Prologue

My sneakers pounded hard against the ground as I fled the gaining authorities, my heartbeat quickening with every step. I skidded around a sharp corner, making me stumble, and I nearly fell over. I sighed in relief as I regained myself, glancing behind me to see if I had outrun them. Nope. Light flooded the large, dark, and empty tunnel, alerting me that the officers were on my toes. It smelt faintly of gasoline, making me wonder what these tunnels were even used for.

I was fast. Very fast, but so were they. There was a loud, ear-piercing cry of pain; it didn’t sound like any officer.

            Then it hit me like a ton of bricks.

            “Colby!” I screamed, my heart lurching at the thought of Colby, the most innocent person alive, getting hurt. Policemen surrounded me, all pointing their blinding flashlights in my face. “We have to help him!” I stopped running and whipped around toward the men, my eyes pleading.

“Hands in the air, kid!” One of them ordered, but I kept on screaming. “Colby!” I repeated. “Let me go! I need to find Colby!”

“I said, hands in the air!” He roared, and I complied, raising my arms up over my head and choking out a small sob of “Please.”

A large, muscled policeman walked behind me and grabbed my arms, forcing them down roughly and behind my back. A click was heard, and then I was no longer free. I hung my head in defeat as I was escorted out of the tunnel by two of the men. I clenched my jaw and blinked away the tears that were threatening to fall.

Colby is one of those people who will apologize a million times just for running into you in the hallway. You can’t help but wonder if they’ve had a traumatic experience as a kid involving being trampled or something, and it makes you feel extremely guilty, even though it was a small mistake. Colby Brown, President of the AV club and the D&D (Dungeons and Dragons) club, would never do anything that would result in him, or anyone else, being arrested.

That’s why all of this was my fault.

Now you’re probably wondering how I got myself into this situation, right? Well, stay tuned, since I’m going to start from the very beginning…

Chapter One

It was a typical Monday morning, mainly typical because I couldn’t get out of bed again. I was too busy dreaming of being a part of, and winning, the Super Bowl.

“Logan!” My mother called up to me, her voice sweet and kind. The scent of warm chocolate chip muffins wafted into my room somehow, which would usually get me out of bed, but in this case it did nothing.

“Logan, Sweetie, it’s time for breakfast.”

“Coming,” I called back weakly, my voice unusually husky. I trudged down the stairs as it was one of those days.

My mom got one look at me and gasped.         

“Honey, you look awful!”

“Wow, thanks, Mom,” I said sarcastically, adding an over-the-top eye roll for effect.

“No, I mean you look sick. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” I lied, striding into the kitchen. Although everything was not okay. The night before, I had gone over to Miguel’s house with Colby and eaten a huge box of donuts as the result of a dare. Not that I had minded at the time, but the donuts were apparently prodded by Miguel’s younger sister Erica after she had been in the playhouse at Chuck E. Cheese. This information was not disclosed to me until after I had eaten the entire box. Thanks, Miguel.

“Logan, don’t lie to me.” My mom stared at me with the look that only mothers could manage to pull off, and then I caved in with a sigh.

“Fine,” I groaned, then told her the story. Her eyebrows were knitted in a look of pure concern the entire time, making me feel a tinge of regret.

“Go back to bed, Hon. I’ll bring you up some muffins later.” My mother gave me a loving smile and walked away swiftly.

I sighed and spun around, practically dragging myself back upstairs and onto my bed.

Sure enough, when I woke up again, there were chocolate chip muffins perfectly placed on a tray by my bedside like they were there to be photographed for a baking magazine. I sat upright and my head pounded, especially behind my sore, brown eyes. I pulled my blankets further up on my body, suddenly feeling very cold and shivering like a chihuahua. Good thing my mom made me stay home today.

I laid in my bed for a while before taking out my very ancient DS and playing Mega Man X, since it was what was already in there. I got really far on one level before I died, cursing under my breath.

My phone buzzed loudly, so I jumped in surprise. It was a text from Miguel.

Miguel: Hey! Just wondering where you were, since you missed first and second period with Mr. Lancaster, and I had to do a whole lab on my own

Logan: Sorry, I just woke up sick and my mom’s not letting me go to school today

Miguel: Aww man that sucks! Hope ya feel better

Logan: Thanks dude

I put my phone down and gazed longingly at the muffins before taking one. I scarfed it down in seconds, grateful to my mom for putting them there in the first place. “She probably went to work,” I mumbled to myself, crumbs falling out my mouth as I did so. “Otherwise, she’d be in here worrying over me.”

Hours passed, and so did my entertainment. I thought about watching tv, but I couldn’t get myself up to do so. I told myself that it was because I was too sick to walk, but I knew in my heart that I was just really lazy. I rolled over so my back was to my door, and I noticed my (very large) walkie talkie lying next to me.

It looked very inviting, so I gave in and turned it to the right channel. Colby, Miguel and I all had them so we could be like the kids in Stranger Things, and I think it’s just cool in general. I held down the button on the side and put it up to my face.

“Colby? Miguel? Do you copy?” I croaked, sitting up in my bed. No response. “If you can hear me, meet me by Cornwallis after school, 3:15. Over.” Picking up my phone with my free hand, I checked the time; 1:47 pm. I would have to wait a while. I put down my ‘talkie and slowly slid off of my bed, making my way over to my window and opening the curtains.

The sun was blindingly bright compared to the dim light of my bedroom, and it seemed to reflect off of everything. It made the chocolate brown of my room look almost tan, and it hurt to look at my pure white furniture. I squinted against the sun and surveyed the empty streets of my neighborhood, feeling a strong desire to get on my bike. The sky was a cloudless blue, and the multi-colored houses made my street look like an illustration from a children’s book. I was just itching to get out of the house, my boredom overpowering my sense of judgement. I decided to go with my boredom.

I zoomed down the stairs and out the door, scurrying over to the garage where my bike was kept. The door opened at the touch of the button, and I snagged my bike and helmet, throwing one of them back into the garage. And I can tell you for a fact that I did not throw my bike. I hopped on and pedaled down the smooth driveway and onto the bare streets. I knew my way around by heart, and I used this to my advantage.

The trees swayed rhythmically against the autumn breeze, their leaves bright red and orange. A few leaves fell gently down to the ground, some blowing right in my face and disorienting me for a split second. I swerved a bit before continuing to go straight, avoiding any other falling leaves. Why did the leaves have to fall, why can’t they just disintegrate instead of bothering me and killing the grass they land on?

Once I made it to the school, I cycled up to the bike rack and locked my bike in safely. Last time I forgot to, and somebody decided to take it for a ride instead of asking me first. Now I know! Would you look at that, I learn from trauma!

I snuck around to the back of the building and peered in through one of the windows. Yes! There he was, Miguel, being bored to tears by Mr. Pepino.

At least, that’s what we call him. His actual name is Mr. Peppa, but one of the Spanish classes thought it was funny to call him “Mr. Pepino” (Mr. Cucumber, for those who don’t know Spanish), and the name stuck ever since. Man, it never gets old.

Miguel was conveniently seated next to the window I was by, so I tapped lightly on the glass in morse code. I watched him look over at me in pure shock, but of course he couldn’t say anything. Dash dash. Dot. Dot. Dash. I continued until I had tapped out ‘MEET ME AT CORNWALLIS’. Miguel nodded in understanding and showed me a scribbled out ‘okay’ on a light blue sticky note. He and I smiled mischievously, and then I tapped ‘I’LL GET COLBY’. Miguel nodded again and pretended to listen to Mr. Pepino.

Colby was harder to reach. He was in History with Mrs. Weppler, Miguel’s  mother. Sure, she was kind and motherly at home, but the moment she’s in the school building it’s like she’s a completely different person.

“Very uptight,” Mr. Pepino used to say. “You crazy lot could use the discipline.” I used to think that was bull, but now I kind of understand. Tough love, I guess. However, intended or not, Mrs. Weppler was definitely a pretty scary woman. Miguel acts like her sometimes, and it’s a real change compared to his normal behavior. That’s how you know he’s not messing around.

Anyway, Mrs. Weppler was terrifying, so I decided against going to Colby just yet. I reached my hand into the pocket of my dark jeans, feeling around for my wallet. Bingo! I pulled it out swiftly and checked inside. I had a fifty, a twenty, and then a bunch of singles. I could definitely afford some lunch.

There was a small, shabby, rundown diner right across from the school where I sometimes stopped for a bagel or two. Their food was cheap, and I could get something for my dad, who worked long hours in a smelly factory. He loved... I couldn’t even tell you the name of it, since all the paint faded on the worn out sign for the place.

I quickly (and carefully) crossed the street, jogging up to the entrance and pushing the old, greasy glass door open. When I stepped in, I was immediately hit with the delicious scent of the bakery goods, and I forgot what it smelt like to breath fresh air. The air was thick and warm, but hey, at least it didn’t smell like the gym locker room.

“Logan!” A very thick Italian accent called to me. The owner’s name was Giovanni, and he knew me by name.

“Giovanni! How’s it shaking, amico?” I responded, sitting down on one of the bar stools that sat in front of the glass food display. Giovanni loved to teach me some Italian while I waited for my food, and some of it actually sticks. He looked very pleased and gave me a toothy smile, leaning against the counter casually.
            “Cosa posso fare per te?” The dark-haired, mustache-wearing man asked, and it took me a moment to translate it. Since I’m assuming many of you are like me and are not fluent in Italian, he said, “What can I get for you?” But if you are fluent in Italian and I’m wrong, then I apologize. I’m not the sharpest tool in the shed, let’s be real here.

“Um, can I have four bagels? Two blueberry and two french toast, per favore.”

“Coming right up!” Giovanni slowly turned around and shouted something in Italian to one of his workers, but it was too fast to catch. That same worker yelled something back, and then brought Giovanni my order.

Reaching back into my pocket, I started to pay, but then Giovanni refused.

“No no no, it’s on the house, amico. You come here very often, yes.” I raised my eyebrows in surprise.

“Thanks, man. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“I hope so.” Giovanni handed me the bagels and I started back toward the exit, a smile plastered on my stupid face.

-Molly MacDonald

  Locked Out

        

I’m panting and exhausted. I’m chasing something. A car. Trying to get its attention. I sigh. I look up at the clear blue sky for a second and start walking to it like a duckling following its mother.

It is late August. Nice, sunny, and a bit breezy. I go outside to get the mail. I am expecting a package. I go out the side door. I open it and close it. I realize that I made a major mistake. You see, the thing is, I didn't bring my keys or my phone, and no one is home but me. No one. This is just so great (note the sarcasm).

I sigh. I decide to just go to the mailbox and the front door to see if there is even a package there to make myself feel better. Turns out there is nothing. NOTHING! Just junk mail and bills, and I don’t have the effort to care about that.

My mom and my two brothers are up around eight thirty because my mom needs to meet with some clients. She asked me if I wanted to go and I said no. I was too tired, but it was more like didn't want to get up out of bed. Also, my dad is at work, so... One of my brothers is only four months old at the time, so she couldn't just leave him with us. She ended up saying, “Okay, you can stay home.” I was so ecstatic I got to sleep in peace.

I decide to rush to my front porch, defeated. I feel the cold and hard concrete tickle and brush my skin. I wince from the touch. I wait maybe ten minutes, thinking she would be done since it has been four hours since she left, but she doesn't come. So I think this will be a great opportunity to walk around for a bit until she comes back. I take the walk; it is peaceful. No one is around. It is like I am alone in my own world.

When I come back her car isn't there still. While I am walking I notice I really don't know a lot of my neighbors in my neighborhood, only people at my stop who I'm not close with. After contemplating my choices, I decide to go to Melanie Ng’s house, trying to not think about the fifty percent chance she is home and fifty percent chance she isn't. Her house is close by car, but since I can't drive it is probably a 15-minute walk, which is a lot of time for me to just walk and not to do anything. I decide to run, not a good idea since I don’t run, a bit to make things go quicker. I really hope that she will be home, really hope, but since this story is the worst possible thing to happen to a 13 year old middle school girl, Melanie is obviously not home.

I am frustrated at myself to take the chance. I think to myself,  I should've just gone to my neighbor’s house and just called Mom. I start to walk back, and when I get the sign that says the street you're on I see my mom drive right past me.

I'm pretty sure I am just delusional, and there is no way my mom came back. I am hoping that it is her as I start running back on the main road, and then I see her turn into our street That is when I know that it is her. I whisper to myself, “it has to be her.” I start screaming, “MOM!!” at the top of my lungs and run as fast as I can in my crocs I decided to wear, not thinking I would be out long.

When I see her in my field of vision, I start to cry. Oh sorry, I'm bawling my eyes out of their sockets. I am so happy to see her. I see the look on her face, and she is shocked. She looks like she is contemplating whether pineapple goes on pizza. She’s probably thinking, why is Rachel right in front of me? It's a miracle she's actually outside.  When she asks what happened, I explain it all to her while stuttering and hyperventilating.

My education is very important to me and my family.  They always ask about  my grades. So, getting myself locked out you can say is “a critical hit” to my safety and education. I can’t do anything but ask for help and wait. I feel useless and helpless like a five year old who lost her parents at a Walmart. I feel disappointed because I have actually wanted to do my homework for  the Algebra Summer Bridge Program. I  scan the sky again and see its bright and clear like always in  August, upstate New York.

-Rachel Lai

The History of Cake

The sweet aroma fills up your lungs. The fluffy sponge melts in your mouth. The perfect combination of frosting, sponge, and fruits explodes in your mouth, leaving you with a sense of satisfaction like no other. A satisfaction only cake can bring. When you chow down on the cake on your plate, do ever wonder where it came from? How it was made, or what kind of genius created such a perfect dessert?  Like all of our favorite superheroes or supervillains, each and every type of cake has its own origin story.

It all starts hundreds of years ago, in the lands of ancient Egypt, where a sweet, bread-like dessert was enjoyed. These were thought to be some of first cakes. Cakes were very different from the frosting encrusted, decorative desserts that we know and love today. They were originally bread-like and were often sweetened with honey, dried fruits, and nuts. The Egyptians weren’t the only ones enjoying their cakes. The Norse joined in on the fun too. In fact, the word cake originates from the old Norse word, kaka. Kaka also means feces in many other languages; yuck, I know. By now you may be thinking, but that isn’t cake, that’s just fruit bread! The Europeans thought the same. In the mid-17th century, Europeans made the first round cakes with icing. These would be the predecessors to our cakes today. The reason why cakes are round is because the first cakes were made into a ball-like shape and then baked on low shallow pans, griddles or hearthstones. This cooking method resulted in them to finish in a round shape. Finally, in the 19th century the first modern cakes were baked. They were layered and finished with a butter-cream frosting.

We can all agree a birthday isn’t a birthday without cake. But where did the tradition of feasting on cake to celebrate birthdays originate? It is thought that birthday cakes go back to the middle ages in the land of beer and sausages, Germany. They called the celebration Kinderfest, eating cake on children’s birthdays. The candles would represent the “light of life.”  The candles are thought to have come from the Greeks. They would bake round cakes to worship Artemis, the goddess of the moon. The worshippers would then place candles on the cakes and light them, representing the glow of the moon. The smoke from the candles would send their prayers to the gods in the far reaches of the sky. Weather the prayers reached them is a mystery, but they definitely enjoyed themselves a delicious cake.

Cake has evolved and changed throughout history, but it has also taken on many unique forms. The experimentation of countless people has resulted in all our favorite types of cake. Now, imagine a wedding. The first thing that comes to mind is the bride and the groom, followed by a piano playing the iconic wedding music, and finally, a big fancy cake. But why cake? you might ask. Back in medieval times, cake was made with wheat, which represented prosperity and fertility. In the 19th century, Romans had a unique ceremony in which the groom would eat part of the wheat cake and break the rest over the bride’s head. Strange, I know, but they had their reasons. This was supposed to bless them with good fortune and a long life with many children.

Wedding cakes began to modernize into a larger shape, so they became unsuitable to break over the bride’s head. The tradition of piling up smaller cakes with icing was followed in medieval England but was soon changed to stacking them in a more solid structure by King Charles II, a French chef. The white icing of the classic wedding cake represents purity and dates back to Victorian times. Another reason that the icing was kept white was due to the ingredients of the icing. Ingredients for colored icing were difficult to obtain compared to the simpler ingredients that the white frosting required. These cakes were much simpler than the elaborate, more decorative cakes that come with most weddings today. You may think that the multilayered wedding cakes we have are expensive, but back in the day, only English royalty could enjoy them. The top layers weren’t even real cake! They were merely for show and were crafted from spun sugar. It was difficult for bakers to solve the problem of supporting the top layers. They finally figured out how to incorporate pillars and hardened frosting to make real wedding cake, bringing us to modern day, where wedding cake continues to become more intricate. Modern wedding cakes are decorated with realistic sugar flowers that are edible. They are also decked out in fancy frills and patterns that give each cake it’s own unique, magical look. 

Other sweets that may not immediately come to mind as cake, such as pancakes or cupcakes, also have their reasons. Cupcakes, every child’s favorite birthday snack, was first invented in the 19th century. The invention of cupcakes was groundbreaking because of how much easier it was to make them. Originally, cupcakes were referred to as number cakes because the measurements of the ingredients were so simple and easy to remember. The recipe only called for two cups of butter, three cups of flour, four eggs, one cup of milk, one spoonful of soda, and a cup of butter. The modern recipe has been altered and added upon, with there being various different flavors and decorations. The origin of the name “Cupcake” isn’t entirely known, but there are two likely theories. The more obvious of the two is that cupcakes used to be cooked in cups, and the second theory is that the ingredients measured out to bake cupcakes were by the cup.

Another favorite, much simpler cake, the pancake, has an extensive history. The “first” pancake dates back 30,000 years ago to our Neolithic ancestors. Evidence has been found of ancient flour made of cattails and ferns. This prehistoric flour is thought to have been mixed with water and cooked on hot, greased rock. “That’s not a pancake!” you might say, and yes, although the primal blob that our ancestors made might not have been what you imagine as a classic flapjack, it technically is the first pancake. Our next step in the evolution of pancakes skips right to Rome in first century AD. The Romans created a very ancient form of pancake that was called Alita Dolcia, which translates to “Another Sweet.” It was a very simple dish, calling for eggs, milk, flour, and spices. By the 15th century, a more recognizable type of pancake was being made across Europe, adding wheat, flour, cornmeal, or buckwheat to the original recipe. The next relative to modern pancakes was a breakfast food called “Pannekoek” (sound familiar?) and was enjoyed in Friesland on special occasions back in the 18th century. In the American colonies, pancakes were often referred to as johnnycakes, hoecakes, or flapjacks. Recipes for these were recorded in the first all-American cookbook, American Cookery by Amelia Simmons, published in 1796. These recipes called for milk, indian meal, molasses and eggs. Interestingly, Thomas Jefferson was a fan of pancakes, and he sent a copy of the recipe to his residence. The recipe was picked up by French chef Etienne Lemaire. He would soon continue to create what we call crepes today.

All cakes have unique, intriguing origins. From 30,000 years ago to our modern day, cakes have taken on my many different shapes and sizes. Each cake has been passed down through families, books, and word of mouth, evolving as the years passed. The next time you eat cake, whether it be pancakes for breakfast, or chocolate cake at a party, remember that every bite you take is thanks to hundreds, or even thousands of years of baking.

-Tomoki Cooper 

We’ve painted them as monsters who crawled out of the depths of Hell to cause us misery. We say they’re void of all emotion except hate. We are told that they’re animals, and we believe it. But the fact is, they’re human. At some point, they were us, broken down into lumps of unstable emotion. They were the little boy down the street who always obeyed his parents, crushed by the weight of religion and debt. They were the woman tired of being kicked around, so she kicked back, only to find she kicked too hard. They were an ordinary man, shaped into a manifestation of his society’s fear and loathing. They are murderers.

  

Jack the Ripper (1888-1891)

Tensions were high in the Whitechapel district of London. A world-wide economic depression had hit Whitechapel hard, forcing a great deal of its people into poverty. This, combined with the racial tensions between the Irish immigrants and English citizens of London at the time, caused a violent crime wave to sweep London, but more specifically, Whitechapel. All of the hate and violence in Whitechapel at the time are what many believe to be the cause of infamous Whitechapel Murderer, or more popularly known a, Jack the Ripper. 

Jack the Ripper is one of the most well-known and infamous serial killers of all time. He has been portrayed in media numerous times and is known for the brutal nature of his killings, along with the continued mystery of his identity. Due to the overcrowding of London’s Whitechapel district, rampant crime of the time, and shoddy paperwork of the 19th Century, there are no documents that confirm the amount of victims the Ripper had, but most historians believe that the “canonical five” (Mary Ann Nichols, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride, Catherine Eddowes, and Mary Jane Kelly) are the most likely to be the Ripper’s victims. Jack the Ripper targeted prostitutes in the Whitechapel district of London and would kill with deep throat slashes and then remove the organs, and mutilate the face, abdomen, and genitals of the victim. This shows two things: he had surgical intelligence, and he hated his victims. The people of London increasingly believed that the Ripper existed because they hadn’t seen anything as brutal as his murders before. To this day, nothing is certain about the Ripper, not his name, not his face, not his motives, not even his existence, only his hatred towards his victims. Almost everything about Jack the Ripper remains a mystery, and seemingly, always will.

John George Haigh (1944-1949)     

John George Haigh was born in a small village in England and was raised by pious and conservative protestant parents. This strict and religious childhood caused Haigh to suffer religious nightmares, which he described after his capture.

"I saw before me a forest of crucifixes which gradually turned into trees. At first, there appeared to be dew or rain, dripping from the branches, but as I approached I realized it was blood.”  Haigh said during his confessions, “The whole forest began to writhe, and the trees, dark and erect, to ooze blood...A

man went from each tree catching the blood...When the cup was full, he approached me. 'Drink,' he said, but I was unable to move." Nonetheless, Haigh was a textbook “Good Christian Boy.” Haigh made it into two admirable schools, got a well-paying job in insurance and advertising and married Beatrice “Betty” Hamer in 1934.

Haigh had everything a man could want, so it’s somewhat understandable why his life spiralled down to murder when he lost everything. Haigh was fired at the age 21 after it was discovered that he was stealing from a cash box. Soon after, the marriage fell apart when he was imprisoned for fraud the same year. While in prison his family spurned him. This, along with his strict childhood, could have led to a loss of faith, which would have made it easier to rationalize his killings. In 1936, he was arrested again after a scam that he had been executing in London was discovered. He was released in 1940, only to be arrested several more times for his constant scams. In prison, Haigh came to the conclusion that his repeated arrests were possible because he left his victims alive.          

In 1943, he met an old boss of his, William McSwan. McSwan introduced Haigh to his wealthy family, and Haigh became envious.  In 1944 he gained the trust of the family and then killed them, tossed their bodies into acid, dumped the sludge that was their remains into the floor drain of Haigh's rented workshop, and then forged himself into their wills. When he became tight on money again in 1947, he began the cycle a second time with another wealthy couple, Archibald and Rose Henderson. His final victim was Olive Durand-Deacon, the widow of a solicitor. He lured her into another workshop he had rented and killed her. However, unlike the previous site, this workshop did not have a floor drain, meaning that Haigh had to dump the sludge on a pile of rubble in the back of the workshop. Olive was reported missing, and her connection to Haigh led the police to the discovery of his criminal record. When police went to question Haigh, they discovered the sludge in the back of his workshop and later discovered it was Olive’s body.  Haigh confessed to Olive’s murder, the McSwans’ murders, the Henderson’s murders, and three other murders that couldn’t be proven. He was convicted of the three murders and was executed in 1949.

Aileen Wuornos (1989-1990)

Although her rants near the time of her death were incoherent, there were two things that were consistent in Aileen Wuornos’ life: she traded sex for items of value and her opinion of men was low. Her father impregnated her when she was 17 and sexually assaulted children. He was arrested when Aileen was born, and her mother abandoned her and her brother when she was four years old. The siblings were adopted by their grandparents, where a greater Hell awaited them. Her grandfather frequently got drunk, raped her, and beat her. He would have friends over to rape her; one even got her pregnant when she was 14. At school she would trade sex services for cigarettes, drugs, and food. At 15, Wuornos was thrown out of the house by her grandfather.

In order to support herself, Wuornos became a prostitute. She had frequent run-ins with the law for drunk driving, firing a gun out of a vehicle, disorderly conduct, assault, and robbery. She met her girlfriend, Tyria Moore, in 1986. Moore was the first and only love Wuornos ever had. This relationship with Moore would lead to her capture. Between the years of 1989 and 1990, seven men allegedly either raped or attempted to rape Wuornos. She shot, killed, and stole from all of them. Moore wondered where the money came from but didn’t want to ask, for she knew of the first murder. Eventually, the guilt grew too heavy for Moore to bear and she turned her lover over to the authorities in 1991. She was convicted and sent to prison, where she remained until her execution in 2002. While imprisoned, Wuornos was convinced that society was trying to drive her insane by putting her in the news.

The unfortunate souls who do not possess the will to push through the strain of society are who become murders like these. Do not blame them for their misfortune, for  you may have done the same. People like this have not been sent to this earth to cause agony, they were molded by society to. It was not the Devil who claimed the lives of man, it was the people, warped by society, who did. 

-Aiden Clark

  

  

Guns and bullets

Bombs and fires

Injuries and deaths

It once was peaceful here

Silent

Serene

It felt like home

But they broke the silence

The guns

The bombs

The screams and cries of the soldiers

It’s like a nightmare I can’t wake up from

A horror movie that I have to rewatch
              over and over

They ruined it

They destroyed my home

Blood on the streets

Smeared on clothes

Fear visible in every person's face

Screams echoing throughout the city

Bodies scattered on the ground

The odor of blood strong in the air

Soldiers die on both sides

Never going home to their families

Losing their life for their country

But for the remaining,

We still clap

We cheer

Because they saved our citizens

While killing the others

It’s time to stop

We can stop the guns

The bullets

The bombs

The fires

The injuries

The deaths

It has to stop

But it won’t

-Matea Bardhi

I wish I could go back.

I wish I had one less drink.

I wish I didn’t get in the car.

I wish I didn’t let Brittany drive.

I wish, I wish, I wish.

Wishing doesn’t get you very far.

It was my very first high school party.

I had a few drinks.

Who wouldn’t?

For the very first time, I felt like I fit in.

I didn’t want to ruin it.

I didn’t want to be the one who put a stop to it.

That was someone’s else’s job.

They must’ve taken a vacation day.

‘Let’s ditch this party,’ Angelina had said.

Everyone else agreed, so I did too.

‘I have my car,’ Brittany chimed in.

Everyone else agreed, so I did too.

All six of us clambered in to Brittany’s Honda.

The radio was loud.

Our thoughts were quiet.

One second, we were talking, laughing, joking around.

The next, boom!

I lurched forward.

All of a sudden, without explanation,

we were upside down.

A million tons of weight was pressing down on me.

I heard a scream.

It might have been my own.

That was the very last thing I ever heard.

I saw red.

Then, it was all black.

My eyes inched open.

The bright lights resembled a concert

But I knew for sure that wasn’t where I was.

I was laid in a rigid, uncomfortable bed.

That suffocating smell of death hung in the air.

I was in a hospital.

My parents were there.

Standing over me and pretending

that tears weren’t threatening to fall from their eyes.

Faces red and blotchy,

Their disappointment towards me was painfully obvious.

Doctors came in and out, faster than speeding bullets.

I should have heard all the noise,

All the commotion.

I, however, did not.

It took the doctors a while to find out something was wrong.

They’d been standing over me and attempting to converse with me for ages.

They didn’t seem to realize I couldn’t hear a word they spoke.

I couldn’t see them either, but that may have just been from the tears.

When they did realize what was wrong,

It was too late to be fixed.

They wrote down updates on paper, so I wasn’t left in the dark.

Brittany left us.

My hearing left me.

Samantha’s leg use left her.

Erin’s sanity left her.

Angelina and Kelly’s bones snapped like twigs.

All for an imbecile party.

Dear past me,

I hope fitting in was worth your hearing.

Your friend’s life.

Your future.

Everything.

-Gabriella Baratier

Standing at this precipice

Overlooking vast golden fields

Water washing the gleaming rocks;

as it cascades from springs

Grass weaving in the benign breeze

Flowers flaring up from the grass draped plains

Years Later…

Then we carelessly build towers

erecting from the plastered plains of concrete;

blasting black smog in the air

Trees that towered over me are gone,

as if picked out of the ground

Then we carelessly plow forests,

leaving them barren

Stumps strewn across the clearing,

leaving the only sign they were once there

Then we carelessly mass produce cars

That plow through roads emitting gray gases,

spilling into our dark tainted sky

Then we carelessly have left our earth desolate

Then we carelessly have destroyed our home

Then, we have succumbed to our destruction

-Hayden Amazon