BX1

Thomas cherished his office. It was the place where memories were made, the birthplace of his innovative ideas. It’s a bit disheveled, though, he admitted to himself. The New Year’s decorations still lined his walls, along with the numbers 2, 0, 0, and 8 hung up beside each other. The slovenly couch, which was in front of his desk, was littered with crumbs and stained with hot cocoa. A messy stack of green, yellow, and red papers sat patiently on his desk, waiting to be looked at.

        Suddenly, his phone rang.

        “Mr. Anderson?” The caller inquired.

“Yes?”

“Did you receive the market report? It should be in the pile with the red papers, labeled as A-08.”

“Ah, sorry. I haven’t gotten to those yet.” He strolled to his desk and sorted out the red-colored papers from the stack. A-01, A-02, A-06… Here it is. He read the title: “BEA Reports Market Loses 17,000 Jobs”  “Is this real?” Thomas asked.

“I didn’t believe it either, but if the BEA says so, then it must be true. Are you going to take any precautions to prevent this market drop from affecting the company?”

“No, I don’t think that will be necessary. The market will recover from it soon.”

“Of course. That’s all for today.”

“Bye.” He hung up the phone.

Thomas gazed out his window, located behind his desk. Flurries of white dots fell from the sky, peacefully glazing the ground in a fluffy blanket. As he sipped on his coffee, his mind began to wander off to devise a plan to clean his dirty office.

When his office was fully cleaned, Thomas began his work. He started shuffling through the colored papers on his desk. They were marked by priority: green for least important, red for most important, and yellow was in between. After all, a company owner such as Thomas had no time to spare to waste on frivolous, unimportant things. 

He started off with the red papers and read through them: “BeanX Bean Drill X3 Explodes in Testing” and “M3 Thermal Overheating.” The list went on. As he read on, he marked in his daily schedule which respective sector he had to visit to address these issues. His schedule was full when he reached the middle portion with the yellow sheets. He then went to those sectors, addressed and fixed the issues, some leaving him stumped, and then went home and slept, waking up the next morning to go through the same cycle of events he had gone through the day before, creating what felt like an endless loop of work for Thomas. Like a hamster on an exercise wheel, no matter how much he pushed forward, he always returned to the same spot.

        The icy blanket covering the dead grass melted away, and flowers bloomed in the place of the grass. The sun started rising earlier and going down later. The moon cycled through crescents wide and small. Thomas could no longer remember what day of the week it was, much less what month it was. Wake up, work, sleep. Wake up, work, sleep again. Nothing was interesting for him anymore. 

        It was just another day. Thomas drove to his office. He gazed at the neatly cut grass and green trees as he pulled into the parking lot and entered through the front doors, flinching as he touched the burning hot metal door handle that was heated by the sun. After shaking it off, he then walked to his office and began his work with a cup of coffee, per his daily routine. But as he was sorting through his colored papers, his phone rang.

        “Mr. Anderson, do you remember how the Federal Reserve bailed out Bear Stearns back in March?” the caller asked.

        “Of course, it was just a minor hiccup in the market.” 

        “Well, the Federal Reserve just bailed out Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac.”

        Thomas’ heart skipped a beat. Trying to convince himself that he misheard what the caller said, he asked, “What?”

        “The Reserve guaranteed $25 billion worth of their loans and bought their stock.”

        Thomas spit his coffee out of his mouth in surprise.  “How much debt did they have?”

        “More than the government.”

        He almost fell out of his chair, catching himself with his hand at the last second.

        “What’s the market at?”

        “The DOW dropped by 14% in the past month.” 

        His jaw widened in shock, and he sat there in silence, debating the outcomes of this situation.

        “Mr. Anderson? Are you still there?”

        “Yes. Sorry, just taking it all in.”

        “I understand, sir. But are you going to take some precautions to prevent our company from failing from the implications of the current and potential future economic crashes like these?”

        “Can you say that again, but in English please?”

        “Are you going to do anything to prevent these market crashes from affecting the company?”

        “No, I don’t believe that’ll be necessary.”

        “Are you out of your mind? Do you understand the situation we’re in?”

        “No, I think the market will withhold.”

        “Mr. Anderson, do you know how badly the market is performing? Have you gone mad?”

        “Don’t ever talk to me like that again. And I said no, did I not?”

        “Whatever you say, Mr. Anderson.”

        “Choose your words wisely the next time you talk to me,” Thomas finished.

And his days went on. At the time, Thomas thought nothing about the conversation over the phone he had that day, but little did he know, his decision would come back to bite him later.

The sun’s heat became progressively cooler, and strewn orange and red leaves rested on the cool, autumn ground. The only thing that deviated was the calls he got in the morning, but even those were becoming less and less frequent. 

        Thomas drove to his office. He gazed at the neatly cut grass and green trees as he pulled into the parking lot. He then walked to his office and immediately began his work with a cup of coffee, as per his daily routine. But as he was sorting through his colored papers, his phone rang.

“Mr. Anderson?”

“Yes?” This better not be about the stupid market, he said to himself.

“The DOW has dropped to below 10,000 for the first time since 2004.”

“What?” he responded in surprise.

“The DOW has dropped by 15% to reach below 10,000, sir. And, the BEA has released a report that says the economy contracted by 0.3% in the third quarter.”

“Con- contracted? As in decreasing?!”

“Yes, sir. The market is in a recession.”

“A recession? Surely we’ve taken action to prevent this from affecting us, right?”

        “I was trying to get you to set up some precautions, sir. But as you may remember, you rejected all my suggestions.”

        “Is there anything else you have to tell me?”

        “Yes. Sales have dropped by 92% percent within the last quarter, and we may need to fire a multitude of employees if this situation continues.”

        Thomas hung up, and a mixed surge of regret, pain, and sadness came crashing into his body, pervading throughout his bones and filling up every corner and crevice of his organs and muscles until there was no more space for the feelings to fill. Only if I prepared, he thought to himself. Only if I listened.

-Tyler W.

        The wet, snowy forest had a gloomy feeling about it. The engine of the CCKW roared as my heart pounded--I was filled with fear. It was cold, not like my home where the warm feeling of the sun shone without question. My hands shivered like a dog's tail wagging widely. I tried to keep them warm; at least I had dry socks on my feet. Abruptly, the truck stopped, and it made me lurch forward right into Joey. 

        “Hey, watch it,” shouted Joey. 

        “Sorry,” I responded.

        “You better be because the butt of your rifle left a mark on my back!” Joey snapped.

        Lutant Wallace came into view behind the truck. “Okay men, let's go! What are you people sitting around for?” he yelled.  “Start digging fox holes!” 

        I jumped out of the back of the CCKW, my feet making the snow crunch. I ran over to the tree for cover. I was terrified knowing the Germans could be anywhere. I took my shovel and started to dig into the frozen ground. Joey came over, his rifle at the ready. Robert, part of my fireteam, began to dig with me. We had known each other since boot camp. Robert always went by the textbook, but Joey was more of a trouble maker.

        We dug for hours, removing only a half a foot of snow and dirt. The cold had gotten worse as the day faded and the night began. 

        “Robert, do you think it's deep enough?” I shouted over the wind. 

        “No, we need a few more inches.”

        “Like how many?” I asked. 

        “Maybe… two or three.” We dug long into the night.

        “Robert, I think we're deep enough,” 

        “I agree,” he responded. Robert and I settled down in our hole while Joey watched for the Germans.

        I woke in the middle of the night; Joey was seated above me.

        “Hey, it’s your turn to watch,” he told me. 

        So I got out of the fox hole and sat by a tree as Joey took my spot. I gazed out into the vast forest. It was dark and would make no difference if I watched or not. This thought made my mind race; what if we get attacked and I don’t know it because I can't see? My heart raced like a horse filled with fear of the wip. I slapped myself on my face and said, “Snap out of it.” 

        For the next few hours, I sat there in the quiet darkness and filled with fear.

        As the night grew old, I heard something. There were little pops that filled the dark air. It took me a second to realize what it was--gunshots! I immediately woke Robert and Joey. 

        “Guys! Wake-up, gunshots!” I whispered loudly. They sprang up. 

        “David, Joey, listen up!” Robert said, “Go tell the Lieutenant about the gun shots.” I grabbed my M1 off my shoulder, loaded the chamber, and scrambled to the officers’ tent as fast as I could.

        As I came to the outside of the tent, a little light shone on the inside that made shadows as the officers moved around. I pushed the tent flaps open. The officers stopped and stared. I froze. I felt tiny. Suddenly, I felt a jostle on my back, and I fell forward, barely catching myself. I pushed myself up to turn around and found Joey standing there. I shook my head at him.

        “The butt of your rifle left a mark on my back,” I remarked.

        “Attention!” an officer demanded. I immediately turned and stood there as straight as I could. Now I could see who was talking; he was wearing a green army uniform and a campaign hat with the markings of a major.

        “What do you think you're doing, privates?” as he walked towards us.

        “We heard gunshots, Sir,”  Joey proclaimed.

        “That's interesting. We’re at war, soldiers, you might hear a few gunshots!” he shouted. As soon as he said that, I heard a boom--an immense boom. This was much closer than the previous gunshots.The major said, “What you all standin’ around for? Set up a perimeter.”

        “Yes sir,” I responded. 

        “Dismissed,” the major told us. I turned and left the tent. As soon as I got outside, I immediately ran to my fireteams foxhole. 

        Once there, I told Robert the orders that the major had given us. 

        “Well thanks, David! But, I can’t do anything with these orders. It's not my job, it's the Lieutenant’s. You did what you could, David. Notify the officers.” 

         Joey came running back, panting. “How are you so fast, David?” Joey asked.

        “Joey! David! I decided to have us wait here for orders.” So we all hunkered down in the fox hole. The explosions of the guns got closer. The sun started to expose itself through the trees. The gun fire continued and got closer every minute, and every minute fear kept creeping into my head. 

        The guns were so close now, and I felt the presence of the German army. My heart pounded like a cheetah. I saw something in the distance. It was people running around, taking cover behind trees. I couldn't see who they were or which side they were on. I pulled out my binos; I looked through them, and I saw a patch on the soldiers’ arms. It was a swastika. It struck fear in my heart. They ran around, taking positions about the trees.

        Then there was silence. I could hear the wind howling as the trees swayed in dismay. We waited and waited for what felt like forever…until the first boom, and just like that there was a barrage of bullets. They made wizzing sounds as they flew through the air. I was truly afraid. I turned and ran. I couldn't stay there any longer.  As I trudged through the thick heavy snow my boots filled snow with every step. I just kept running for miles and miles and didn’t stop until a while later.

        It was mid-day, and I couldn’t run any more. I looked around and found a log to sit on, but I did not know where I was, so I sat on that log and thought, I'm at least safe for now. I took off my boots and dumped the snow out. I took off my socks. My feet were blue from the frigid snow. 

        I took off my pack and grabbed a new pair of socks, a towel, and medical tape. I dried my feet, put on my socks and boots, and then wrapped the top of my boots in medical tape to keep out the snow. As I did this, I thought, What about my friends? Are they still safe or are they hurt? I must go back, but I can't, what if I die. Everything told me to go back, but I couldn't do it--my body wouldn't do it. I fought this battle in my head. It just kept on going until I just stood up and started to follow my tracks back to the Battle of the Bulge. 

        I had gone at least half-way back to the battle, maybe more, when I heard gun fire. Everything told me to run away, but I kept going toward my friends.The closer I got, the more I wanted to turn around. 

        I could see flashes now through the trees, and I could make out shapes in the distance. I started to sprint to the battle, and I held my gun at the ready, aiming toward those flashes and shapes.The wind blew a cold strong gust on my face. I could see what was happening now. Both armies were blowing each other with bullets. The white pure snow was stained by the blood of Americans and Germans alike. I stood in horror as I watched this happen. I heard footsteps crunching in the snow: I raised my rifle and looked around for what made the sound.

        “Show yourself or I'll drop you!” I yelled. Out from behind a tree, the head of a German popped out. He looked like a kid, maybe 16 or 17 years old. I moved my rifle to signal him to come out from behind the tree and turn around. I put my gun on his back and marched him down to the American camp. I weaved through the bullets and grenades until I came across the prisoners and the guards.

        “Can I leave him with you?” I asked the men guarding the prisoners.

        “Yeah. We can guard him for you,” one of them responded.

        “Thanks,” I said. Then I went to go find Joey and Robert in the woods. Soldiers were running this way and that as I looked for my friends. 

        As the day turned darker, the Germans retreated, and the battle ended with the Americans holding the camp. I walked around as the wounded were carried off the battleground on stretchers, their eyes filled with pain and clothes stained with crimson red blood. 

        I found an officer who was doing a head count. I went up and asked him, “Have you seen a Joey or a Robert?”

        “Let me check for you.” He flipped through his papers on the clipboard. “Sorry son, they're marked down as MIA,” he told me and walked away.

-------------

        Now I’m old. I sit and think about my life and tell these stories to my family. To this day, I still wonder where Joey and Robert got off to. For the rest of the war, I fought on like any other soldier would, courageously in battle and not running from my fears. 

        Ding dong. The doorbell chimed, interrupting my daydream.

        “Hey, Billy. Can you get the door for your grandpa?”

        “Sure, Grandpa,'' Billy responded. He ran to the door, his bare feet patting on the wood floors. The door clicked open. I heard a familiar voice.

        “The butt of your rifle left a mark on my back.”

-Christian H.

         I’d watch my two brothers head out the front door and towards the school building, my jealousy uncontained. My mother would gently turn my shoulder back to the room and away from the peephole in the door, saying, “We are going to school today too, just we don’t have to walk down eight flights of stairs and five streets.” I would smile sadly. We laughed and joked during the breaks between lessons. We laughed in the way the men with their attention-drawing guns would not allow if they were present. 

        Ammi, my mother, made a private school out of our home when I was first banned from going to the public school in 1996. Other girls who lived nearby came as well due to my mother’s insistence. My mother had been a teacher at the public school before our education was pushed away from our grasp. The armed men did not like it when they discovered one of the private schools was in our confined house, not at all. Most of the other girls stopped coming after that, for their own mothers feared us being caught again, especially once private schools became banned. My mother continued to teach, though, even when it was just the two of us. She acted as though a whole classroom was in front of her, desperate and yearning for the information she could give. Her specialty was math, and I could always tell when calculations were buzzing through her head by the way her dancing eyes lit up and her narrow head with a pointed chin tilted to the side. 

Today, the men come banging on our door, unannounced. Quickly and in a practiced way, we scoop up the books strewn across the floor and the cluttered eating table, shoving them in the nooks and crannies where we have learned that the men do not look. Most of our books are shoved in the small crevice my mother had carved from our wall. Always, we hang laundry on the hooks that are directly above the crevice so that the men would never think anything could be behind the laundry but a wall. Today, we are in more of a rush than usual. My dry and cracked hands shake as we toss old shirts onto the hooks, but my mother’s thin and overused hands stay steady and quick.

        Two scrappy men finally burst through our door in a way as destructive as bulldozers for “inspection.” My mother and I silently greet them, knowing better than to speak without being specifically told to. 

        “We got notice that one of the other girls had been coming and leaving here around the same time each day a few weeks ago,” one of them insinuates, as though just saying those few words to us is a waste of his time and voice. The man is tall and has wide shoulders. He towers over Ammi, who has always had a short stature. He had come to our house the last time we needed an “inspection.”  “Not still going about with those books and papers, are you?” he grills. Although it is technically a question, he gives the ever-present impression that he does not want my mother to respond anyway, that it will not keep them from searching the room.

        Usually, they don’t even look at our laundry hung casually on those hooks. Today, they seem more angry than usual; they probably had just earlier found someone who had forgotten to stop for prayer. Our unstable ceiling decides it is a great time to give its hourly leak of water and oil into the bucket placed promptly on the floor. The plastic and warped bucket is just next to where the laundry and our secret crevice are on the wall. 

        The mens’ discriminatory eyes flick to the bucket and then escalate up to the worn clothes. With a sharp intake of breath, I notice that one of my old shirts has gotten snagged on the corner of a book. It is a large text book about the history of different religions in Northern Asia. I perceive this at the same moment both of the men do. Suddenly, my world becomes a blur of scolding and shouting, of my mother trying to fix our mistake with persistent words we know will not work. 

        Shrieking and frantic, I try to get to my mother as the two men close in on her; I know that they will not be lenient with us today. They shove me down and bark words at me, saying how ashamed of myself I should be. I scramble to my feet in another attempt to get to Ammi, but to them I am just a miniscule fly to be effortlessly swatted away. Helpless, I ache from every part of me as the two pairs of discriminatory eyes that belong to the Taliban take my mother away.

-------------

        Four and a half hours later, my brothers come home. Abdul and Mohammed both have dark hair and dark eyes like myself, though Abdul’s eyes are a bit lighter. Abdul is at least two heads taller than Mohammed, being more than six feet tall while Mohammed hasn’t even reached five feet. Although Mohammed is eight years old, his two front teeth conjure a mighty gap that makes him look two years younger. 

        School bags flinging, stomachs growling, the two boys approach me. Sensing my glum quietness, Mohammed asks in his innocent voice, “Where’s Ammi?” I feel as though the lump in my throat won’t let me respond as I absently shake my head.

        “She’s gone. They took her away,” I mumble. Abdul stares straight into my eyes, and I will never forget the piercing look on his face, his hair messy and disheveled. 

        It is even harder when Baba, my father, comes home from his station in the bazaars. His shoulders slouch, and his eyebrows crease together. He knew Ammi and I had been secretly studying and had warned us several times, saying it wasn’t going to end well if we got caught. He was right of course, but we all knew it wasn’t going to stop Ammi from pursuing my education. Mohammed starts wailing, desperate for better understanding of why Ammi is not here. Abdul understands, though. He is sixteen years old, two years older than me, and has seen enough what the Taliban do to understand what Ammi and I did wrong. 

        Baba gives me a short hug, holding me tight. His ten centimeter long beard brushes my head. “I’m sorry, Baba,” I whisper, guilt clenching my insides. I know I couldn’t have done anything to stop the men from taking Ammi away, but I still feel responsible. What if I’m the one who didn’t fully cover up that book?

        Baba pulls back and grabs both of my shoulders with his scarred hands, making me face him. He has a very serious expression on, and I can’t stop thinking about what kind of pain he must be in. “Zulema, you are not at fault. Never, ever forget that. You have always had such a powerful voice, and I will never see how the Taliban could ever try to conceal it,” he retorted in the last part. “Now, I will try to get Ammi back tomorrow, but you must promise to be careful from now on and not get into something like this again,” he sternly says, tilting his face down, his dark eyes staring into my soul.

        I gulp and mumble, “Yes, Baba, I promise.” My eyes quickly drop his gaze. Baba’s circular glasses start to slightly fog up on his wrinkly and long face. He takes them off and then goes out the door that leads to our small balcony. I can only think about how much the Taliban have changed my life, causing anger and desperation. How all the women have suffered to their merciless group. How my mother didn’t stop fighting, and how I won’t either. I think about how I just lied to my father.

        Baba was right- I do have a powerful voice. Ammi often told me how my writing skills impressed her. She said I could move mountains and persuade whole towns of something with my opinionated words. As determination dawns on me, I know that’s what I shall do. 

        When my brothers and Baba appear to have fallen asleep, I quietly arise from my mat on the dusty apartment floor. I creep over to one of the kitchen drawers where we keep large sheets of paper. I take out a pen from the jar on the dusty countertop and place it and the paper on the table. I think of all the exasperated thoughts in my head, directed towards the Taliban, and I write them down. 

        I write about how the Taliban are silly, how the fact that they cannot allow women to educate ourselves is a form of intimidation of our intelligence. I state that keeping us inside cannot silence us and our anger. Not allowing women to ride in motor vehicles is treating us like we are not humans. I write all of this and more. Then, in big, demanding letters I write the headline:

WE CAN BARELY SEE WITH OUR BURKAS, 

TALIBAN LEAVES US UNSEEN

        When I am finally satisfied with my words, I copy them onto hundreds of sheets of paper until my hands are numb and aching more than I can bear. I then stack them in an as neat as possible pile so that I can fit them all in a basket.

I climb the forty thousand year-old rickety stairs that always shift to different sides when the weather gets angry up to the roof of my apartment building, thankful that no one is there. Then, before my arms will back down, I heft the basket up and above my head and throw the collection of papers over the city, just as a brisk wind hurls by. In slow motion, I watch the papers float in every direction. They shoot into the air like birds that have been locked in a cage for too long and then are all at once let out. 

        What a surprise for all the inhabitants of this battered city it will be to discover all the papers in the promising morning. My words have been thought by every woman in Kabul, and they will no longer go unspoken.

-Cassie W. 

Written by Noah Jorto on April 19, 1775:

Night of April 18, 1775.

        I listened to the lively rain on the ceiling, coming from the dark sky above. I wanted to go to sleep, the calming sensation that diminishes all of your bad memories, but only for a limited time.

        I had a lot of stress. Paying for my small house, taxes from Britain, providing enough for my family, fighting for the Patriot cause as a soldier, battling my sadness every second of the day; conflicts for me seemed to be infinitely many.

        And so I layed down, awake on my bed, listening to the heavy rain that was consumed by the rapidly growing plants of the season.

        Out of the quiet rain, I heard….a galloping sound, as if a horse was charging through the weather. I quickly sat up and opened my blue-green curtain, but only to not see anything. Maybe it was just my imagination, I thought.

        ‘Honey? Who’s making that sound?’ my wife Sarah said to me.

So it wasn’t just me…

“I’m not sure…”

I opened the curtains again, and I heard faint shouting coming from a man on a horse. I opened my window and heard the man roar, “British troops are heading to Lexington! Stay on guard, for they will attack us in the morning!” 

        His shouting resonated through the gray walls of my room as he continued to gallop into the distance.

“Dad? What was that?” Jack asked me from his room.

        I was about to say something when Sarah told him, ‘Nothing, dear. Go back to sleep.”

        There was a hint of worry in her voice, and Sarah and I looked at each other.

I knew what I had to do. I had to guard Lexington’s inhabitants from British soldiers as a minuteman.

        “I know what you’re thinking, but stay out of it!” remarked a worried Sarah. “You don’t have to go.”

        “Yes, I must. It’s my job. I’ll leave home in the morning.”

        “But what will I tell Jack?”

        I knew that I would be doing the right thing to go and fight, at least as a soldier. I’d be helping to protect many people. “Tell him what you want, but I will go. I have an opportunity to be a part in saving many lives. My being there won’t make much of a difference, but it’s the least I can do.”

        A concerned look grew on Sarah’s face, and all she told me was, “I know there is no changing your mind.” Silence followed.

        “Good night.” I said.

Written by Noah Jorto on April 20, 1775:

Morning of April 19th, 1775.

        I woke up at midnight and went to where Captain Parker would be.I hurried away with the Captain and his troops. After a while, he stopped at a grassy area with a couple of buildings and trees in the background.

        “Revere warned me of the arrival of British troops that seem to be heading to Concord,” boomed Captain Parker. “We will hold our defense now. Stand your ground. Don’t fire unless fired upon, but if they mean to have a war, let it begin here.”

        I was confused. I thought he would tell us to fire first because they are invading our town. But I followed his orders as the rest did, for his serious voice told us so.

        Soon, troops wearing red army suits and hats came, neatly lined up. 

        I knew this would happen, but it felt so….overwhelming. Even though it seemed like just a red blur from how far I was, I could tell that there were hundreds of them.

        They rushed through the grass, as if they had infinite stamina. I was focused intently on the thought of fighting. They weren’t heading towards us at first, but then they made a hard right and went in our direction.

        Some of us eased backwards and began to disperse. “Stay together, and let’s head north. We don't want to engage in battle.”

        As we rushed further northward, a shot was fired, supposedly from the British. I couldn’t see who it was.

But whoever it was, the war had begun.

        From complete silence, someone — who knows who it was — shot their rifle. Then everyone charged at once, and the silence turned into constant gunfire and violence along with the violent churning of grass along our rushing feet.

        Everything was happening so fast, and it was like I was one step behind everyone else.

I rapidly fired as everyone else did even though I knew we were outnumbered. I still had to try my best. I could see the tide turning in the favor of the British, as some of our colonial army were motionlessly lying on the floor.

What if I pass away? Thoughts of the weeping that would come from Sarah and Jack filled up my mind, so I tried even harder, but it made no difference. Many wounded soldiers were helplessly trying to pick themselves back up in futile attempts.

It is like ants fighting a dinosaur. A useless attempt, I thought as our men scrambled and scattered in a non-soldierlike fashion.

        We’d been fighting for a while, and only one of the British were killed, even though there were so many of them. There were only about 80 troops fighting with me from the start. And so many had died.

        I saw a black haired soldier get bayoneted by a ruthless, British soldier.

        I saw a soldier getting shot between his eyes, blood streaming down to his nose.

        A man arrived and halted the intense battle. “Stop fighting! Let’s head to Concord now as we were.”

        “Yes, Colonel Smith!” some of the British men spoke.  After all, we weren’t going to win if we kept going.

Written by Noah Jorto on April 21, 1775:

Later on April 19, 1775.

The British moved on, in a much more arranged way than ours, to Concord, most likely to raid our military supplies. 

        Soon, the British were out of sight.

        “We need to get our revenge!” roared Captain Parker. “Follow my lead. Our plan is to stay concealed at Concord and wait for the British to appear. Then we open fire when they aren’t aware of our presence.”

Eight of Parker’s men were killed, and nine were wounded. I was glad I didn’t suffer the same fate, but there would be another rebellious battle to come, and with endless possibilities.

        Our soldiers and I followed him through the trees and the grass. Animals made quiet chatter, but we were silent.

        After some time, we were at Concord, where the main British column was. “We must remain quiet so that we aren’t in danger of being engaged by British soldiers.” 

        We hid behind the silent trees, in the ever so tranquil forest. But even with the serenity, I felt overwhelmed by our enemy. I knew that they would come soon, but we would have to wait patiently until then.

        Reinforcements for our fighting force were many, but I didn’t know if we would be surpassed by the British. Minutes passed. Then hours. But each second felt greater than the last, and suspense bubbled up inside of me.

        Then, we heard the rustling of grass.  

        Here they come.

        Faint red lines appeared. 

        Those lines turned into human bodies in red coats.

        And soon, their features were visible. Two captains, one on a horse, came into view.

        “Stay alert. The rebels know we’re in Concord,” said the captain on ground.

        “Yes, Captain Parsons!” said his men.

        Wait for the right moment…..

        They continued to walk forth; they were almost right in our trajectory.

        Keep waiting…..

        Perfect! Now was our chance.

        “FIRE!” I said in my head at the same time that Captain Parker’s booming voice stated the same thing.

        The violent rustling of glass had even more commotion as all of our soldiers blasted our volley into the souls of the British.  This is our rebellion. Our chance to get back at the British for what they’ve done. I can’t blow it, I thought.

        A few seconds after the turmoil started, Colonel Smith was vigorously struck off of his horse. We were much more arranged than in Lexington, and our blows were much more effective. Soon after, Captain Parsons was also struck, along with many other British soldiers.

        It was mostly hand to hand combat with constant attacking on both sides, but we still weren’t doing that well. There were soldiers lost on our side of the battle as well. And I wasn’t sure who would come out victorious in this divine battle.

        A British soldier, taller than the rest and with scruffy black hair, charged at me without relent. Without hesitation, I charged towards him, and we both swung our rifles at each other.

        BANG

        The collision made a slight pause in battle, and then we continued to fight like two swordsmen at their best. 

        We tried to bayonet each other, but we missed. Our close combat was going on for almost a minute. 

        I was getting tired, and he was about to win our little skirmish as he charged his rifle at me. I braced for impact instead of trying to counter like a true soldier. 

SWISHHHHHH

        The bayonet was inches away from my neck when one of my fellow soldiers shot him in the waist, barely missing my arm.  I looked back and saw my friend, Michael Kavanaugh, who had just saved my life. But it wasn’t the time to commend him. I had to continue battling.

        In all of my years of training, I never expected to have a battle this intense. And this all started the day before, from a quiet night in my bedroom. My training couldn’t be in vain. This couldn’t become a futile effort.  I’m sure that everyone else knew that because I could see that we were all trying with our utmost strength and willpower. 

        There was one soldier that really caught my attention, and he was making intense screaming noises as he tirelessly shot his opponents. His hair was a blondish color, and his name tag said, “Matt Duesler.”

        Screams of pain and hurt were echoing through the trees, and so the shouts of encouragement from our men were becoming less assuring to our minds.

        I thought about Sarah, and about Jack. They would be so sad without me. And there was no time to quit or retreat. It was either kill or be killed.  I thought about my death being one of the losses of Captain Parker’s force, along with lots of other innocent soldiers. It just wasn’t right, and I couldn’t let it happen.

        Smoke filled the air, as well as the smell of gunshots and war.

        When some of that smoke cleared, I could see lots of wounded British soldiers, and I could tell that we were at an advantage!  Still, seeing soldiers getting killed right in front of my face every now and then was declining my visions of rebellion.

        Soon, the sun escaped from its viewers and the sky started to dim. This battle was going on for what felt like weeks, and it had to end at some point. I looked at my back team for a split second to see that they were holding out just fine.

        And the British…they were giving death glares of disgust, but they panted and moved with a lot less haste than they had before. The fight was getting easier with every passing hour, but for every volley at the British, there was still one innocent soldier that died on our side.

        I was starting to think the battle would last forever when someone, seemingly a captain, shouted, “RETREAT!” 

        That word gave me heavy legions of relief as soon as it was uttered.

“VICTORY!”  All of our soldiers chanted with happiness as we saw the terrified British redcoats run away from our powerful force.  “THE BATTLE IS WON!”

        I couldn’t help but smile, and although it came with much sacrifice, I am sure those who died would’ve been happy that they held a part in the glorious rebellion that took place under the clouds of beauty. I just felt that they had to die for us to win.

        But I still couldn’t help but declare the truth: “WE HAVE DONE IT! THE FIERCE BATTLE HAS BEEN TRIUMPHED!”

        Cries of victory overwhelmed the peaceful nature that now swayed with the breeze.

        Sarah gave me a tight hug, and I told her, “You see? I won. I helped protect lots of people.”

        “Yes, and thank goodness you did!”

“What’s going on?” shouted Jack, bursting out of his room with curiosity.

        Happiness overwhelmed my emotions, seeing both of them so excited. 

        “You could say I had a very victorious day.”

        The sun brightened the sky as warmth fled down to Lexington and Concord’s now joyful inhabitants.

-Caleb P.

         It was just another day at work, elevators going up and down. I mean, who would want to take the stairs up 110 stories? I loved my work, but I hated how far it was. I despised how I had to take a plane to New York every week for this job. I was always away from my family. We knew we couldn’t buy a house or apartment down there. Not with our kind of money. 

        It was the weekend, and I had to go back to work the next day. Truthfully I couldn’t wait; I was getting a promotion. This was great since my family and I could finally move down. I had to leave early for work around 4 AM. My family was coming down a little after, around 6 AM. I got on the plane, landed around 5 AM, ate some breakfast, and went to work. 

        As I was at work my wife called me just before her flight took off, barely audible over the cacophony of the airport. “Hi, Honey, Blake got sick, so we had to take the later flight. We’ll be there around 8 AM.” 

        “Sounds fine, just glad he’s okay. I’ll see you then. Love you.” About an hour after that phone call took place, it was all over.

        I was finishing up some paperwork before I was about to leave. All of a sudden I heard the loudest bang I've ever heard in my life and screams coming from the floor above. I looked out the window as I saw debris falling from the building. As I looked up, I saw a Boeing 767 pummel into the North Tower with a deafening sound. I realized we were under attack. 

        People did not know what to do or what to think. At this point, I was trying to reach my family, but I had no bars. I looked over at one of my coworkers just sitting there not freaking out, just calm like nothing was happening. I went over. “What’s wrong with you? You trying to get out of here before we all die?” 

        “I have accepted,” she said. I was in shock to hear those words come out of her mouth. When I turned around she was gone. The bloody glass was broken when I saw my coworkers huddled around the window. I didn’t even want to look. I already knew what had happened. 

        Lips trembling, people crying, they were trying to find every little way to not suffer like the others. As I came closer to the window I had a bar. As soon as I saw it pop up on my phone right away I called my wife, phone ringing. “Crissy, Honey, can you hear me?” 

        “Yes, I’m right here, is everything okay? You don’t sound too great.”

        “I’m not! We're under attack, a plane just hit the North Tower.”

        “Get out of there right away! Are you trying to get out?”

“Crissy, I’m on the 70th floor. There’s no getting out now.” Connection failed.

        The debris was getting worse. It was highly toxic and getting harder to breathe. Will I make it another day to see my family again? 

         I woke up feeling a burning sensation on my left side. Everybody around me was dead; it was like a nightmare. Where am I? I didn’t understand. Who are these people around me? Where’s my family? The building was in perfect condition. How? Why? The only thing that was making me go was the thought of seeing my family again. I ran and ran down the stairs, finally making it to the bottom. 

        I looked outside, but no one was there. Nothing was there. I layed down, still feeling the burn on my left side, water dripping from my eyes. I have accepted.

-Brooke L. 

 Chapter 10

       The day was nearly done now. The darkness of the night blurred all vision. Reading the map at that time of day was almost impossible. The dull lamp hanging from the wagon was the only source of light. Pa insisted on searching for a place to camp out for the night. 

        “The oxen are acting strange again! Are you listening to me, Lydia?”

        Blatant Snores came from inside the wagon.

        “She’s flaked out, Pa,” I said, ¨but I’m awake as can be.”

        “Me too,” Charlie added.

        “Alright, would y’all help me set up camp? One of you round up the oxen, and one of you stick those rocks beneath the wheels.” 

        “I call roundin’ up the oxen!” I blurted out before Charlie had the chance. 

        “Fine, I didn’t want to round 'em up anyways.”

        The wagon had very little room; we had to take almost everything out so we had somewhere to sleep. Even then, Pa needed to set up an extra tent outside the wagon. I made sure all the oxen were accounted for, and then I filled a tin pail with water for the oxen to drink. The last thing I remember from that night was settling into the wagon and drifting off into a deep sleep. It’s easy to fall asleep after a long day of walking on a 2,000-mile trail. 

*** 

I woke up… but I didn't know what from. There was tension in the air; something wasn’t right. Heavy footsteps came from outside the wagon; deep whispers could easily be heard. Pots clanged, and I heard things being dropped. I nudged Charlie.

        “Charlie.” I whispered.

        “Huh? Will? What’s going on?” Charlie asked.

        “I’m not sure,” I said. 

        I crept over and peaked my head just enough to see outside the wagon. Charlie followed my lead. There were men! Three of them! 

¨Mama! They’re taking everything, Mama! Wake up, Mama!”

        Loud pops filled the air.

        ¨Gun shots,¨ Charlie said in a whisper. ¨Gun shots,¨ he repeated louder that time. I attempted to cover Charlie's eyes.

        ¨Mama! Pa’s out there!”

Lifeless oxen’ bodies hit the ground one after another like dominos… they shot them, all of them. At this point, I was holding back tears, but Charlie's dam had crumbled, and the tears were streaming down his frightened face. The men must have heard Charlie’s cries because they were stumbling on their feet and grabbing things even faster. Pa sprung out of the tent and quickly realized what was happening. 

        "Run!" one of the men shouted. 

        Fearlessly, Pa grabbed one of the men and fought back before they could escape. He managed to get on top of the man and hold him down, but it was one against three. 

         "Pa, gun!" I yelled, but it was too late. 

        One of the men shot him… I watched, unable to say anything through my cries. The sorrowful feeling was heavy like a 50-pound weight that had just been balanced on my head. The three local men hopped on their horses and trotted away through the misty morning meadow, their hands full of things they had just wrongfully stolen. Hundreds of dollars worth of goods washed away in an instant. But that's not what I worried about.

        "Pa!" Charlie said through his cries.

        Hurriedly we scrambled out of the wagon. Pa laid motionless in the wet grass. Blood was seeping out endlessly from where he had been shot. 

        “Will, Charlie, look away,” Ma said.

        I grabbed Charlie's arm and headed away from Pa’s limp body. 

        “They took everything,” I started, “I knew this could happen, it happened to Lewis and Clark… but to us? They didn’t get it this bad.”

        “Will, Will, look!”

        I'm shocked by the sight.

        “Charlie! You pesky genius!”

-Braelyn C.

       My last day is today, Friday, November 22, 1969, I told myself, putting my blue gown on with my matching mortar board hat. It was a sunny day, and the sun was shimmering through my curtains. I went downstairs to find my whole family crammed in the living room.

       “ Congratulations, ” my family shouted. 

       “Hi,” I said to everyone and continued on.

       “ We leave in ten,” Dad said.

        As I walked past the family room I saw my grandparents, aunt, and uncle huddling around the TV watching the news, and I heard, “ There will be the first round of Vietnam war drafts tonight.” I decided to ignore it since it was a special day. When it came time I put my front foot out of the door, knowing I would be done after today.

       I watched as my parents, grandparents, aunt, uncle, and siblings all got in their cars. We all drove to New York University. Today there was extra traffic with a mile of cars lined up waiting to go to the graduation ceremony. We arrived ten minutes later than we thought.  I rushed inside, running briskly to get backstage.

       “Good morning, and welcome to the Graduation ceremony,” the announcer said. I arrived punctually. 

       As the principal droned on about how “hardworking” the students are, the line of students grew shorter and shorter until I was up.

       I was called up; I felt like my head was as red as a tomato. I felt a thousand people stare  from the auditorium seats, watching. I walked up slowly and vigilantly, making sure not to trip.  I went to the principal, took the diploma, bowed arrogantly as I had practiced a lot the day before, and then walked off the stage. 

       When the principal was done handing out diplomas the ceremony had ended. I went swiftly to see my family. I could tell they were all happy for me.

       “Where do you wanna celebrate?” my Dad asked.

       “At our house!” 

       We all headed to my house, but we were bombarded by all the cars trying to leave the parking lot. Eventually, we got out of the parking lot and headed home. When we got to the house we got out of the car and went inside.

       When I got home I ran upstairs, changed, and made my way downstairs. As I walked down the stairs I could see my family talking in the living room.  I hadn’t gotten to spend much time with them because I’d been busy with school, so it made me feel happy and put a smile on my face for them to be there. 

       Once I got downstairs I spotted my dad cooking in the kitchen, preparing dinner. He came out and started to set up the table, and I insisted on helping, but he wouldn’t let me. 

       “Dinner!” he called out, and everyone got seated at the table. I ate quickly and went to bed early since I was barely awake. 

       Before I went upstairs I called out to my family, “Goodbye, see you soon!”  I then headed upstairs to my room and went to sleep.

       Once I woke up in the morning, I was fidgeting with my hands, eager to watch the news from earlier in the week. I got the TV remote, sat on the couch, and quickly turned it on to Thursday’s broadcast.

        “Today we are covering what is going on in Vietnam. Japanese troops were stationed in Vietnam until recently, and when they left North Vietnam, it became vulnerable, so the French Colonial Government took over the North and is now trying to take over the South. They are making every effort to take control of all of Vietnam and convert Vietnam into a Communist country. Southern Vietnam is trying its hardest to defend its territory and retake the North. The U.S.A. has been supplying South Vietnam with equipment, but it is not quite enough for them, so soon we will be stationing troops to help solidify South Vietnam.”

       I quickly switched to Friday’s broadcast. “ There will be a draft chosen tonight by giving young men numbers corresponding to their birthdays. Men with lower numbers will be getting chosen first and will have to report to induction centers. They will get a letter in the mail soon,” the news person said. 

       I was confused about how so much has gone on in the last couple of days and how I was so unaware. No wonder why my family was huddled together like penguins watching the news. 

       A week had passed, and I started looking for a job. Then Dad shouted vehemently, “You got a letter in the mail!” 

       “Okay!” I yelled back as I rushed downstairs, knowing what it would say.

       When I got to my dad, I snatched the letter from his hand, tore it open, and read it out loud. 

       “Dear John Greenman, you have been drafted for service in the Vietnam War. You will have to report to the induction center to be put in your position on December 1st at 231 Florence St.”

       “That's tomorrow, what do I do?!” I exclaimed. 

       “Go to the Induction Center and see where it goes from there,” my dad said.

       My stomach was in a knot as I regretted how much focus I put on school for the last semester instead of at home with my family. I called my whole family, told them the news, and said my goodbyes, as I knew I might not return.

-Benjamin M.

        I eyeballed the luau dancer on the dashboard as it swayed back and forth against the blooming cherry trees. 

       “We are here,” groaned the unidentified driver. Things in the Service were secretive like that; you never knew who was leading you to your death.

       As I climbed out of the black van I took in the smell of fire and the sound of chanting, screaming, and gunfire. After taking in the horror I noticed my trembling hands were shaking my rifle, so I took a deep breath, regained my confidence, and stepped toward the white-columned building.

       “Right, your unit will be covering the exits; we don't want our terrorists escaping, now do we, Boys?” our staff sergeant scoffed.

       “No S.S.G. McAleese,” our unit collectively answered.

       Our Staff Sergeant herded us into groups of three and directed us to our exit. I thought back to our mission brief, exactly three exits, one forward, one in the back, and one on the rooftop. I got James and Harris in my group; both had more experience than me, but only by a year or two. We were assigned the backdoor; great.

       We made our way to the back in our fully black uniforms, trying to avoid the swarm of — as S.S.G. McAleese called them — “Terrorist Supporters.” How could they support …

       Harris’s gravelly, frustrated voice cut off my thoughts. “Oye, Greyson, stop being a space cadet and get over here!” 

       I didn't realize I was falling behind; I quickened my pace and apologized for being a total dip. We passed the squadron climbing up the building; everybody around me was so quick to it, unshaken by the sound of crying and ammunition. 

       We made it to the backdoor and organized our formation. The sounds of heavy boots echoed in the building. It would be quiet, then I’d hear a battle cry, a gunshot, silence, and everything repeats. 

       I examined the two in my group. Harris had dark curly hair and stubble, most likely in his 30s, and the same goes to James with his unruly golden hair and large nose. My thoughts were besieged by the smell of vinegar. I quickly turned to see tear gas rapidly filling the building, and Harris ordered us to fasten our gas masks.

       I took in the agonizing scene of the white building through the suffocating mask. The glass panes had been smashed in, and the flags were torn down. Once regarded as a safe space to help Iranian immigrants, now seen as a warzone.

       “Jeez, this is going quick,” James commented, checking his wristwatch.

       “Well, we got the best in England doing their work in there,” Harris replied.

       “It's been 10 minutes, and the commandos are halfway through!” James exclaimed.

       More gunfire echoed out the smashed windows, and I flinched;  Harris and James kept their composure. If they are being courageous then I need to be as well!

       “Five outta’ six gunmen down, and McAleese is bringing out the sixth,” Harris’ radio barked.

       Harris and James nodded to each other, then to me, signaling to the front. As we jogged back in our heavy gear I looked at the once beautiful building, blackened by smoke, slung by ropes, and dented by bullets. 

       As we turned the corner we noticed the crowd had multiplied in size, all pointing at something on the ground. S.S.G.McAleese had been holding down an Arabian man wearing a white shirt. 

      “Let him go!” a man in the crowd yelled as S.S.G.McAleese cuffed the man on the ground. 

       “Oye, Greyson, Harris!” McAleese said, looking at me. “Put this Airhead into the van!” Harris and I ran toward the staff sergeant and clasped onto the dangerous man. He spat back vigorously at me; I ignored the foul fluid as we walked him towards the van. We threw him in as he squirmed like a worm in the metallic handcuffs. We slammed the back door of the van and breathed a heavy sigh of relief. I grabbed the radio from my belt with shaky hands and reported, "Operation Nimrod, successful," but my mind raced, seeking an explanation on how any of this was moral. All this violence, and for what? Seven casualties occurred! It didn't make sense; it didn't seem right.

-Ava P.

                                                                     Chapter 1

       The streets were surprisingly crammed with tourists taking pictures, eating, and laughing without knowing the truth hidden behind those walls. I walked down the street where stood a glimmering palace hiding the truth that's been buried deep within its halls. I was the last person remaining who knew the secrets about the first-ever world war. 

       "Isa, is that you?” asked a voice. I looked around the crowded streets and spotted his all too familiar face. That was the face of the person who made my life miserable and disappeared without a trace, a person I would never anticipate to be here. The face of a prince.

                                              __________________________

       The sound of a buzzing alarm startled me awake.

       “Isa, breakfast is ready!” my mother shouted. She was the predominant chef in the palace, which made the palace my home. I got out of bed lazily only to find my room filled with sticky gooey slime.

       "He is soo going to regret this,” I mumbled to myself, annoyed. I cleaned my room and went to the kitchen when the aroma of freshly cooked pancakes flooded my nose and made my mouth water. I squeezed my way through the stampede of chefs and helpers to a small table in the corner where I usually eat food. Mom had placed a minuscule plate of pancakes and honey as usual. 

       I ate fast and scrambled out of the kitchen unnoticed; I went downstairs to where the royal family's bed chambers were located. I sneaked past the guard stealthily, went straight to where the youngest prince slept and entered the room to discover a sleeping teenage boy. I went inside the bathroom, filled a mug of water, and dropped the water right over his head.

       "Aagh, I'm drowning," Max sputtered as I burst into giggles.

       "That's what you get for filling my room with slime," I muttered between a series of giggles. He shook his blond hair wildly, making me wet. "Hey, not fair," I pouted.

        Later that evening, I went to the garden near the east wing of the palace. The trees were getting ready for winter, storing all their energy deep within their core. This was my favorite time of year when the leaves started turning golden brown. The cold wind blew soft against my face; the animals made shelter and got ready for the upcoming harsh winter. 

       I strolled around the garden when I suddenly heard muffled sounds coming from a nearby window and peeked inside to find the King talking to a man with blue eyes and brown hair.

       "Your Majesty, you can't go! It's too dangerous," warned the blue-eyed man with fear in his eyes, but the King just shrugged it away.

       "It's nothing my guards can't handle," he replied.

       "But your majesty, they are more determined this time, and they will not stop until they get what they want," the man said. The king started saying something, but before I could hear the rest, a hand grabbed me from behind, pulling me away. 

       "What are you doing?” the guard barked in my ear. I trembled when he let me go. 

       I was always scared of the palace guards ever since I was born; they were tall, muscular, and had broad shoulders. "Nothing," I whispered. I slowly walked past the guard, heading straight for the library, thinking about what I had just heard. 

       “Good morning, Isabelle,” said the librarian.

       “Good morning, Mrs. Alexie,” I responded, walking down the hallway of books and towards the reading area, where prince Ernst had his whole face inside a book. How To Be a Good Ruler, the title read.

       “Don’t worry, you’ll be a great king,” I whispered encouragingly, sitting down beside him. 

       Hearing my voice, he looked up.  “Thanks.....…thank you for your support,” he replied the second time with more power and certainty. 

       I rolled my eyes and asked, “Seriously?” 

       He flashed his eyelashes innocently, “What?” 

       I hated it when he gave me that look, like he didn't know what I was saying. Annoyed, I just shrugged it away and said, “Nothing.”

       The next day, the King and Queen were going on an official visit to Sarajevo. It meant playing and running around the palace without much consequence of getting severely punished. It’s not like we can’t play around when they are here. It’s just that their regal presence made us want to act like grown ups. And so, we waited until they both left.

       “Tag, you’re it!” I roared, leaping up and running as fast as I could.

       The whole day we ran around the house, laughing and playing. Even Ernst, who spent most of the time in the library, came out and played along.

       The next morning, I woke up to the sound of trumpets. Trumpets are only played in the palace when someone dies. Groggily, I remembered the King and Queen had not yet returned from their journey. A sense of dread and confusion filled me. 

       I put on my slippers and hurried downstairs to find Max, Ernst, and Princess Sophie already there. They were still in their nightgowns, and Sophie was laying her head on Ernest’s shoulder, trying to calm herself down. Max was the one I was worried about; he sat near the corner of the wall. His eyes were devoid of any sorrow; they were filled with nothing but pure hatred. The look on his eyes was so unlike him; fear filled my insides.

       I walked down towards the butler and quietly asked him what happened.  “There was a terrorist attack, and the King and Queen were shot. The queen got hit and died instantly, but the King did not but he wanted to stay with the queen.  The doctors said that he died because of blood loss, and we could have saved him if we had brought him in earlier,” he replied, his voice filled with pity for the princes and princess. He lowered his head regretfully.

       The next few weeks were filled with burying ceremonies for the King and Queen. One day, the King's friend came to the palace and announced, “This palace is not safe anymore, we are closing the gates and the royal family will be living with me. So anyone who lives or works here will be sent back and will get new jobs with more money and a house.” 

       I didn’t want to leave the palace and the princes. They were the closest people to my family other than my mom, but I knew if they stayed, they would be putting their lives in danger. 

-Andrea M. 

        My eyes were frozen, paralyzed from movement. My heart was pulsating rapidly, and I could feel a thunderous pounding in my chest. The view of deep crimson and scarlet blood muddled my vision, and blood-curdling screeches made my body take a low, shallow breath of purposeless air. The characteristic metallic smell of blood created a wave of nausea in my stomach. 

       “Are you ready to perform surgery next week?” he said with a sanguine tone, filled with an eerie curiosity. He blithely giggled like a little girl. “We will see how many logs you will cut.”

       I glimpsed at the sparklingly clear skies. The trees were scrawny and delicate, like the arms of a malnourished child. The most alive thing in sight was a quivering brown and orange bird sitting on a gaunt branch. I stuttered a trembling and tiny yes with the microscopic amount of strength I had left. 

       I would have to create this pain for another human being. I kept envisioning this stimulation in my head for the next week. Wearing a pristine white coat with sweaty gloves and head coverings, cutting a human inch by inch. Hearing their screeches of hysteria slowly turned into a distressing but tranquil silence. I have no idea why I turned this in my head for hours on end, but so it was. 

       I had been awakened by the warm and cordial light and a faint knock at my door. I wasn’t sure if I didn’t sleep peacefully because of the thoughts in my head or the dense bed, or a combination of both. A pale, almost translucent-looking man came up to my door, and he had the most feminine eyes I had ever seen on a man.

       My grandmother told me once, “A woman with beautiful eyes is more beautiful than a woman with the most beautiful face.” 

       He directed me toward a group of people at the frost-bite center. 

       A middle-aged woman whispered, “Another surgeon rookie.” 

       “Here we are,” said the pale man.

       I bowed into a 90-degree bow and said with the clearest voice I could muster, “I am Noburu Yosuke. It is an honor to become a member of the Epidemic Prevention and Water Purification Department.”

       “I am going to go work,” said the pale man as he walked away.

I whispered to my colleagues for the day, “That guy didn’t tell me his name,” making sure he couldn’t hear me.

The same middle-aged woman replied, “That is Yamamoto Naomi. He’s just like his name. Straight, direct, and beautiful.”

There was instantaneous laughter right after she said that. Pitch silence quickly ensued. 

       A younger guy followed, “So, anyway, you don’t have to say The Epidemic Prevention and Water Purification Department every time.” He followed with a quick chuckle. Around here, we call it the ‘Unit 731’ or, if you are like me, you can call it the ‘Ishii Unit,’ named after Surgeon General Shirō Ishii, of course.” 

Several people gently nodded their heads toward the explicit statement. A man with salt and pepper hair checked his loosely fitted watch with quite a bit of interest.  He quietly sighed and leisurely started walking.  Members of the frost-bite team quickly paced the man, and I followed without  comment. 

We reached a gloriously immense room. It was grander than my entire home. A broad man appeared with an equally broad face. The only color on his face was the light blue tint of his glasses. Dressed in a polished suit, he exuded the professionalism of a man who had no patience for errors or incompetence.

“Hello employees, and welcome to the new fella.” His voice was lower than I thought. 

       The middle-aged woman’s family name was Takuma. So, Takuma told me to work in the garbage deposition area. She slowly walked me to the area. The stench violently forced itself into my nose, bringing a nauseating feeling into my head. The stench was a combination of rotten eggs, foul blood, and a slight floral scent that coated the room. I stumbled around the room with a hand placed firmly on my nose; I could barely breathe.

       My brain forced that memory into the back of my mind like how an old book is slowly pushed out of a library, but I still remember a hand slightly larger than mine. Probably, the hand of a man around 178-182 cm tall. It was tough and swollen with a deep violet hue. What if it was me? What if it was my family? My grandfather, my grandmother? 

       What can I do? What should I do? Contemplating my entire reason for being here seemed like a bad idea, and it was. Could I be able to get out? Whom would I talk to? Whom should I ask? Many similar questions found themselves in my brain for hours on end.

       I pondered about it sometimes, actually all the time. What would have happened if I had decided to leave if I had more will, more determination? The only words that continue to stay in my head are, “What if?” The Ishii unit was hurriedly dissolved after the war had ended.  I haven’t seen my homeland since I came to Harbin, so many years ago. I have not stayed in touch with members of the Ishii Unit, but I have heard many of them moved back to their hometowns in Japan. Probably, going back to their families’ business. I don’t dare to face my hometown.  What would I say if they asked me about what I did? Harbin is a place where no one knows or remembers me. I only feel safe in loneliness. 

-Anagha V.

        Blood poured out of my mouth as I bent over in the hazy morning field. My stomach ached with pain as I watched the bright red blood slowly spill out. I leaned down until I was laying on the ground, and quietly I fell asleep.

       “Mabel?”

“MABEL!” yelled John Acheson as he stared at my unconscious body.

       Suddenly my eyes shot open as I lay on my side, staring at dried dark red blood in the grass.  “Huh?” I said as I looked at John.

“Mabel!? How did this happen? Are you okay!?!” said John frantically.

“I'm not sure,” I said as I tried to get up.

“I'll help you back into the house,” said John as he helped me up.

       At a steady pace, I walked into the house with John, holding my stomach with dried blood on my hands. I sat down back in my bed as John brought me a bucket of water.

       “Clean yourself up, I'll bring you Mr. Griggs’s,” John added, walking out of the room. 

        I splashed the cold water onto my face as I sat on the wooden bed while John frantically collected his coat.

       “Let’s go,” John said as he took my hand and helped me off the bed.

I swiftly crept through the house with John by my side, gripping my stomach as we headed through the door. We lived quite close to the doctor, Mr. Griggs, and we were well acquainted, so we hoped he would allow us into his home to help me. 

       The strong winter wind bit aggressively at our faces as we swiftly sauntered through the village. As we approached Mr. Griggs's home a light inside the house lit up. 

       “Mr. Griggs?”

       “Mr. Griggs!?”

       “Mr. Griggs, please, we need your help!” John said while he knocked on the door. 

       As John started to come back to me the door to the dimly lit house crept up.

       “Hello?”

       “What could you want at this time in the morning?” Mr. Griggs asked with a blazing candle in his hand.

        “Please help my wife Mabel, she seems to have fallen ill or under a hex of some sort!”

“Okay, Okay, come in, come in,” Mr. Griggs said grumpily. 

        As John and I walked in Mr. Griggs led us to a small room with a bed and told me to sit down. 

       “So what happened to Mrs. Acheson?” said Mr. Griggs.

        As I opened my mouth to speak, John abruptly interrupted me.

       “This morning I had woken up much earlier than usual,”

“I had turned to look at Mabel and she had disappeared.  I searched our home, and she was nowhere to be seen until I had gone out to inform someone she had disappeared.  When I stepped out of the house I saw her unconscious on the grass with blood next to her.”

       “Hm, I see, Mrs. Acheson, how did you end up there?” Mr. Griggs said as he yawned.

       “I haven't got a clue how I got there,” I said, “the last thought I can recall is last night when I was throwing up blood onto the ground.”

       Mr. Griggs walked towards me and examined me carefully as he checked for something that could be the answer to what was wrong with me.

       “She looks fine, if anything pretty healthy,” Mr. Griggs said as he glared at my husband.

       “Have a question for you, Mr. Acheson,” said Mr. Griggs.

       “Have you noticed any strange or odd behavior coming from Mrs. Acheson lately?”

       “I-uh, I don’t believe so.  Now that you mention it, she has been much less active lately and has seemed kind of worn out, why?” John said, looking at Mr. Griggs.

       “As you said before, she may be under some sort of a witch's hex or maybe even is a witch,” Mr. Griggs said with a concerned look on his face. 

       My eyes shot up to Mr. Griggs.  This can’t be true, no, no, no, I thought as he looked back at me, my skin growing pale. My heart raced as Mr. Griggs and my husband went back and forth.

       “What? How could this have happened, what can we do to fix it!” said John as he stood up.

       “I'm not entirely sure….” said Mr. Griggs.

       “I'm not saying she is one! It is just a possibility with all of the witches that have been convicted lately. Just watch her behavior and come back if anything goes wrong,” said Mr. Griggs as he showed me and John to the door.

“Have a nice day?” Mr. Griggs said as we took a step out into the wet grass.

       John and I quietly walked back to our home in the cold morning wind, not one word spoken between us. As our house appeared in the distance we slightly sped up our pace and arrived home. John opened the door for me when he arrived at the door. I quickly slipped out of my coat and climbed back into bed.

As I woke up the next morning John had already left our home since he had to go to work. I had gotten out of bed and crept to the yard where we had kept our water. I scooped up water and put in the herbs John had recommended to me the other day. They gave the water a bit of an odd taste, but it helps clear my head. I began to sweep around in the kitchen when I got another pain in my stomach. I decided to just leave it and continue. The rest of the day I spent cleaning the house and sewing up some holes in John's trousers. 

       As I was about to patch up the last hole the pain suddenly came back, but this time stronger. I started to cough, covering my mouth. I pulled my hand away from my mouth and saw dark red blood staring back into my eyes. 

       I instantly froze; I didn’t know what to do. My heart was racing as I stood up, blood creeping out of my mouth onto my chin. I impulsively grabbed one of the scraps from my sewing and wiped the blood off my face, but it didn't stop. It kept coming after every cough more, and more blood came out. 

       I suddenly blacked out, my head hitting the table. As I rose from my unconscious state I saw the table drenched in my blood from where I had hit my head. I touched my head, and I felt a stinging pain and blood on my hand. 

       I quickly scurried out of the house to wash my wounds. I quickly changed my clothing and washed the blood-covered clothing with the water, scrubbing the blood off the silk apron I had been wearing, my hands shaking and now stained by the blood that was slowly coming out of the apron. After I cleansed the apron of blood I hung it up on a thin line in our backyard. The apron, now with a red splotch, flew whimsically through the cold breeze. The apron dripped diluted red droplets onto the frost-covered grass. 

       I stepped back into our small house to wipe up the blood that had been left on the table. I wiped it all up with a white cloth. The blood-soaked cloth smelled repulsive and strong. I had to dispose of the cloth as there was no way the blood would come out of it.

        Soon after John had returned home. He immediately sat down and sighed. “How was work, John?” I said as I went to grab the pants I had fixed. 

       “The same as always,” John said with a blank face.

       “I stitched up the hole in the trousers you had been complaining about,” I stated as I held the pants up to show him.

        “Thanks, have you been okay today? Did anything else unnatural happen?” John asked, looking up at me from the creaky wooden chair.

       “Uhm, not really, nothing I can recall,” I stated hesitantly.

        “Are you sure?” John said with a confused expression. 

        “Yes, yes I am sure; why, is something wrong?” I asked.

       “Uhm no, was just wondering, I was quite worried leaving you here alone,” John muttered while he stood up.

       “No need to worry, I was fine, you should get some rest while I prepare dinner,” I said to John.

        John slowly got up and walked to the bedroom as I began to prepare our nightly meal. My stomach was still in pain, which made me not very interested in eating at the moment. John was most likely starving due to having to work all day. I prepared our bread and fresh meat at a slow pace, hoping that John could be in a better mood by the time I had finished our meal. 

        As I had just about finished cooking, I heard rumbling behind me as John stepped out of the room.

       “Are you done yet Mabel?” John said in a sleepy state.

       “Ah yes, I am just about done,” I said as I sliced the meat up.

       “Finally, I'm starving,” John stated.

        As I went to place our food on our table, John pulled out the glaring green herbs from his pocket.

      “Here,” he said as he placed them into my glass of water.

       “Thank you, these brilliant little herbs do really put my mind at ease.”

       “What are they anyway? Can we start growing them in our garden once spring has arrived?” I asked as I took a sip of the freshwater.

        “Maybe, Mr. Griggs had gifted me some a while ago, it helps soothe your emotions, something like that,” John added as he held out some fresh herbs in his hands.

       “Oh, okay,” I said as I took another sip of water, John looking at me.

       As we finished our dinner I cleaned up John's food and took the last sip of my herb-infested water. As I took the last sip my deep brown eyes widened. It was as if my heart had stopped for a moment. I abruptly started coughing blood, splattering out of my mouth. 

       “What the!?” John yelled as he took a step back. 

       My throat tightened up; I couldn’t stop coughing. More and more blood dripped down my chin, like rain drizzling down a window. I held my throat intensely as I saw John run out the door. On my knees, I tried to follow him out, but I couldn’t stop. I layed on the ground as I slammed my back onto the wooden floor, my curly hair falling out of the tight bun it had been held in as I howled and screamed as I smashed the back of my head on the ground.

Suddenly I stopped. I layed on the ground covered in blood and bruises on my back stinging with pain. I shaked as I tried to sit up, my vision blurry. As I grabbed the table to try to bring myself up I heard footsteps from outside the door. As I frantically turned my head to the door it opened, revealing John, Mr. Griggs, and a tall man unknown to me. 

       I tried to speak, but nothing came out; I just couldn’t do it with the pain I was in. The unknown man had taken my arm and began dragging me as I tried to pull back. I could barely move, my arm discolored with marks and cuts. He had brought me to Mr. Griggs's office where I had been questioned and examined by the man and Mr. Griggs; the whole time I stayed silent. I wanted to scream as loud as I could, hoping all of this would just be over and I could go back to my home. 

       “I can't believe this!”

       “Is it true, Mrs. Acheson!?”

       “Is it true!?!?” Mr. Griggs said, yelling at me.

        I sat on the cold floor, sobbing, tears trickling down my disfigured face. I tried to open my mouth to speak, but I couldn’t do it.

       “Mabel, tell him the truth now so this doesn’t have to end badly for you,” John said to me as he looked into my eyes.

       I sat in silence, not being able to move.

       “She’s a witch, she's a witch, an evil woman!” John shouted at Mr. Griggs. 

       I stared at John blankly, not knowing what to do; what could I even do? I opened my mouth to object, but nothing was able to come out.

       “You may be right, but we can’t be certain!” Mr. Griggs responded.

       “Are you stupid!? I had told you she had admitted to it? She’s evil!”

“Look at her, she is a woman from hell!” John yelled. 

         I couldn’t believe a word he just said. I tried to get up, but I couldn’t move; I just looked blankly at the ground. Why would he even say this? I had never admitted to anything!

       Slowly, footsteps and mumbling had started to come from outside the office door. Everyone in the room became quiet. The door started shaking as people knocked on it. Knocking went from banging as the voices from outside began to become louder.

       “Grab her!” Mr. Griggs’s demanded of the unknown man. He had now grabbed me and started to grab me out of the room. I had abided. I didn't want to become more hurt, and I just wanted to leave that place. As the man dragged me out, shouting at the people to back up, they yelled at me. 

       “Is it the witch? Is it!?”

       “It’s the witch, the witch!”

       “Kill the witch, kill the witch!” 

       “Burn her! Burn her!” people cried out as I was dragged through the crowd of angry people. 

       “Mabel!?” one voice called.  As I looked up I saw my dear friend, Alice. My heart shattered as if it was glass as I looked up at her.  The man dragged me into the village church as Mr. Samuel Parris was waiting for me at the end of the long dull carpet.

       “Mrs. Acheson, what has happened to you?” Mr. Parris asked me.

I just looked at him, disappointed. None of this was my fault, I hadn’t done anything, and I didn’t know what was going on anymore.

       “Your soul is no longer gentle, your soul is now evil, you are a woman who is cursed and have come from hell,” Mr. Parris added.

       “We will set you free, Mrs. Acheson, you will no longer have to live with this curse,” he said.

“Burn the witch!”

“Burn the witch!” voices chanted from outside the church.

       “You will be free,” Mr. Parris said, looking at me.

       As he said this a judge appeared in the room through the door; it was Mr. Sewell, Mr. Griggs following in behind him.

       “Let me take a look at this witch,” Sewell said with a grumpy attitude.  He gazed at my bruises, my swollen eyes, and my messy brown hair.  “She had admitted to her husband, am I correct?” Mr. Sewll asked.

       “Yes, yes indeed, probably one of the worst cases we have seen,” Mr. Griggs answered.

“What had happened to her?”

“She had acted oddly and had thrown up blood.  Mr. Acheson raced to me earlier and told me that she had admitted to being a witch and started coughing blood up!” Mr. Griggs told him.

“Very well, in this very church, I deem Mrs. Acheson guilty of witchcraft!” Mr. Sewell declared. 

My heart dropped as it came out of his mouth. Without a word the unknown man had taken my arm and began to tug me.  This time I kicked and pulled back, my body aching with pain.

“Stop moving, woman!” the unknown man shouted as he struck my face. I collapsed onto the ground, my eyes carefully closing. 

       I soon awoke to a loud crashing noise as shackles raddled. I had awakened inside of the dusty jailhouse in our village. My legs shook as I tried to stand, the gaps of sunlight through the bars of the window hitting my red vein-filled eyes. Unable to stand, I sat on the cold ground, waiting, waiting for something to happen, waiting for someone to come help me. 

       I tried to speak, but all that came out was a faint, scratchy voice.  “H-hello?” I said with my rough voice.

       With nothing else to do, I decided to just sit and wait for this to just end as the pastor told me it would. Maybe I am actually cursed? I don’t know anymore. I just want things to go back to normal. 

       After hours someone finally came into the room, the unknown man. 

       “Hello? P-Please, tell me what's going on, please sir!” I attempted to say as I tried to pull myself towards him. 

He stared into my eyes as I spoke and finally said, “Come with me.” He put me in new shackles and held me up as we walked out of the jailhouse. My heart sank as we walked into the field of locust trees. There stood a grand locust tree that had a noose on one of the lowest branches. 

       When we arrived there in front of the grim locust tree were John, Mr. Griggs, and Mr. Sewell who stood next to the tree. A large crowd of people also hoarded around the tree, shouting at me 

“Hang the witch! Hang the witch!” they yelled at me.

       The man took me towards the frost-covered tree. An evening breeze blew through the wind, my unruly hair moving slightly. Every step we took leaves crunched under our feet. The crowd of people yelled at me as I walked through, but I couldn’t understand anything they were saying, being in so much distress. As I stood next to the pastor he spoke, but I didn’t listen; I just stood looking down at my feet while sorrowful tears fell down my face. The crowd watched as I was assisted up the wooden stool that sat under the noose. 

       The unknown man put the scratchy rope around my neck as I stood on the stool, my legs violently shaking. I felt at this point it would be best for me to die. I did not want to interrupt our puritan lifestyle any further, and I didn’t want to hurt anyone.  

       “May we free Mrs. Acheson from the curse she was bestowed upon,” Mr. Sewell said.

       As he finished, the unknown man reached for the stool underneath me.  As he pulled it out, I felt prickly rope pulling on my throat. I felt dizzy as I slightly swung my legs, knowing this would soon be over. I tried to hold my throat, but my hands were being held back by the shackles. My husband grinned at me as my vision blurred. My head felt light and peaceful as I hung unconscious.

And then I was dead. My so-called curse had been lifted- I was free. 

-Aiden G.