

As soon as we were on the wing, the rush of adrenaline stopped, and everything seemed a lot colder. I looked around, and help seemed non-existent, like no one had even noticed us crash. One man seemed to think the same thing. Without warning, we heard a loud SPLASH! Suddenly, someone was in the frigid water, trying to swim to the shore. His body had other plans, though, and he soon began to get hypothermia. His cheeks started turning pale, and his swimming became slow and lethargic, his breathing the same pace. He was lucky, though, because he hadn’t gotten far. 

“Hey, buddy!” one man shouted, “Turn back, you’re going to get hypothermia!” Miraculously, he listened. The final few yards looked exhausting, but full with the remaining vigors he had left, he swam back to the wing. 

The passengers on the wing had their arms extended, rooting him on with words of encouragement like, “C’ mon buddy, just a little more!” and “You're almost there, keep going!” Once the passenger was standing, I noticed his weak breath and shivering body; he needed help, and fast! As the man continued to shake, his breath slower by the second, hope rounded the corner. Not the coast guard, or some other government service, but a ferry boat that did tours on the Hudson. Did it see us? I thought, Of course it did, we are a sinking plane in the middle of the Hudson!

No more than two minutes later, we were on the ferry being wrapped in tinfoil-like blankets, the man who had tried to swim to safety practically drowning in them. Everything from then on was fuzzy. 

I only recall sitting in my hospital bed, pondering about the day’s events and how lucky I was to be alive that day. But, there was one thing I do remember clear as day, and that was my family coming in to visit and telling me that everyone on flight 1549 that day had survived. “Hi, Honey!” my mother said as she walked in, “How are you feeling?” 

“I’m feeling good, but a little shaken,” I replied earnestly, reaching over to grab her hand. 

“Glad to hear you are doing well; I was so worried when I heard about the crash.” She sighed but perked up a little. “I have some good news!” She took a deep breath “Everyone on the flight today survived; all the passengers, pilots and flight attendants!” 

A smile lit up on my face and my heart felt full and complete as I rushed over to hug my mother. “I thought I would never see you again, Mom!” I whispered into her shoulder, my eyes wet.  “I’m so glad to have another chance to live-or I guess another chance to die…” She laughed, wrapping her arms around me tighter.

“You have to tell me how it happened, I’m intrigued as to how all of you could have survived such a deadly crash.” I sighed and sat back down on my bed.

“Well, it’s a long story…” I began. 

She scooted to the edge of her seat and looked at her watch. “I’ve got time!” she replied eagerly, her eyes wide with curiosity. 

So, the rest of my night was spent telling her the whole story; the guy who swam, my rescue of Tess, the flight attendants service and the perfect water landing. 

“I didn’t tell you this,” I admitted at the end of my story, “but I had a dream right before my flight about drowning after a plane crashed. I considered not coming, but I got on the plane instead. Luckily, I made it out alive and will live to tell the tale. This actually went pretty well, considering the chances of surviving a plane crash. It went a lot better than I thought.” I muttered the last few words, a huge yawn overtaking me. 

My mom looked at me, a mixture of pride and bittersweet love. “Get some rest,” she whispered, walking over to tuck me in just as she used to years ago. “You're going to need some energy for all of the news outlets tomorrow…” 

And just like that, my world went dark as I faded into a deep, placid sleep.

-Nora Whiteside

 Chapter 14

My heart beat faster, anxiety bubbling in my chest as I watched the young girl. Prominent fear reflected in her eyes, and she stared as I made my way over to her. First aid kit clenched in my left hand and the ropes of a small raft I was dragging behind me in my right, water surged around my feet as I struggled through the flooding Hurricane Katrina had left behind. All around me was destruction and rubble. 

Roofs of houses had been torn off and people’s belongings littered the ground. The mud and water that filled the streets was nearly up to my knees in some areas.  There was no one around; it was so different from the usually bustling city of New Orleans. Residents had either evacuated or been stuffed into shelters, and if they stayed in their houses throughout the storm they were mostly gone by now. After all, it’s been three days since Katrina passed.

Wind howled through the air, tangling my chocolate brown hair as it was whipped around. The scrawny trunks that remained of what once were trees bent in the wind, and the scarce leaves that were left went fluttering off into the sky. The low hanging clouds were an ominous gray, a promise of more rain. I reached the child at last, approaching what seemed to be a pile of debris and roofing she was sitting upon in order to stay dry. 

“Don’t be afraid; I'm here to help you. My name’s Anna, and I’m part of FEMA, a search and rescue agency.” The words tumbled out of my mouth, hoping the panic glistening in her eyes would subside a bit. She couldn’t be more than six, and for a brief moment I sympathized with how difficult all of this must be for her. She had probably lost her home and family and had eaten nothing for a few days. 

“Do you know where your parents are? Any of your belongings?” I tried again. After a moment she shook her head. 

“N-no,” she murmured, grey eyes widening. “Our house flooded.” I breathed out a sigh, shaking my head as I realized how thin and sickly she looked. Her ragged shirt clung to her feeble frame, and her face was as pale as a ghost’s. 

“I need to get you back to the rest of my team.” I hoisted the little girl onto the raft with ease and grabbed one of the ropes. Seconds later I was dragging it behind me, the girl perched on top and water swirling around my ankles as I trudged through the flooding.

 We reached the deck of an abandoned, wrecked house, where the rest of my search and rescue team, along with my rescue dog, Rocky, was waiting. We were greeted with cheers and praise. I helped the child out of the raft to the dry, elevated deck where she stood and stared down at Rocky, eyes bugging out. The collie sat and gazed back at her, his tongue lolling out and tail beating against the wood deck, but he didn’t dare to move towards her. I grabbed his half filled water dish from where it sat on the ledge of the deck and placed it in front of him, giving him a pat. Even though it wasn’t extremely hot out, the humidity was suffocating, and I couldn’t imagine how overheated he must be with his thick, long fur, and his red vest that said RESCUE DOG wrapped around him.

“I’ll be right back,” I told the child, glancing from her to Rocky before joining the other three members of our rescue team, Caleb, Maya, and Briana. They sat on rickety folding chairs that they had brought with them, and I sat down in the unoccupied one. 

“How is she?” Caleb inquired, gesturing vaguely to the little girl. I glanced over, noticing she had inched a bit closer to Rocky and was now sitting down. Her long, blonde wisps of hair flew behind her as the wind billowed around us, and she laughed as Rocky reached out his head to gently lick her fingers. She looked fine now, happy, even. But you could still see the slight jut of her ribs peeking out from under her t-shirt, and her face was sunken, colored a ghastly white. 

“We should take her to get medical attention. She’s malnourished and dehydrated, and if we don’t take care of her soon I'm afraid it could get a lot worse,” I explained, worry brimming my tone as I turned my attention back to my search team. Maya was nodding in agreement, but Briana just silently looked at the child, a thoughtful expression plastered across her face. I stood up briskly, brushing the remaining dirt and debris off my shirt. 

“Let’s go,” I ordered, not waiting to see if the others were following me. I helped the child up and marched down the steps to where the raft floated atop the foot of flooding, letting her grab my arm to steady herself as she stepped onto the raft. Rocky obediently jumped in after her, the raft dipping a bit at the extra weight. 

My colleagues and I waded through the water, stepping over piles of debris and demolished houses. The ropes of the raft were clenched in Caleb’s hand as he dragged it behind him. 

We were discussing the conditions of the girl in hushed, quiet voices, when suddenly the water tugging at our boots wasn’t as high. A swarm of people stood about a hundred feet away from us, where one of the medical teams was stationed on dry land. I could make out the small tents where their medical equipment and belongings were stashed. 

Right as I was going to point out the team to Maya and Briana, a thunderous bark from Rocky split the air. I knew my dog better than anyone, and, hearing the alarm in his bark, I immediately knew something was wrong. Panic surged through me as I spun around and saw why the collie was upset; the little girl was lying, unmoving in the raft, her eyes closed and breathing shallow. My rescue team must’ve noticed too because suddenly we were thrown into chaos. 

  “Help!” Maya screamed, jogging over to the medical team with Briana at her side. At the same time, Caleb moved to scoop the girl out of the raft. Rocky and I followed close behind Caleb as he carried the girl over to the medical team. I watched the child as she was placed on one of the blue cots the medical team had set up underneath one of their pop up canopy tents. My chest felt tight, and anguish washed over me as I looked at her. She lay, unmoving, her chest barely rising with her ragged breath. What’s wrong with me?’Death was inevitable during our searches here in New Orleans. Hundreds of people died from the hurricane itself, and every day our rescue teams and others had uncovered people that were trapped under piles of destruction, the life sucked out of them. So why was it so hard for me to look at this unconscious child whose name I didn’t even know? 

A light drizzle had begun outside, a promise to make the flooding much worse. I stepped back from the cot as medics crowded the little girl. I didn’t know where the rest of my team had disappeared to, except for Rocky, who was still at my side. I sat down in a flimsy chair that was set up near the edge of the tent, my head spinning. The quiet sound of rain beating against the canopy overhead calmed me, and I don’t know how long I sat there before I summoned the courage to approach the medical team again. I tapped one of the medics that seemed unoccupied, and he spun around. 

“Yes?” he asked, glancing from me to the little girl.

“Will she be okay?” The question was meant to sound confident and authoritative, but it came out as more of an anguished whimper. The man hesitated, and when he finally responded, his answer was resigned.

“We are doing the best we can.”

I sighed, deeply dissatisfied with his answer, but I knew there was nothing I could do about it. Turning around, I started to go back to my seat, where Rocky was waiting, when I heard a glimpse of what the man murmured next into his walkie talkie.

“The girl is going to need more serious medical attention.”

-Ava Vitali

Damian’s mind is a torrent of wild thoughts. None seem to stick in his brain as he paces. His hair falls in a dark curtain around his head, his face is pointed, and his eyes are an alert green. He has had so many plans, so many grand schemes for power. 

Now, his time for scheming is finished, replaced by panic, by fear, by thoughts of how to salvage what he already has. The newspaper lies open on his desk, the headlines blaring, ECONOMY STILL CRIPPLED, HOOVER ISSUES NON-INTERVENTION STATEMENT!  

Damian grabs the paper off the desk and strides down his stairs, crumpling the paper as he goes. He pauses on the bottom step, a single moment of hesitation, then continues on. As he reaches the door, he flings it open and steps onto his porch. He wrings his hands together and retreats into his thoughts. He has still not managed to get his thoughts together and clutches his head, now having developed an impressive headache. He sighs and walks to his car, a relatively new Ford Tudor. 

As he pulls out of his driveway, he checks his mailbox. There are two letters in it, one from his work, and one from… He doesn’t recognize the name on the second letter, so he decides to open the first letter first. He breaks the seal gingerly, so as to be able to reuse the letter’s casing, and pulls out the slip of paper. As he reads, a vein in his neck throbs. 

“Fired. I have actually been fired from a job,” he says. He starts laughing and doesn’t stop for a full minute. He rips the letter to pieces.

 Damian opens the second letter, and as he reads it, this time, there is no laughing. He drops the letter in disbelief. The letter is from the company that had sold him his house a year earlier, and he has been informed that his house has been foreclosed by the bank. 

Damian pulls the car back into the garage of the house that had been, until a few minutes ago, his. He could go to the food line. He could go beg on the streets. Doing either of those things might keep him alive. Damian is not that person. His pride eclipses all else, even a chance to keep himself alive. This slump, this depression is ruining his life. “Roosevelt, fix this?” Damian asks himself in a grating voice, “I don’t think so.”

Damian flings the door open and starts down to his basement. He looks at a picture of himself and his late father on the wall. His father’s eyes, once a source of inspiration for him, are now nothing but a source of pain. Damian touches the picture and pushes. The picture rips down the middle, revealing a small storage unit. He opens it up and removes the red sticks of dynamite inside. He tucks them gingerly into a cardboard box and walks up the stairs again, every step a new burden. 

In his kitchen, Damian unfolds the foreclosure letter again. Come to the attention of Damian Nod that his house, as a result of lack of payments of mortgage, has been foreclosed upon. If you have not yet left the premises by 4:00 pm on May 18th, 1932, you shall be removed. The words ring in Damian’s head. He will not be condescended to buy a two-bit banker. Today is May 18th; he does not have much time. 

Damian takes the dynamite and sets it around the house’s back. He lays a trail of gasoline with his car and walks out the front gates of his home, into the city proper. As Damian walks, he thinks. His father had been a thief, a liar, and a cheat. It was only when he tried to rob a bank that he met his downfall at the hands of a Chicago Typewriter. The one useful thing the man had done for Damian was giving him the dynamite after the Great War.

Damian hears a rumble, and as he turns, watches the truck belonging to the bankers round the corner, and as it pulls to a stop, Damian smirks. The bankers walk toward the house, one of them holding a clipboard and jotting notes. He looks at the match in his hand. He strikes it against the gasoline and stands. The gasoline doesn’t burn, it explodes. Within a few scant seconds, the road and grass are torn asunder. The windows shatter with the sound of a thunderclap, and the base of the house crumples like a tin can. The bankers are thrown back a good twenty feet. 

As he watches the house complete its destiny of a fiery end, he recalls something his mother had said before she caught tuberculosis. “If everyone fought fire with fire, then the whole world would go up in smoke.” He does not know where she had first heard it, but when his mother said that, she said it as if she was quoting someone. Damian doesn’t care. In his heart, all has been burned away but pure, smoldering ambition. His work is done here. How he will survive he doesn’t know, but he has had his revenge. 

Some time later, perhaps an hour, Damian hears something. Voices.

“Please, somebody!” The voice is muffled by something, and as he listens, he hears a commotion.

“Gimme da cash, lady!” The voice has come from a large man in a black overcoat. The man has a gun in his hand, and another in his back pocket. A thousand outcomes drift through Damian’s mind in the space of a second.

“No, please! I need this money to help pay off my house!” The women and gangster are down a small alley. The gangster has his back turned and is threatening the women. Damian strides quietly toward the two. The gangster’s gun is within reach. 

Damian breathes, shoots out his arm and grabs the gun. The gangster spins as Damian yanks, the women forgotten. Damian has the gun in his hands, and he finds that it is still full of bullets. He looks at the gangster pleasantly and proclaims, “If you pull the trigger, I will have enough time to do the same before I die, and we will both die.”
“Same goes for yous,” says the gangster gruffly.

“I am not afraid of death,” Damian says dangerously, “I will not hesitate to shoot you, so I suggest you hand over every bit of money in those pockets of yours.”

“I ain’t gonna do nothing’ of the sort, so scram!” The gangster yells, “No crazy person would actually pop one a’ those against me! Capone would have your head!”

“You are terribly naive,” Damian intones, and he shoots the gangster in the head. The larger man pulls the trigger as soon as he hears the bang, but Damian has already dove, the bullet missing him by a full foot.

“Th-Thank you,” The woman whimpers.

“No, thank you,” Damian declaims as he pockets the hundreds of dollars the gangster had been carrying. He watches the hope drain from her face and leaves her despondent in the alley as he exits with newfound purpose. 

Damian does not notice the leaves on the trees, or the wind, or the sun on the lake near him as he passes by. In his skill of seeing so far ahead, he is blind to all beauty. He cannot see what is, only what can be. Damian walks down to a cab. The driver of the cab is busy negotiating payment with a customer, so Damian simply gets in the car, and with a quick twist of the wire he keeps in his jacket, the car starts, and he leaves. 

The city around Damian grows smaller as he gains distance from it, until finally it is out of sight. Damian looks at the money, and then his hands. His hands are covered in dirt, and he grimaces in disgust. The sun sets gently on the horizon as his car moves off into the distance.

-Mason Smolen 

12/7/41

I woke up at 6:00 a.m. that beautiful morning, like any other, completely unaware that my precious life would be put on the line only two tantalizing hours later. After I had gotten dressed into my freshly cleaned white uniform, I had eaten a good breakfast of chalky eggs, toast with margarine, as well as a glass of bitter, concentrated orange juice, while listening to Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy by The Andrews Sisters. I looked out the window of my shabby cabin to see that the glorious sun had glazed the harbor’s waters, and the clouds were completely erased from the bright blue sky. 

“I’d be givin’ this fine day a bum rap if I didn’t spend it with someone else,” I murmured to myself. So I casually put on my ratted shoes and started to the clinky, old radar station, where one of my only buddies in the navy was positioned for now. 

Arriving at the Oahu Radar Station, Earl was nowhere in sight, but all I had to do was call for him, and he came in a zip.

 “Heya, Dan!” he answered strangely as he clumsily fumbled around with his can of spam. “What brings you here bright and early?” he cautiously continued, still in a concerned voice. 

“Just wanted to swing by to share the wonderful mornin’ with my pal,” I remarked cheerfully. I slyly glanced over to the rickety equipment table where the mechanical clock read 7:12 a.m in bright green numbers. My wandering eyes also sneakily noticed a radar flashing bright red, then to a dull green. “What’s up with your little fella’ over there?” I asked inquiringly. He abruptly glanced over to where I was pointing and let out a sigh of relief. 

“I really had hoped that I could take care of this myself,” he grumpily muttered. Earl then lazily took me over to the dusty equipment table and showed me what it was. “This here radar has been sayin’ that it has picked up more than 200 planes to the northeast of the harbor.” My silly smile ran away from my face as his words stabbed me in my gut. 

“That machinery can’t be right; I think it’s time for you to pass the buck to the commander so he can figure out what is going on,” I cautioned. The worried look in his sad eyes didn’t seem to want to go anywhere after I mentioned this. “Where is the commander anyway?” I resumed. 

“He’s in a meeting currently with some other high-end officials,” Earl explained to me. “But he’ll be out shortly,” he added, trying to reassure me.

So we marched straight to the locked, ominous door of the radar station’s meeting room, and then we waited. It seemed cruel to be forced to wait to share information that could possibly save lives, or put them in danger. The disgusting thought made me queasy, although Earl and I had just hoped that it was only a malfunction in the radar system. It was almost like we were children in trouble for misbehaving. But after what seemed like the entire gorgeous morning, the officials finally came out of their hiding. We sought out the station commander nearly immediately. 

Earl had practically spat out everything he said. It was like he wasn’t speaking the same language as us, so I picked up from where he left off to try to explain it to the commander. 

        Once he heard what we had to say, he merely waved us aside. “There’s no reason to worry about this one, boys!” he boomed in a broad voice that shook the dim ceiling lights as he sauntered his way back to where the radar lay. “A practice flight of the U.S. Army Air Corps planes was scheduled for today, so there’s nothing to bust your cap over,” he reassured us. This being said, Earl nearly fell to the ground with a relieved smirk over his dopey face.

So I then headed back to my position, leaving Earl with a terse farewell. Once I had reached the docked fleet, I headed straight for the admirable Utah, where a few other men were meandering around; it was a fairly calm morning, so they had reason to. Although, this didn’t stop me from getting right to my duties. I went straight for the rusted pale of water and the mop leaning against the frame of the gleaming deck. My jobs weren’t the most important for the ship, but I treated them like they were the most significant job of any Navy member. 
     With my mindset, it didn’t take long to finish the job. Then I went to check below the deck to make sure every little thing was in order, which it had been. 

I now had some free time, so I went back up to the deck (where the men were still having a jolly time) to enjoy the cool breeze and the bright sky. I glanced over at the men, then to my watch, which read 7:47 a.m., then back to the men, and finally to the clear blue sky. And I saw something peculiar up there. In a daze, I was staring at the U.S. Army Air Corps planes, which were doing their practice flight as Earl and I had been told. But there was something strange about these planes, and they didn’t entirely look like U.S. aircraft. One of the men on the ship noticed that I was staring at them. 

“Why so tense buddy, loosen up!” he sneered. I simply glanced at him, then back to the planes. And then it dawned on me, that those planes weren’t U.S. aircraft in the slightest. I ran over to the other men and told them what I had seen in a rush, stumbling over my own words. But the foolish men didn’t think twice of it as I was just a new member and a probably a little jumpy. I jolted off the ship, infuriated that they dismissed me with a snap of their procrastinating fingers. But I had realized too late and couldn’t go to anyone else in the Harbor. 

The planes were hovering over the docked fleet as I screamed for the men to get off the ship if they valued their lives. They all rolled their eyes and one replied, “And if we don’t, what’s gonna happen to us, you’ve just gone and snapped your cap, haven’t you?” 

And it turns out that the Utah was one of the first to go, along with the three men. The attack had begun without anyone knowing that the Japanese were even in the harbor. It was pure chaos brought from the depths of hell itself. Men and women were caterwauling with horror for their very own lives as a 1.769-ton bomb dropped from a Japanese plane and crashed through the deck of the ship, killing greater than 1,100 members on board. 

I was running around like a chicken without its head, trying to salvage everything and everyone I could. I turned to look at my watch, now cracked and covered with dirt; it read 8:07. Only 12 minutes into the attack and more than five battleships were sunk. I stared at the blood-red sky filled with smoke and debris as some men in jets tried to fend off the attack, but it was no use. They had destroyed more than 188 of our aircraft and only seven were fit to fly. Men were jumping off of the Nevada and into the now black, boiling oil and water of the harbor as the ship was hit by seven, or maybe even eight torpedoes at once. However, she was still standing through the attack. 

The raid came to an end all at once as my busted watch now read 8:50 a.m. But the tension was still high as I ran around with other members, trying to rescue those who were injured. One of the men rushed into the dull, murky water, claiming to see a man lying face down in the water. “I found someone!” he exclaimed as we all huddled to look. As the man turned him over to pull him out of the water, we realized that the entire front part of his skull was missing, and we were too late. However, I did glance a little way across the harbor to see a man clutching his stomach still moving on the blood-stained ground. 

“Thank you! Truly, thank you,” he stammered in a fragile voice as I tried to pull him up by his arm. I handed him over to the rest of the crew to be taken care of as I searched for others who could be saved. 
It wasn’t long until the second wave of planes came to finish us off. They came straight for what they had missed before. The Nevada. She stood strong in the first round but was pushed over with the simple gusts off their horrid wings. Their mission was to finish off the entire fleet, and that was what they got.
     The USS Pennsylvania went down without a fight, alike to the USS Shaw, which split into two pieces after being hurled with bombs. The planes started to run out of things to destroy by 9:45 a.m. And they were gone before we even had a chance to fight back. The only thing left untouched in that harbor were the oil facilities.

Dan Wissick 

12/8/41 

It is now one day after the Japanese raided Pearl Harbor, only a few lives could be reclaimed, most were lost to the attack, and some even claimed their very own lives over their own grief. There’s been a short and sweet funeral held by the commanders and officers for every fallen member. Our own black suits are crying with the tears of the dull, gray sky. Those who can move onto the next grave, to mourn their companion, friend, or loved one. The processions are still being held for those who can bear the misery and anguish, for not one person in the entire harbor had even known it was coming. And when it did, nobody even knew it was there to begin with. But as for me, I’ll stay here next to the polished marble grave of Earl Bennett, a single freshly picked peony on top of where he lay. 

Here lies a companion, friend, and a loved one, 

whose time ran short without even preparing a goodbye

Died: December 7th, 1941 

Dan Wissick 

-Will Parsons

“I’ll be heading back to my cabin now, ladies. Thank you for dinner,” the girl said tiredly.

“The pleasure is ours. You sure are a riot, Dr. Marino!” 

The girl slowly waved her friends off before walking away. She cringed at the sound of the muffled music playing just outside. 

“My brother better not be in that study of his,” she said to herself as she walked through the silent halls. 

The eerie silence filled the girl's ears. Opening the door to her cabin, she walked over to where her brother was. 

“Ivan? Brother, you missed dinner. Are you feeling alright?” the girl called out to her brother cautiously.

“I’m alright, Evelyn. I’m simply feeling a bit-”  A muffled yawn sounded loudly from behind the study door. 

“Tired?” Evelyn piped in. 

“Precisely. You seem way too chuffed, sister,” Ivan chuckled. 

A comfortable silence hung in the cabin, a silence that was practically begging to be broken. 

“Well,” Evelyn started, “I’m off to bed. Care to join?” 

Evelyn waited for a response, but nothing followed.  Evelyn laughed to herself, knowing how tired her brother was. She felt pleased knowing she would get some rest tonight, now that Ivan had abandoned the typewriter for the time being. 

She eased herself under the covers, cocooned like a caterpillar in its chrysalis. Evelyn drifted to sleep without too much on her mind.

It felt like Evelyn closed her eyes for merely a moment before she felt the ship jerking her violently out of her peaceful slumber. Yelping, she hit the wood floor. 

CLANG ...CLANG…..CLANG 

The piercing sound of the warning bell sliced through the thick cold fog. Bolting up from the floor, she rushed to the cabin door. She swung it open and raced down the dark hallway. 

God! Is the electricity out? She stumbled awkwardly without the guide of the light through a labyrinth of hallways and out onto the deck.

The second she made contact with the open air, she felt a cold breeze blow past her pale skin. She shivered. A grown man in uniform frantically ushered Evelyn towards the edge of the ship. 

“Whoah, what is going on here?!”  the doctor screamed angrily. He was scared and oblivious to the danger. 

“Please, just get into lifeboat number three,” the man pleaded sadly, handing her an orange life jacket. Sensing the tone in his voice, Evelyn obeyed. 

Dr. Marino stepped carefully into the half-full lifeboat. 

Bloody hell, Evelyn shuddered.  

The cold metal of the unhoused seat bit at her skin as she sat down. Chills went straight up her spine. 

Screams and cries circled from the deck next to her when the ship started to get closer and closer to the cold, deep-blue ocean. Evelyn felt herself being lowered into the sea until the last moment; the boat was dropped. 

The girl’s mind went into a frenzy as she took a mental note of the damp wood paddles on either side of her. 

“PICK UP A PADDLE NOW, AND ROW!” a voice screamed from the other side of the boat through the badly offbeat music. 

Evelyn almost instantly located the paddles. She was prone to do what she was told, mostly because she didn’t want to die. Not yet to say the least. She had been in many tough situations that challenged her; she could handle this. 

Flares were thrown into the air, lighting up the dark sky.  After some time passed rowing, her numb arms felt like they weighed a million pounds.  She couldn’t bring herself to look back; she didn’t want to see the pale bodies floating over the dark water or the monstrous ship that ruined her comfortable life. 

That’s when the girl started to realize what was going on fully. Her brother never came out of his room. 

Ivan sank with the ship.

Evelyn felt horrible. He was the pure foundation to who she was today, and now he was gone. After much thought, she let herself release the emotion building up in her chest. She released a small sob that could barely be heard over the pain and crying of the other passengers on the lifeboat. 

Ivan… is dead, Evelyn thought. 

That one phrase repeated in her head on and on. She felt as though a piece of herself was ripped from her body. 

Taking in a deep breath, Evelyn shakily grasped onto the paddle handles with her splintered hands, suddenly determined to get to safety. I can do this, Evelyn thought.  Adrenaline coursed through her, making her more determined to survive.

The hours she had just spent rowing for her life disappeared. She disregarded the numbness of her limbs and pushed onward.  All she could concentrate on was a middle-aged woman screaming in the front, standing and motivating the ones who were rowing.

“I see lights!” a voice sounded. 

Evelyn heard the sound of a horn being blown. 

“A ship!” the doctor exclaimed out loud. 

Feeling a wave of hope and relief flying over her pink (almost purple) face, everyone on the small boat stood from their seats and called for help. Not only did her face light up, but everyone else seemed happy as well. For now, she finally felt safe. 

“When I asked to use the restroom on the Carpathia, I saw how bruised and beaten my hands were. I had to individually pick every single splinter out of my hand with metal tweezers,” the girl announced to the reporter.

“Tell me, any loss of family?” The curious reporter held his tape recorder next to the girl’s slightly flushed face, eager to continue his investigation on the disaster that killed thousands. 

Hesitant to respond, she felt her mood falter. “Yes. My brother,” the girl said. 

She mentally prepared herself for any more touchy questions.

“Yes... and your name, Miss..?” The man asked, now less interested and ready to move on. 

“My name? Evelyn. Evelyn Marino.” 

-Eve Oppy

“Hello troops, if you didn’t already know, my name is Robert Lee, but you’ll refer to me as General Lee. We have a duty in this nation to save slavery, and to show the North that they’re wrong to make laws that we don’t agree with, but we have to get through them first.”

As Lee continued to rant on towards his soldiers, one of his troops, Shaun, heard something in the distance, a loud, screeching noise moving closer and closer.

“Sir, we have a problem,” Shaun declared.

“That’s the next thing for when I am your General, you  must ask permission to speak,” said Lee to the weary soldier.

“But sir, the Union is here; they’re attacking.”

Lee and many others could now hear the booming noises of the horns, rushing through the air towards their weary ears like a bull to a red cape.

The Confederate army could see them due to it being such a barren place, no trees, water, food… nothing. 

As the Union continued approaching, Lee announced, “battle stations!”

As the soldiers ran around frantically, grabbing their Springfields and some marching cannons, a deputy of Lee’s announced that they were outnumbered by thousands of men. As the two armies started getting closer, shooting began. Cannons bursting cannonballs towards one another, ripping each other heads off. Lee could hear the screeches of agony begin. His soldiers hadn’t been trained for long, so he didn’t know if this was going to turn out well. 

Shaun was one of the many lucky ones who survived the first few attacks from the Union, as well as General Lee.

“Don’t get too ahead of yourselves, boys, there are still many more of them to come.”

“We’re screwed, sir,” said one of the soldiers.

“Do you think I care, private,” Lee stated.

Shaun reached for his Springfield, which he had dropped because the sights he was viewing traumatized him. When he grabbed it, more came. All of the men, gruesomely murdering one another, fought and fought.

“Medic!” Shaun cried across the barren field.

“Yes, sir what’s wrong?”

“My leg has been stabbed.”

Shaun’s leg had been stabbed mightily, leaving a large hole with a wretched stench. As the medic started bandaging his leg, he fell on to Shaun, who was confused, until he realized that he had been blasted in the head by a Minié ball.  Shaun didn’t know what to do except to try to bandage it himself. Afterwards, he went and told Lee the news.

“One of our best medic has been shot, sir.”

“Well that sure does suck, doesn’t it, someone died in a war. Goddammit, get back in there!” shouted Lee

Fighting raged on for almost two days, causing 2,680 casualties for the Union, while the Confederates only had 2,000 casualties. The Union, knowing they had lost way too many men to go on, started retreating. Lee wanted to counter-attack them in order to take control of their forces, but his unorganized army couldn’t counter while they were on the attack, so they stayed back.

“Lee, we won!” shouted a soldier frantically.

“We have won nothing but a mere fraction of the war,” responded Lee. “And at what cost, thousands of our men died.”

The air grew cold as they all realized it was the truth. They had lost so many men, and for no reason, they hadn’t even countered the retreating army, so barely anything was accomplished.

Shaun was now crying in pain. Medics rushed over to help heal the deep trench of flesh he had been given by the opposing side. Some soldiers were ecstatic about winning the battle, others, horrified at the sight of all the dead bodies in the dead area they fought in. Lee was one of them; sadness crept upon him. 

Lee tried to walk away from the soldiers, away from the battlefield, from reality. But he couldn’t escape from all of the dead bodies, craters and bullets everywhere he looked. Now Lee was considering the worst, ending it all. It would happen anyways in one of these battles, he thought. 

He picked up his gun, and bang. The gun had shot as it hit the ground; Lee was happy for his soldiers’ might, and he wanted to go on. 

-Cole Mead

The slight breeze tickles the crisp autumn air. A tan rope with a loop is coiled tight around a girl’s neck, but it seems her soul is sucked away, leaving only a pale face and body suspended in the air like a rag doll. 

***

We live in Salem, Massachusetts, and the Witch Trials are happening, but we try to ignore it as much as we can. Our lives aren’t like they used to be. At least I still have my family. 

It all started with Abigail Williams and Betty Parris. They were the town's attention for weeks, and they struck fear into everyone's hearts and minds… 

In February 1692 they got eminently ill. Both of them kept going into fits, and their health didn’t improve, so a doctor came in to see what was going on, and they were diagnosed with bewitchment. More and more people fell into that behavior, and the hysteria started. We created a special court to accuse people of being witches. The first accused witch was Bridget Bishop; her lifestyle was flamboyant, and she didn’t dress properly; the proper way to dress for women is wearing similar clothing and plain colors. They don't want to attract attention. Women wear dresses that cover everything from their necks to the floor, with white aprons, and their hair is usually up in a bun. From there the trials and hangings kept going and going, like a snowball getting bigger and bigger as it rolled down the hill.

***

My plate is wiped clean from the cake. “That was a delicious cake, Mother!” 

“You really think so?”

“Really.”

“It is your special day, Charity, you deserved it.”

I am about ready to fall asleep, but I am terrified about the Witch Trials creeping into my dreams again. Every night since the Witch Trials started I have been having nightmares about me being tried and hanged or put into jail. But what is so bad about them is that they feel so realistic, and when I wake up I am on the verge of tears. 

I creep down the squeaky stairs, trying not to make much noise, but when I am down, my mother is drinking her morning tea and reading a paper with fear. Her eyes are deep and sharp and never leave the paper, and they start to get glossy and her nose red. I know what she is reading, and why she is crying. Her tears are for me.

I can hear the rain falling through the roof and the buckets trying their best to catch the droplets. We are having our lunch quietly, except little Phoebe, laughing and throwing her food everywhere. It is a perfect quiet lunch until a knock pounds the door. 

The next thing you know, cold metal is wrapped around my arms, and hot tears are running down my cheeks; my parents are pleading not to take me, and even Phoebe is upset. The door slams behind the escort and me. The pouring rain makes my body heavy and wet. The cobblestone roads are drenched, and the court is in sight. 

The air inside makes me choke, and I can hear the muffled sobs of people in the courtroom. I am next, and I know that I will reply just like all the others, with broken words and wet faces. The escort shoves me into the room, and I can hear the click of the door. There is no way out now. 

“You, Charity Ellison, have been accused of being a witch and practicing witchcraft,” his deep voice says. “You have freckles, and skip Church, and do not dress properly, and that makes you a witch.”

“But-”

“Now, have you talked to the devil?”

“N-”

“Liar!!! You are accused of being a witch, you have freckles and skip Church; any last words?”

“Um, I only skip Church because I can’t sit still, and it is so boring, and I am NOT a witch!” I squeak as my lips tremble and the hot tears flow down my cheeks.

“Stop lying, Church is never boring, and you do practice witchcraft. I am not afraid of you.”

 “You are afraid! You just don’t want to show it; you are just fighting your fears by ignoring them, and that doesn’t work!!”

“Bring her to jail, and lock her with the other ones. You will be hanged in two days; no visits allowed.”

The escort stomps into the room and puts the tight, cold metal back on my hands. He shoves me toward the dark smelly hallway, towards the jail. My tears won’t stop, even though I try hard to calm myself down. I will never see Phoebe or Mother and Father. I should have never skipped Church and should have listened to them in the first place. 

The jail is full, gross and old, dust gathered in the corner, and people are constantly moaning and sobbing. I am put into the last empty cell and given a plate of hardened mashed potatoes and a stale piece of bread. It is freezing, and people around me are starving and cold. I’m not the only one.

***

Only one day has passed, and my dress is already slipping off my shoulders; my life is shortening every minute. Every day I think of my old memories, and my family, trying to keep every single moment with them, but my hands are full, and the grasp of them is slipping. Soon I won’t remember anything, and my mind will be blank.  There won’t be any grasp; my hands will be limp, the memories slowly slipping away and out of reach. 

***

Today is the day, and I am sweating, but it is cold; I would be shaking if I had enough energy. The wind whips at my face and curly brown hair, and the crisp autumn air is enjoyed by most people, but not me, not now and not ever. I am dragged to Gallows Hill.  The closer we get the quicker my heart beats. A throng of people follow behind the escort and me, my family in front. I knew this would happen eventually. What will happen to my family after this? 

There is an eerie silence, and it is making my spine tingle. 

It feels like everything is going in slow motion. 

My hands feel limp, and everything is gone.

Charity Ellison

1680-1693

Hanged on Oct. 18, 1693

-Lauren Lamme