The sun was shining on my face. I was sitting on our couch, and the warm sun was flowing over me. I could hear the noise from the city just a couple of miles away. 

I was watching a girl with a pink skirt on; it had little yellow flowers on it. She looked the same age as me. I had been watching her for a couple days. A little ball sat at the bottom of my stomach. It had been there for a while. Every time I looked at her, I wanted to go outside and play with her, but I knew I couldn’t. She and I had different worlds. I lived differently from her. If I talked to her she probably wouldn’t like me. I turned away from the warm window and looked into the little living room. There was a little couch on one side of the room, a rocking chair, a coffee table, a little blanket by the couch, and then there was the big light tan couch I was sitting on. My little brother screamed as my mother carried him into the room.

“James, please calm down,” my mother said calmly as he screamed in her arms. She sat him down on the blanket and sat down next to me.

“Huu, that little boy is fussy, he has been throwing a hissy all day long,” she said as she rubbed my back, and then she looked at me. “Mary, what's wrong; you look sad?”

I sighed and then said,  “I am just sick of it, we live next door to some people for so long and we don’t even know them.”

 “The world is different; white and black people are treated differently, but you have to be thankful that we live in an area that is not too bad, because New York is getting better.”

“I guess you are right,” I said while looking at my legs. My light pink skirt had faded, and my shirt was getting older.

“Can you please do the laundry, Sweety?” my mom asked.  

“Okay.” But I didn’t move. My eyes were glued to the bin on the ground with New York Times newspapers. My father never read them much; he didn’t have to. Every week it was the same thing. Protests, sit-ins, arrests on black people for protesting. I liked reading them because it was very interesting.

“Hello. Can you do the laundry?”  She was eyeballing me when she said this.

“Oh sorry,”  I told her.

Just then my father walked in. His eyes were tired and his clothes were dusty.

“Hi guys,” he said calmly as he sat on the other couch.

“Father!” I yelled.

“There's my girl!” he said with a smile. His eyes looked at mine. I looked into those big brown eyes; happiness, sadness and other things whirled through his eyes.

That night when I was about to go to bed I heard my father and mother talking.

“It is just so rude!” my mother was saying.

“Please, Sweetie, don’t get so upset; this happens all the time,” he told her.  “People like me just get treated that way sometimes, and it is not good, but it is what happens.”

“But for them to treat you like a rug! That is so unbearable!” my mother told him, her voice was getting louder. She was upset and annoyed.

“I understand, but it happens; look, I am tired, I better hit the sak,” he said quietly.

I turned around. What could have happened? Was everything okay? My father got treated not great sometimes, but I never heard him so mad before. My heart was pumping really fast. I went to bed worried. I tried to calm myself, but after a little bit, I fell asleep.

The next day when I was all ready, I went back to the couch and tried not to think about the previous night, so I looked at the pile of newspapers, and there was a new one on the top. I picked the paper up; it read: New York Times; 1963 Arrests in local restaurants.  My eyes scanned the rest of the paper; it was still the same as yesterday. Like always there was nothing new.

 I looked at the other newspapers talking about Civil Rights and Jim Crow laws and Martin Luther King Jr.  I didn’t understand why we were so different; we are all people, and we all are the same. My eyes glanced outside where the little girl was riding her bike. Something in my stomach turned, how much I wanted to say hi and how much I wanted for us to be the same. Then something happened, something that never happened before. I started walking to the door. Was I really about to do something I had been wanting to do for such a long time? When I walked out there I pretended to look at the flowers, and then I heard a voice.

“Hey! someone said.  My head looked up so fast I thought my head was going to come off. Then I saw the little girl with her hair put into two braids. She had a bright purple skirt with a light yellow shirt.

“Hi,” I said quietly. I stood there and didn’t move.

“My name is Barbra!” she said happily. “Wanna play?”

I stood there, shocked. It was like she didn’t even notice my skin color. She just was so happy to play with me.

“Okay.” I walked over to her.

“What's your name?” she asked.

“Mary,” I told her.

“That's a pretty name,” she said. “So how about we go in my backyard, we are going to have a ball.”                                                                                                  

She took me to a little bench in her backyard. There was a big tree behind it that made the bench shaded from the hot sun.

“So, I guess you are a little surprised that I asked you to come over here, huh?  I didn’t say anything.  “Well just so you know, my family wants Civil Rights! My brother has been in a protest before.”

I felt more happy;  my head lifted, and I looked right at her.

“I wish you and I went to the same school, if it wasn’t for the dumb law you and I would be best friends! You know I always wished you could come over here.”

My heart jumped. She always wanted me to come over here and said that she wanted to be best friends!

“So how's your family?” she added.

I didn’t answer amidly; I had not talked much, and I didn’t want to mess it up.

“Well, I have a little brother named James. He is two, and my mom stays home to watch us, and my father works in the city; he helps fix shops.”

“Oh that’s cool! My father works in the city also!” she told me.

We talked for hours; it felt weird talking to a girl the same age as me that I never talked to before. It was great though. The warm breeze was nice and the backyard was so pretty. The way she talked calmed me, as did the way she looked past my color and just liked me for who I was. I wished the whole world could be like her.

That night I told my mother and father about Barbra. My mother was so happy that we were friends. I looked at my father and for the first time in a while; I saw a little smile on his face.

In the morning, I sat on the couch and looked down at the pile of newspapers. I sat there thinking about yesterday and how amazing it had been, but there was still a pit at the bottom of my stomach. Things were still the same though, we still went to separate schools and there were lunch places for different people. Things were still not right. I sat there just thinking about all of this.

I woke up from my day dream, and my eyes were frozen to the newspaper on top that said, New York Times: Protests for unsegregated schools and restaurants! Will this law change? My heart skipped a beat. Could this be happening? Could segregation start to stop? I hadn’t felt so happy in a long time. This was what I was waiting for. Then my mother walked into the room. She looked at my startled face. I eyeballed her, and she looked close at me. We sat there for a little bit, just looking at each other. It was like she knew what I was thinking. 

“Is it true?” she asked quietly.

I nodded.

“Oh my!” Her eyes gleamed with happy tears. “This is so wonderful! They are talking about desegregating schools, and maybe restaurants! Oh this is great, and I just found out your father is getting a new job that is so much greater!”

I looked quickly at her; my body was starting to get heavy. I had forgotten about what I heard a couple of nights ago with all this excitement going on.

“What?” I started. “Dad quit or lost his job, why what happened?”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you; I didn’t want to worry you.” Her voice was quiet. “Dad quit his job because he didn’t like what was going on at his work.” Then she paused. “Because of the color of his skin, he was treated unfairly.” She looked sad.

“Oh, I am really happy that he got a new job,” I said.

I walked over to Barbara's house after this. I was not as happy as I was before. The reason why my father quit his job really made me sad. What happened that made him quit his job? These thoughts kept going through my head. When I saw Barbra I got so excited to tell her the news about the desegregation.

“What!” she said as we walked into the backyard.

“I can’t believe it! That means we can go out to eat together and we can go to school together!” she said excitedly. She was so happy, but when I told her about my father, the excitement started to go away.

“Ah?” she said sadly. “Your father quit his job because he was treated badly?

I nodded. The sadness overwhelmed me.

“Oh my.” Her voice was sad. “That's so unbelievable.”

We sat there for a little bit, the good news and the bad news in our heads.

“At least he got a good job now, that's great,” Barbara said comfortably.

I smiled at her; the newspaper about desegregation sat between us. Our long hair bounced in the wind. The sun shined down, and the tree shaded us. The little bench felt so comfortable. I looked at my new friend who was so kind. I thought about our friendship that would last a long time. I also thought about the desegregated schools and restaurants and my father who was starting new. A couple days ago I thought that I would always be different, but that pit in my stomach now was gone.

 

 

Emma M.

 

I remember the toy helicopter that my father had brought home for me and my brothers when we were young. It was modeled by a French man named Alphonse Penaud. My brothers, Orville and Wilbur, and I would always play with it outside and around the house. I loved watching the little wooden propellers on it spin as it came down from the air. At the time I had wished that I could be the little toy and dance around, spinning throughout the air. I wished that I could fly.

 

***

 

It was another breezy day at Big Kill Devil Hill in North Carolina. My hair whipped me in my face as the grass tickled my toes. I loved our extraordinary gliding days. They always gave me such a rush whenever I was in the air. My dream was to fly, and I hoped to one day make that possible. I watched as my brothers Orville and Wilbur flew down the hill, softly landing amongst the sun soaked grass. The grass seemed to do a little dance in the wind, softly flowing from side to side. I looked at my brothers climbing back up the hill. I watched the clouds move slowly across the sky. Sometimes I like to imagine that I was amongst the fluffy white pillows, or that I was a bird flitting and fluttering around, feeling the wind in my feathers.

“Do you think one day we’ll be up there?” I wondered as I pointed towards the brilliant, blue sky.

“I’d say we’re all a bit nutty to dream of such a thing, but nothing is ever impossible,” Wilbur responded.

“Tis possible to fly without motors, but not without knowledge and skill,” Orville claimed as he gazed upon the clouds. My brothers had always been quite the inventors, and so was I. We wanted to build our own aircraft one day, but before that there was a lot we had to learn.

My brothers and I had spent some time working in a bicycle shop, building our own bikes and repairing them, so we already knew a thing or two, but this was much more of a challenge. We spent much time on trying to build our own engine, constantly making more tweaks and modifications here and there. My brothers and I always loved bird watching, yet as we watched them more closely, we discovered how they used their wings for balance and control. My brothers then came up with the concept of wing warping, which led us to creating a rudder to make the aircraft a bit more controlled and stable. As I was getting lost in my thoughts I heard some seagulls off in the distance singing their lovely song.

 

                                                     ***

 

My brothers and I soon moved to Kitty Hawk, North Carolina to get stronger winds for the aircraft and testing. We had finished crafting the first model, but then came the hard part, getting it to fly.

“Can I do the first test?” I asked excitedly.

“No, we don’t want you to get hurt,” Wilbur replied. I frowned at him and sighed. I guess I would let him do the first test. I knew that my brothers were also quite excited because if it ended up working, then it would possibly change the world.

After working in the bike and newspaper business, we had gained quite a bit of money. Luckily, it was enough to fund our big project.

I helped my brothers wheel the first aircraft to where we were testing. Man was it heavy. Wilbur got onto the plane, gripping the controls tightly. I could tell that he was muttering to himself, praying that the aircraft would work. He started up the engine as it gave off a loud buzzing noise.  Orville and I cheered him on, but I noticed that as he took off, that the plane was not going up in the air but quite the opposite way. The plane took a nosedive and headed straight for the ground. The engine sputtered and eventually gave out. Orville and I rushed over to make sure that our brother wasn’t injured. Luckily, he hadn’t been injured, but by the look on his and Orville’s faces, I could tell that frustration was getting to them. The aircraft was in pretty rough condition, as both of its wings were badly damaged, and the engine needed repairs. We spent another seven weeks working on the aircraft. My brothers were now beyond frustrated, and so was I.

“This is going to be the one. The one where we fly,” I declared with a glimmer of hope in my eyes.

“Elizabeth, I truly hope so,” Wilbur remarked. I could tell that he was anxious, a drip of sweat sliding down his face, scared to see what would happen on this test run. I smiled at my brothers, trying to get their hopes up because they still seemed to have no faith at all in the aircraft. All I wanted to do was to be with the birds, the wind blowing in my face, flying through the clouds.

“Please don’t give up on this,” I said with desperation in my voice.

“We never said that we were giving up on this. Even though it may look like it, all of us are determined to fly. As I said before, nothing is impossible,” Wilbur replied with an exhausted smile. We were all so tired from working on the plane day and night, barely getting enough sleep. It was clear with the dark bags around all of our eyes.

“I’ll do the first test this time,” Orville stated. I sighed, wondering when I’d get my chance to try. One day I know that I will be there. Up in the sky, flying. As I watched my brother Orville get on the repaired aircraft, I crossed my fingers in hope that it would fly.

He started up the engine once again, yet this time it gave off a slightly less of a noise than the last time. I watched as he started to take off, the grass pushed and pulled from the wind. The next thing I knew, I was sprinting after him at full speed, trying to catch up to the plane as it went higher up into the air. Wilbur and I were shouting at the top of our lungs, cheering, though I doubt Orville could hear anything from up there. There was a slight sting of jealousy watching him fly, but I was ecstatic that it had worked. It worked...It actually worked! I thought to myself. It was as if all of my excitement and happiness was boiling inside of me like a volcano about to erupt!

As Orville landed, Wilbur and I crowded around him in a giant hug. All you could hear was the waves along the beach as we stood there hugging each other.

“We did it guys,” I said, the tears flowing down my cheeks like a waterfall.

“Indeed we have,” Wilbur replied. I could tell that he too was trying to hold back the tears of pure joy. Orville just kept smiling.

“What was it like up there?” I questioned, drying my tears with my tattered skirt.

“Oh, why it was wonderful!” Orville replied, staring up at the sky.

“Oh, I can just imagine how lovely it must have been,” I said,  gazing upon the clouds.

“Do you want to give it a go?” Wilbur asked. I looked at him with a face of pure excitement.

“Why of course I do! Let’s go!” I exclaimed. I could hardly contain myself as I lay down on the plane, gripping the controls. I started up the engine as it made the same soft buzzing noise it made before. 3...2...1 I counted down in my head. I began to take off, the wind getting louder and louder every second. I felt the aircraft rising into the air. I glanced down at my brothers cheering for me. I flew forward as the waves crashed along the shore of the beach. I looked to my side and saw a seagull gliding along next to me.

  I can finally fly.

 

 

 

 

-Emma C.

 

 

Have you ever had a bad experience doing something? Were you terrified of doing that one thing after? I had a bad experience doing something that I enjoyed, and I am glad that I didn’t get too scared to keep doing it.

I sat on a cold, rock bench, picking at the fuzzy bits of vibrant green moss that speckled the rough bumpy stone. I felt a gentle breeze against my skin. I studied the light sapphire blue sky and saw the clouds that looked like wool before it is spun into string through the dense reaching branches of the tree behind me. Beginning to feel bored, I decided to start climbing the small tree behind me. I stood up on the stone bench, and I grabbed a nearby large branch, feeling the rough bark. I pulled myself up so that I was sitting on the branch; I reached and grabbed another thick branch and pulled myself onto that one.

I advanced up the tree, finding a long sturdy branch. I carefully made my way along the branch. Grabbing on to a twig for balance, I stopped. Looking around me, I could see tiny green twigs with buds or even tiny leaves. I felt the warm sun’s rays on my back; I took a breath of the fresh air, and I savored the moment. I looked down; from my point of view it looked like I was about seven feet off the ground. I could see the light green grass and the stone bench. I decided to climb back down the tree, but before I could move I heard a tiny snap, and suddenly I was staring at that light sapphire blue sky.

I panicked as I fell out of the branches of the tree and toward the ground, not knowing when I would land, seeing the complicated web of branches like thin fingers rapidly slip out of my reach, the sky making the branches look dark and shadowy, when THUMP! I hit the cold ground, the blades of grass like tiny needles against my shoulder and the back of my head and soon the rest of my body as I flopped onto the ground. I immediately jumped up, my heart racing, and started running to the nearby porch. At the porch I caught my breath. I watched the bushes and the tall grass sway in the wind. I was fine except for a few bruises, and a week later I found another sturdy looking climbing tree, so of course I took a deep breath, grabbed onto a branch and climbed it.

I had a bad experience climbing trees, but instead of avoiding tree climbing I continued to do it. If you ever have a bad experience with anything that you like to do, just remember that that one experience doesn't mean that you should stop doing that thing forever. You should catch your breath, and when you feel ready, do that thing again.

 

 

 

-Madeline S.

 

 

Chapter One

“Your father, Hienrich Himmler, is now deceased. Cause of death is suicide from a cyanid pill.”  Wait, when did this happen? Father… FATHER!

I wake up, tears leaking from my eyes, and I burst out of my bed, running out of my room to my father’s room, leaping down the steps without falling, rushing past the kitchen, living room and two sets of doors. I take a big breath to calm down and then yank the door open as quietly as possible. Panting with tears streaking down my face, I see my father and mother resting peacefully in bed. I sigh, clutching my chest, and turn around, tiptoeing quietly back the way I came from to my room with my heart beating in my ears. Just when I am about to open my door to my room, I hear the creaking of the floor boards. I swivel my head around anxiously, moving my hand, clutching the lamp with my and trying to see.

“Who’s there?” I say frightened.

“It’s me, Abelard. What are you doing? It’s 3 am in the morning, Gurden!” Abelard whispered to me, worried.

“Don’t worry, Abelard, go back to sleep.” I started, “Just had a bad nightmare, nothing serious.”

I stare at him while he is walking back in his room, door clicking shut. After, I quickly shuffle in my room, my covers enveloping me, forcing myself to go back to sleep for the big day tomorrow. In the end, I stay up, staring at my ceiling, just thinking…before slowly drifting off to sleep.

 

***

 

          BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! I jolt awake, jumping out of my bed, running to my closet, quickly grabbing a cotton knee length skirt and a white blouse, and pull my hair up in a neat low bun. Then I descend the stairs to eat breakfast with my family.  Today's breakfast is delicious; the taste of the pancakes is blooming in my mouth with the raspberries.

“Are you ready?” my father starts, “we are going to the Dachau Camp. Are you excited?”

“Yes! I dressed up and couldn’t sleep last night because of it,” I respond.

          “I was thinking we could go after breakfast and have lunch and walk around,” he proposes.

“I think that's perfect! If you want to do that then I want to, too!” I say back.

“Then let’s go, Püppi,” my father says, stretching out his hand.

I stretch out my hand and let him lead me to the car to go to Dachau. We briefly talk about what we want to do at the SS concentration camp at Dachau. We decide to see them gardening and the pictures they painted and then eat afterwards. My father and I are going to have the time of our lives!

 

***

 

We slowly pull up to the SS concentration camp; the gate is beautiful: it has this enormous eagle on top of two large wooden gates, looking like it is ready to fly. 

          “Mrs. Himmler,” the driver opens my car door.

“Ah yes. Thank you!” I say politely, skipping up to my father with a big smile on my face.

“Are you ready Püppi?” my father starts, “I already reserved a place in Horcher with some of my friends.”

“This is going to be the best day ever father.  I love you,” I giggle.

The doors creak open while my father and I walk inside; the smell is disgusting. Everyone is pushing against the fence, trying to get a better view of my father and I. Some of them have the audacity to spit at us and bad mouth us, but they are taken care of; it is so funny to see their faces contort to terror when the Nazi guards drag them away. We decide to go see the garden first, but in order to do that we have to climb a devastating amount of stairs to see them work. It is worth it, but I have a little incident. I encounter a little rascal that tries to talk to me. That little b@#%& thinks he is worthy enough to talk to me. I give him a nice slap in the face and let the guards deal with him.  I should’ve asked my father to bring a painter to capture the picture of the garden, but it is too late unfortunately.

 My absolute favorite part is when we go to see the paintings. Seeing the stuff they drew makes me exhilarated; it makes me feel like I am on top of the world. There is one that catches my eye especially, the so-called painter's name is Hanz Frank. His is interesting; instead of  seeing violent pictures, his is a peaceful picture of a backyard with people, perhaps family. This really annoys me. I tell the guards to take it down, and next time he paints it should be like the rest of the paintings, even worse if possible.

Afterwards father and I have a lovely lunch together; we both decide to eat crab, and the savory taste still lingers in my mouth after a couple of hours of walking in the concentration camp.

“Father?” I ask.

“What is it, Püppi?” he responds.

“Could we do this again another day?” Then I proceed to say, “I really enjoyed today. What made it better was that you were with me!”

“We can do this whenever you want, Püppi,” my father chuckles.

I giggle with joy, skipping to the car, ecstatic for the next time my father and I go out and spend time with each other, without anyone bothering us next time.

“Get me my diary,” I command the driver while getting in the car.

“Yes Mrs. Himmler,” he says. “Here is your diary and your pen.”

I open it up on a clean crisp page and proceed to write:

 

Today we went to the SS concentration camp at Dachau. We saw everything we could. We saw the gardening work. We saw the pear trees. We saw all the pictures painted by the prisoners. Marvelous. And afterward we had a lot to eat. It was very nice.

 

***

 

Ugh. It’s been a week and my father hasn’t been home; I really do miss him. He said there were some problems that he had to fix with Uncle Hitler.

“Gurden! It’s time for dinner!” my mom shouts.

“I’m coming!” I respond.

I burst out of my room, excited; maybe Father is going to be back home by now! I rush down the stairs, my feet thunking on the wooden floor, running to the dinner table, but slowing down before Mother sees and scolds me.

The moment I see my father my smile becomes upside down. He looks horrible, like a dead corpse. His skin has a gray tone, his eye bags are black, and his hair is messy; his clothes are out of place. Everyone is silent; my chair scratching the ground is the only noise made.

With a sigh, my father implores while looking at each of us, “Püppi, Margarete, Abelard… We can’t stay here anymore;  they know I was planning to take Hitler’s place, and the American troops are after me.” I hear someone say s@#$. “We have to run away before they catch us, but we need to split up.”

My mother bangs her fist on the table, enraged. “Couldn’t you have told us this beforehand? Oh s@#$… what are we going to do now?  We have nothing ready; we will die if we leave like this.”

“I’m sorry, Darling, we need to leave now.   Gather your stuff and only grab necessities,” my father murmurs.

My mother and I run up the stairs, but while I am walking up the stairs I see out of the corner of my eye American troops walking up to my house's door.

“Mother! MOTHER!” I shout while tugging on her blouse.

“What's wrong?  Now we need to hurry up!” she responds by swatting my hand away.

“They're here; the American troops are at the front door, it’s too la-” I am cut off at the last second with the troops opening the doors by force.

“Hienrich Himmler!” they begin, “You’re now under the possession of the USA. We suggest you come calmly and don’t put up a fight.”

My mother ushers me into my bathroom, and we go into the attic to hide from them. We hear guns start. BANG! BANG! BANG! By now I know that this isn’t going to end well, but I am hoping everything will be fine.

The firing ceases, and we hear the door bang closed and a truck rolling out of my driveway. We waited another hour before we know it is safe.

          “Okay, so I will go downstairs to see if everything is fine. You stay up here and start packing. Only necessities,” my mother whispered.

          I wince at every sound we make while getting out of the attic. I am rushing between my brothers and my room to grab anything we need, but right when I am about to enter my room I hear my mom let out a terrifying shriek. Dread… it is the only thing I feel at the moment. Something bad happens, and something that I know will break my heart.

 

 

 

 

-Elena M.

 

       Chapter One

 

 

The town of Lake Placid, New York was quiet, the snow raining from the sky ever so gently, the cold winds whipping me in the face as a shiver fell down my spine.

 The crunch of the snow felt ever so fake until, RING, RING, RING.”

The alarm buzzing in my ears, my fists tighten the grasp I have around my pillow. I smacked the alarm a couple of times. I drew my eyes up and over at the time; it read 7:45. I then looked over at the calendar that was barely hanging on the wall by a very slim piece of tape: USA TEAM TRYOUTS TODAY!

A heavy sigh slid through my lips. I could already feel the pressure building. The tryouts began at noon, I thought as I slid on some sneakers, pouring the very last of the Honey Nut Cheerios into my bowl, devouring the sweet crunchy cereal. I cleaned my dish and put it aside. I heard a trickle of rain splash on the roof. It made me think of all the possibilities that could happen over the course of this one day. Would this be a waste of time? “There’s probably going to be better players there,” I had observed while packing up my gear.

All these thoughts made me think down on myself, but hope was still simmering inside me. Looking at the clock once again, it read 10:30 A.M. I put the heavy bag in the trunk of my used Nissan 200SX. I stuck the key in the ignition, and the engine roared. Soon I was down the street and off to the rink.

The chilled air hit my face as I stepped through the doors. The waiting room was packed.

People were lining the walls waiting to get signed in. “Is this the end of the line?” I asked another guy.

“For sure,” he said, letting out a sigh that looked discouraged. A small frown grazed my lips. Soon I was the last to get signed in

“Name,” the lady said, looking exhausted.

“Lucas Smith.”

          “Birth date,” she said, writing something down on a sheet of paper.

“August 8th, 1961.”

She looked at me and gestured to the locker rooms. I picked up my bag and walked into a hallway lined with doors. I stepped into one, and thankfully, it wasn’t filled to the brim with people. I took my seat, pulling out pieces of my gear one by one, putting them on until I was fully suited. 

“How do you think you’ll do?” a man looking in his mid-20’s asked me.

“I have no idea,” I answered a little startled but still thinking about the question.

“Okay, well the name’s Buzz,” he remarked, gesturing his hand for a handshake.

“Buzz?” I asked, confused about who would name their kid Buzz.

“Buzz Schneider,” he told me with a small smile.

“The name’s Lucas Smith,” I replied; he nodded.  

A whistle had blown, and people were squished, shuffling through the tight hallway. It felt like I was in a tin of sardines. The ice was smooth, and the air was cool. I walked onto the ice as many others did the same. To stretch my legs, I skated around the rink a few times. A blonde mid-30’s looking man stepped onto the ice.   A whistle blew; the tryouts had officially begun.

 

 

 

 

-Elena D.

 

 

 

Everything in front of me just shriveled down to nothing. It feels like there's nothing left. So many emotions were flying through my mind. What happens next?

It was a crisp fall morning in New York when I heard my alarm clock buzz. I looked at my clock; it was 7:02am. I realized I should probably get out of bed. I walked sluggishly to my bathroom, dragging my feet in front me. I could hear my mom in the shower listening to some old 80’s music. My mom has always been a more bubbly person, where my dad's more chill and laid back. I’ve always been more like my dad. After getting ready, I walked downstairs and could smell my mom's pancakes. We lived in a pretty spacious New York apartment. Three bedrooms and one bathroom. We’ve lived here my whole life; my parents moved in after they got married because it was so close to my mom's bakery and my dad's station.

“Good morning, Sunshine,” my mom said in her cheerful voice as always.

“Morning,” I said, sitting down next to my dad at the kitchen table.  He looked tired as always, a fireman at the local station, and he got called in late at night a lot, so he never really slept well. I felt bad until I realized how much he really did like helping people. My mom owned a bakery down the street and worked whenever she felt like it, really. I went to school at City Knoll Middle School. I hated it. I always had. When I was young my dad would take me out of school to get ice cream because he knew how much I hated being there.

“Ready for school?” Dad said.

“Ready as ever,” I said more sarcastically than I meant to.

It was only my second week of eighth grade, and I already hated it. After being an only child my whole life, I was more mature than the kids in my grade, and I found almost everyone there childish and annoying. But I stuck through it and went.

It was 7:45 now. Everyday at the same time, we all walk down the apartment building together and to the parking garage. Dad left for work to the station a few miles away in his big black truck, and Mom and I got in her little white Chevy, and she drove me to school.

It was about 8:00 when I got to school.

“Have a great day at school, Honey, I love you.”

“Love you.”

I walked into school, passing all the loud kids near their lockers getting ready to start the day. About 45 minutes boring minutes went by while I was in study hall; suddenly, the classroom phone rang. My teacher got up to answer it, and we continued working, thinking nothing of it. A few seconds went by and I looked up at her, face turning pale.

I turned to my friend in class. “What is happening?” I whispered, hearing sirens roar from miles away.

The teacher turnen back at us. The silence in the room made my stomach hurt.  “There’s been an emergency at the World Trade Center.” Because of living so close, I thought of all the people my parents and I know that work there.

“What kind of emergency?”

“A plane crashed into one of the towers,” my teacher bellowed, her voice shaking.

She dragged the TV over with the cart and put on the news. There was debris and smoke everywhere.

Seeing all the fire trucks and police men surrounding the building couldn't help but make me think of my dad. I knew he was there somewhere; he worked at the closest station. There's no way he's not there. 15 minutes passed, and the only thing you could hear was the TV. We were all silent. Then suddenly, a scream of terror reached through the TV screen. Another plane crashed into the North Tower.

People were crying and screaming. There was smoke everywhere. It felt like watching a horror movie. But no, this was real.

There's no way this was an accident; we're under attack.

11:30, when we were in the passing block, there was nothing but buzz in the hallway about what was possibly happening. I was in complete denial. I couldn’t comprehend what was happening and what could be happening to my dad. A few minutes after settling into my new class, my teacher got a call. What could this possibly be, how could this get worse? What I wasn't expecting was him to say my name.

“Abby, you’re getting picked up, you are excused.”

The whole class stared at me as I packed up my things and walked out.

As I was walking, so many thoughts were rushing through my head; Who is picking me up? Is everyone okay? Is this another attack?

I reached the office doors, and I saw my mom standing out there. I felt both relief and terror. Her face looked pale like she had been sick. I walked to her, and she said nothing, so I waited until we got in the car, the same little white Honda she drove me in that morning when the only thing I had to worry about was school.

“So.. what's this about?” I said, trying to break the horrorizing silence.

“Jim called me,” my mom said, holding her tears back.  Jim was my dad's best friend and had been for longer than I’d even thought in his life; they worked at the same station together.

“After the planes had hit the station split up and no one has seen your father since.”

A lump in my throat formed, and we both let out sobs, still sitting in my school parking lot. It felt like I was about to pass out. Five minutes passed when my mom finally spoke up, breaking the silence.

“I have hope that he is somewhere and didn't tell anyone,”my mom says, rubbing the tears off her face.

“We should get home.”

My mom and I sat for hours, waiting for my dad to come home. We looked outside and saw smoke still roam the air. People were picking up debris, but none of them had the familiar face we were looking for. It was 3 AM now, and he should have been home eight hours before. I fell asleep eventually, but I knew my mom was up all night waiting for him.

The next morning we didn't even bother excusing my absence from school. My mom and I drove to what we used to call the World Trade Center, but it was now what looked like a war zone. People had stayed up all night cleaning, but there was debris everywhere and smoke was still traveling through the air, burning my lungs. We walked around, hoping for a miracle that my father was one of the hundreds of people here helping, but I looked through all of them;  none of them were him. With disappointment, my mom and I headed back home, waiting for him to come to the door.

Two hours of silence and waiting for the doorbell, my mom jumped up onto her toes like her seat was on fire to answer the door. She opened it, and I recognized the man from my dad's station.

“Come in, Come in,” my mom said quietly, hands shaking, closing the door behind him.

“Mrs. Hanson, I’m so sorry, but your husband did not return after entering the North Tower. It is to our belief that he was on a higher level as the building collapsed.”

The tall, dark-haired man looked down at his feet as my mother fell to the ground. I didn’t know what to feel. Sadness, confusinon, and emptiness all ran through my body.  He grabbed my mom's hands and sat for a minute. I didn’t know what to think.

He was really gone. Anger flowed through me. How could these people do this much damage to all of these innocent people? No one, especially my father, deserved this.

As the days and weeks went by, I missed my dad a lot, but the little things reminded me of him and proved that he was still here. Once every couple of weeks, my mom picks me up from school early and brings me to that same ice cream shop that my dad did. Sometimes, it feels like he’s not even gone.

 

 

 

 

-Danielle M.

              I never really was a morning person, but in the past decade it has gotten worse. I slide into my wheelchair and wheel myself towards my kitchen. Out of the window I see the blazing sun beat down on my Denver apartment. Ignoring the weather, I drive myself to the pantry. These days breakfast is mind numbingly basic:  some toast with strawberry jam and coffee. While waiting for the toast, my mind drifts back to high school, back to the reason I can’t walk, that fateful day when everything changed.

 

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          Ugh, I hate Tuesdays, was all that was on my mind on my way to school. My busted car sputtered as I drove. Even though I understood college debt came before nice cars, it still irked me seeing my classmates pulling up to school in BMWs or benzes. I wish I had the kind of money to drive those kinds of cars.  But besides that life was good;  high school was almost over and the Broncos won the Super Bowl. I parked my car and walked towards the entrance. The spring air whistled past me like arrows as I walked into the building.

As I walked I shot a passing glance at the clock at 8.45; damn, I’m late. I ran through the halls like my life depended on it for the first time; I hoped  nobody would catch me. Thankfully it only took me three minutes to get to class.

“Eighteen minutes late, really?”  Mr.Desantis emphasized.

“I know, I won’t make it a trend,” I replied.  I liked Philosophy class, but today was extra dark. We were studying the work of Niche.The only one who ever liked Niche was Eric, but for some reason he wasn’t here; weird. The work blows. I should have bailed and not showed up today, but I can’t afford to miss even a day with the test coming up, so I just have to put up with it for now. As I finished my thought the bell rang.

I walked out of class towards the west entrance to go eat lunch. As I walked, I heard a bone rattling scream come from a girl outside. I wasn’t sure why anyone was screaming. Maybe it is a senior prank, but no.  There was Eric with a shotgun shooting at the people outside, probably paintballs. I froze, terrified as I saw blood spray from the girl who screamed; these were real rounds. The blood droplets spattered across the pavement like paint on a canvas.  Everything after that felt instantaneous; chaos erupted around me, and screams rang throughout the school with people racing every which way like insects below a human hand. My lungs felt like they were exploding as I raced through hallways with only one thing on my mind, surviving.

When I finally skidded to a stop at the library, adrenaline was all that was keeping me from collapsing. I took short and greedy breaths as I tried to calm down, but it was no good. My instincts would not allow me a second of peace. Then fear kicked back in as I scrambled to find a desk to hide under. As I bolted to hide, I passed faces masked with terror, each of them knowing there was a good chance they would not make it out alive. I was just like them, screaming inside like a caged animal just wanting to escape. But I put on a brave facade, hoping my fear didn’t show.

Finally, I slid under a table. All I could do now was wait and pray that death didn’t come for me now. I wonder what will I do if I survive, will I go on to be a normal person and act like nothing ever happened? No, I could never forget this. No matter how much I try this will never go away, anything but; it will be a constant terror in my mind for decades.

The only noise was in my head as a dreadful silence washed over the library. That all went to hell as boots stomped in the hallway. One thing played over a million times in my head: I am going to die.

The door creaked and then opened when two people walked in. With Eric was this nerdy looking blonde kid, but more importantly, he had a shotgun too. They walked past the counter, and then Eric started blasting rounds into the computer table, hitting one of the guys hiding.  I could only try not to think of the shells ripping through him.  Destroying everything indiscriminately, maiming or killing him, I couldn’t even tell which was worse. I just wanted to run a million miles away. But something kept me rooted in place despite all my instincts.  Then they set down their backpacks and walked towards the other computer tables. Thankfully, nobody was hiding there. The sound of glass shattering rang through the air as Eric and the other guy shot out the windows with their shotguns. My mind raced through possible options: should I run or should I try and fight: what do I do? I couldn’t bring myself to decide, nor did I bring myself to move. All I could do was watch as the blonde kid turned and shot at the table next to me.

My mind stopped begging me to move as the blonde kid unloaded buckshot straight into my hip. An ocean of scarlet spread across me, and my vision became blurry. Is this really happening? Am I going to die like this, bleeding out under a table? My future is a ‘what if.’  I couldn’t finish my thought before my vision turned black.

The next thing I heard ringing in my ear was a mechanical beep coming from one of those heartbeat sensors they have in movies. I opened my eyes to find myself in a blindingly white room, not heaven, but one of those obnoxiously colorless hospital rooms that looks like they have been bleached twenty times. The door opened, and a cop walked in with some suits. This can’t be good.

“Hello, son, my name is Larry Shoefeild.  I'm the sheriff for Jefferson County.  We are aware that you saw the shooters and were in class with one of them.”

“Obviously! Now tell me what the hell happened to everyone else!” I cried out with grief, coating my words.

“Look, calm down, we will tell you after you tell us what happened.”

“Fine, Eric was a weird kid, into a lot of German stuff, working at a pizza place. There was nothing I saw that would make me think he would shoot up the damn school.”

 “Okay, and what about Klebold?” the cop inquired.

“I didn’t know the kid,” I retorted. “Now tell me what happened!” I demanded.

“Thirteen dead, twenty-three injured, and then the shooters killed themselves.” 

It was all over the news that the whole country was focused on Columbine High School. There is no word in any language that could come close to describing what I felt at that moment. A strange mix of rage, guilt and sadness swept over me. I couldn’t take what I heard. I broke down and began to sob. Sorrow held me with a vice grip with nothing being able to make me even speak, not until I was told I could never walk again. I should have been a mess, but I was just guilty that I only lost my ability to walk, not my life like all those other innocent people. But nonetheless, I was sent back home.

I left that day without my dignity and pride. I was pushed back with nothing but my life and scars to show for the hell I had to go through. Life meant nothing to me now; my ambition and my goals were destroyed. The only thing keeping me going was a never ending hatred for anyone close to Klebold or Eric. The bastards killed themselves so they could never suffer for what they did. I was stuck blaming their families wrongly.

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I wheel myself onto the plane.  Destination: Washington D.C. I can’t exactly march, but I can speak, and speak I will. “Students of America, I appreciate you coming. I am here because nineteen years ago guns took my happiness. Now I am here to stop it from happening to you.” A thunder of applause echoes through the National Mall.

 

 

 

 

-Cal A.