Chapter One

 

 

The rolling of what appears to be a train wakes me up. The first thing I do is ponder, where am I? It, for one, smells awful here, and I have no sense of time or what year it is. I see other small beings in here, looking sort of like my composure, status and pose. They look depressed, sickened and queasy. They look like farm animals in a disgusting barn. I sit up and rub my eyes and see a person next to me, just thinking of what the future may bring. I ask her, “Where am I?”

 She responds, “This group of people is in a boxcar, I’m sure of that. I just have no clue where we are headed.” Odd. This just makes me feel like everyone woke up at the same time I did. I probably just had to sit and wait.

 

-------

Days and weeks go on in the sick and disgusting boxcar. We have been hungry for so long; I just want to eat someone in our boxcar. I need to eat. But then the train stops. The door opens. We are free! As we get out, we step on this dewy grass plain with huge, stone and steel buildings in the distance. There are flags with this weird, black shape in a white circle on these red banners, and I wonder where we are. Buildings with smoke rising from the chimneys, soft coughs and screams are coming from behind the gate that is in front of us. On top of this gate, I see words. It says, “Arbeit Macht Frei.” I don’t understand what this means, and I spend a couple of seconds on what it means before a soldier comes towards our group.

“Stay in the line!” the soldier shouts in an angry tone. He has an arm patch that has the same thing on the flag that we saw coming in from the train, and he points his gun at where the commotion is; the beings that are there go back in the line.

“You. Name, age, date of birth, ethnicity, and where you are from,” another soldier says to a being to the right of us. He gives his name, ethnicity, age, date of birth, and where he is from to the soldier who then writes it down on a chalkboard. The soldier asks more people, and then he comes up to me.

“You. Name, age, date of birth, ethnicity and where you are from,” the soldier yells. I realize I don’t know where I was born, my date of birth, age, ethnicity and name. But then it comes crawling back to me.

Jenny Lindstromm, March 14th, 1927, Kiev, Ukraine.

“Say it now,” the soldier says.

“Jenny Lindstromm, March 14th, 1927, Kiev, Ukraine.

“Ukraine doesn’t exist,” says the soldier. “It is an Eastern Unidentified Territory.”

          “Ukraine is a country that exists!” I reply back.

“Are you sure?” says the soldier.

          “Y-yes,” I reply back. He writes down OST on the clipboard. He then goes to the next person in line.

-Anthony B.

         

 

 

We kept marching. Mile after mile, on the dry road.  The trees on either side were not tall, but their boughs were thick and green and filled with sunlight. The sun was high in the sky but not scorching like it normally was this time of year. 100,000 of my brothers and sisters surrounded me, so predictably, the smell of days old sweat and unwashed bodies came to my nose. Some were from different tribes, and some I knew from the lessons we attended as children that the elders would teach as we sat on straw pallets. Two were my closest friends. There were rivalries and diplomatic disputes among the different tribes, which were distinguished by hairstyles and skin color, but all of that was small and inconsequential to what we were marching to do.

“Will you get your head out of the clouds? Another hour or two and we'll  be there.” I looked back over my shoulder and saw my shaggy haired friend. He had an uncombed beard with a little strip of string tying it off. His name was Drust. His padded fur armor and leather scabbard strapped to his back was a fearsome sight. He looked excited, and not in the least bit nervous or even scared for his life.

“Battle is not as great as you may think, Brother. I have already lost many other brothers in the last battle.”

“We all did, but that is a small price to pay to uproot the Romans that invaded our land and were welcomed in,” his face hardening,“Your tribe was the one that gave them a fortune!”

“Vade retro me.”

“Nemo sine vitio est,” a female voice said from behind Drust,“ Please stop it.”

“What,” Drust said, confused.

A woman appeared from the crowd, smirking. She had brown hair and was obviously athletic. She carried a shield and a longsword, the traditional weapons.

“Puto vos esse molestissimos Fedlimid,” I said in retort.

Her smirk turned into a scowl, and Drust looked very annoyed and also very confused. Only Fedlimid and I had studied the language of our enemy, Rome. If we got captured and sold as slaves then it would be good to know the language, and most of the world now known to us spoke the language. As our elders put it, ‘know your enemy.’

“Translation please!”

“No translation. After this you will have to learn Latin. Or you can learn now.”

“Why! The Romans speak it, and they had that thing with some god or something a little while ago. They killed him!” and this, it seemed, was Drust’s excuse.

“Jesus was his name, I think. Yes.” I also didn’t really understand why we had to learn about Romans and their history, but it was actually funny on occasion, like when I learned that they had this race between two cities and the competitors did it naked!

“We’re just getting you angry for the battle,” Fedlimid said,“I hope you can use that bow. We will be there anytime now. I checked with an elder.” As if to verify her statement, a shout came up from the front of the crowd. A little while later word was passed down the line that Londinium had been spotted.

Londinium was a large sprawling city. It was one of the ones that had sprung up from the ground when the Romans arrived, as if by magic. It did not have a wall. Neither did Candinium and most of the major Roman cities. This was a flaw produced by the Romans' confidence, partially because of their faith in their army, but mostly because they thought no one would fight back. Londinium was made mostly of wood with a few stone and mud buildings mixed in. That would make it a lot easier to burn. It looked like a wood brown sea, with only a few finished buildings. About five miles away, I could see the tail end of a long, gray line moving slowly away from the city.

“When do you think we will actually start attacking?” I inquired.

“We need to rest. We have been walking for three days,” another voice said from behind us.

As I turned around I saw a man I hadn’t seen since one of the classes the elders held about 13 years ago. He was Mike Kavanaugh. He only went to about a year of the lessons but proved himself to be the best writer in the entire tribe. A few years earlier he had become the assistant literacy teacher.

“Hello! How has teaching been?”

It turned out that we did not have to wait long for the attack to begin. After three hours of resting we were summoned to attention by war drums and horns. The Roman defense had been standing at attention the entire time, ready for an attack. Their weapons were plainly visible, the usual spear and shield while swords swung in sheiths at their waists. No one had any illusions that the Roman legions were well trained and deadly, but their defense looked like a thin line of bronze before a sea of mithril.

Boudicca was making a rallying speech at the front of the army, and even though I could not hear her, the reaction from the crowd was enough to give me hope, hope that we would survive and drive out the nation that had invaded our home.

The first wave began moments later, with a volley of arrows from the back line. A tidal wave of people swept over the grass like wind. A few moments before the first line hit; the arrows came raining down on the defenders, making it difficult for them to deal with the first attack. The defensive line killed many of the first line of attackers, but after that, they had a hard time repelling the tide of sword and spear. A few seconds after the battle started, the smell of iron was thick in the air. I could see several people on horseback, just behind the last line of defenders calling out orders. There were about 200 of them. I knew I could not kill all of them, but if I killed them where the attack fell…

I told the archers around me to aim for the commanders at the back of the line; they all nodded, except for three or four, who were losing arrow after arrow at the Roman line, their faces red, brows knitted, and baring their teeth. I just left them alone. I aimed carefully and released. I frowned. The person had moved, and the arrow had gone wide. The officer did not even seem to notice that he had come so close to death. This time I waited until the man moved, and as soon as he stooped, I released. A fraction of a second later, I was rewarded with the sight of the arrow piercing the man’s chest. A hole had been dented into the bronze chestplate, and, before topoling off his horse like a rag doll, he puked a little onto the front of his armor. His black steed looked down at his former rider and then walked off into the city.          

The first wave repeated about twice more, and I thought I would go deaf due to the twanging of strings on bows, the clash of steel, and the screams of battle. Then finally the bronze barrier broke beneath the ferocity of the attacking force. Many of the soldiers fled into the grass surrounding the city. They did not make it far in the dark grass.

Only small groups of fighters were trying to muster soldiers to fight back, and they were quickly dispatched. After clearing the city, we sent burning torches, making more smoke than fire, into the houses. At first it smelled like someone was making a nice little fire to roast venison over, but after a few minutes, things other than wood started to burn. The smoke choked anyone that came within half a kilometer. As we drew away from the burning city, I looked back and knew that everyone would have morale enough for the next battle. I hoped that the smoke and fire were enough to free my country’s land.

Days later, the last fires stopped burning, and what used to be Londinium was a literal charred wasteland. A bird flew to perch on top of a length of black wood. He found a hollow in the wood. The rest of the wood was pock marked with little divots where the fire had worked at it. He found that he liked this little nook. It was safe. About a month later, people dressed in shiny bronze and read feathered helms marched in. The bird was ripped away from his nest and flung back into the wilderness…

 

 

 

 

-Alex B.

 

 

 

“What do you mean, Michaela!” A phrase that could have thousands, maybe even millions of answers. Some simple like, “Oh, I just wanted a pencil.” Some are the complete opposite: “x³+y³+z³=k.” I don’t know where to categorize my fretful response, “My head is stuck, Daniel, I can’t get it out.” This might not seem that absurd; I mean, who hasn’t gotten stuck somewhere before? But the real catch is the location in question; “Where is it stuck?” he warily questioned. Before I tell you my response, I should probably tell you how I got there and why asking for help is so important.

“Let's go, Minnie!” I joyously exclaimed as my meager dog finally snatched the spherical yellow ball out of the air. We must’ve been there for centuries before she finally succeeded, but all that mattered was that she caught it. I decided that I needed to document this, so I pulled out my phone and clicked the circular button, beginning the recording. I made a lofty toss of the ball in the direction of my small companion, which she jumped to receive.

I don't know how the following sequence occurred, but it felt sorcerous, like something out of the movie Matilda. The ball gained a mind of its own, playfully jumping from the couch to my other dog's nose, to the wall, and finally arriving at its destination dead center underneath the couch. I sighed in disbelief; how did that just happen? Of course, I wasn’t going to leave my fluffy companion, who had already strutted over to the couch, with no ball. I traveled over to the couch, leaving my phone on the table nearby. I crouched down and saw the ball staring right back, almost as if it was taunting me.

I wasn’t going to let a rubber toy intimidate me. I stretched my arm into the oblivion underneath the couch, only to come back empty handed. I attempted the same thing over and over again but to no avail. I needed a new strategy. There weren't many options, as there was no way for me to push the couch, due to my ankle being out of commission after I sprained it recently. I wasn’t going to get a stick, which probably would’ve been good, but I was lazy. Therefore, I decided to go for the only other option that seemed available, absolutely shoving myself under the couch until I could reach my goal.

Was it a good idea? Absolutely not. Should I have rethought it? Definitely. But did it work? That’s up for you to decide. I committed to the decision and pushed myself under that couch until I could no longer continue and reached for the ball. I had no struggle with this because I had pushed myself way further than I had estimated. After adapting to my surroundings, I rolled the ball out from under the couch for my dog to retrieve it. I could see her jump down happily, scoop it up, and strut away with her ball. Although this new unseen perspective underneath the couch was unique, it wasn’t luxuriating, so I emphatically jerked my head back so I could escape whatever this situation was; what came next wasn’t a happy ending.

Although I pushed with all my might, my head was adhered to this position; it was like someone glued my head there. My head was facing forward enough that I could see the light from outside the couch, but my head was pressed in between the cool floor and the rigid furniture. Initial shock subsetting, the smell of pure dust swiftly permeated my nose. I had actually gotten my head stuck under a couch; what would my mom think of me now? Well, I wasn’t going to figure that out anytime soon as she had gone out for dinner with my family. I was left alone with no phone and zero ways of communicating, except for my little dog who had since moved on from the ball to a bone.

Panic set in, and I began flailing around, regretting all my decisions in life and wondering if I was going to get out of here. I could imagine the newspaper headline already, ‘GIRL DIES AFTER GETTING HER HEAD STUCK UNDER A COUCH.’ Even after all of the writhing around, I had made no progress, except for just exhausting myself, but maybe that was a good thing because it actually made me think. I had left my phone on the table right in the paradise of outside the couch; maybe I could actually have a use for this stupid, bulky, boot intended for my sprained ankle. I yanked my foot into the air and kept hitting the table until I heard the majestic sound of my phone falling on the ground.

I don't think that was one of my smartest ideas either, but at least this one benefitted me. Breath hitching, I scraped the floor with my foot until I finally hit the phone far enough into the couch that I could pick it up. I wasn’t about to call my mom and tell her that she needed to come home so that she could drag my stupid self out from under a couch, so I did the next best thing; I swiped until I could finally see the little phone symbol and called the only person that seemed right in this situation, my cousin, Daniel.

“Please pick up. Please pick up. Please pick up!” I begged until I finally heard his snide voice on the other end.

“Bro, what do you want?”

I didn’t have time to rebut his moody response before I just blurted out the situation: “I got my head stuck under a couch, Daniel, help!” Now that you know the context of this conversation I’m sure you understand the urgency in both our voices.

“What do you mean, Michaela?”

 It was honestly a fair question, but my panicked self wasn’t in the mood, so I responded with, “My head is stuck, Daniel, I can’t get it out!” There was no doubt in my mind that he had thousands of questions, but I think he realized that there was no point in asking, so he immediately went into panic mode.

“Where is it stuck?”

I wish I had a better response, but I had to respond with “under a couch.”

I’m pretty sure he could sense the regret in my voice, so he didn’t insult me and replied, “Uh, uh, have you tried pushing yourself out?”

“Of course I have, Daniel!” That definitely put a stop to the questions; he immediately just scrambled for a response and somehow picked a good one.

“Okay, how about you put your ankle against the wall and push yourself out?” I had no idea what he could possibly be advising, but I just tried the best I could to imitate it. I placed my good ankle against the wall and put all my vigor into it. I was moving!! Body trembling, I pressed my foot into that wall so hard that I was surprised it didn’t just collapse on the spot, and somehow I sprang out of that uncomfortable abyss. I grabbed the phone and turned on the camera only to see my hair going every direction possible and Daniel staring right back at me, laughing his head off. Any other situation I would’ve insulted him immediately, but after that I had no other choice but to laugh as well.

This might not have been a life or death situation; I could’ve easily stayed under there for an hour until my parents came home, but I didn’t. Even though I was scared for people to call me stupid, I knew that calling someone for help was the right choice. Should I have been there in the first place? No, but did I do the right thing subsequently? I like to think so. Calling for help might be scary sometimes, even if it’s something simple like asking for a pencil, yet it’s extremely rare for something bad to spring out of it. Sure, you might be called unprepared; I was definitely called stupid after this incident. But that’s not going to matter after, and maybe you might even get a pencil for it.

 

 

 

 

-Michaela L.

 

I glance at the supersonicly-moving clock for what seems like the millionth time this morning. It is finally time. The time that means I have to get out of my seat and head to the stage. I freeze, surmising all the things that could go terribly wrong today.

During the past rehearsals, I had always kept the thought of this day in the back of my mind. Especially one part in particular; I have a solo song. Not the kind where someone sings a line, and then I sing a line, back and forth. The kind where I have to sing, by myself, for the whole song! I snap out of my daze and see that everyone else in the school play is rising and heading towards the door. My stomach churns, but I slowly join them at the door. Our teacher wishes us good luck, and then we are out the door. Can I really get through this day?

I traipse through the final tech rehearsal, into my costume, and the mic check, all throughout feeling uneasy with jitters. I have never done anything like this before. Everything goes by so rapidly, and I never get a chance to calm myself down. Before I know it, all the kids are filing into the gymnasium where the stage is located, sitting criss-cross applesauce with their classmates. The three teachers who are running the play lead everyone to the music room to have a final discussion, and then, the words I have been dreading pop out of one of the teacher’s mouths: “Everyone, it’s time to get in your places and start the show!”

As the teachers usher the cast down the hallway to the stage, I speculate on whether I have enough time to ask for someone else to play my role before it is too late and am out, singing and dancing in front of hundreds of pupils. Even though this morning’s show is mostly just for the younger students, and it seems silly to be nervous, I have my reasons.

First of all, later at night I have a second show in front of all the parents, and that is even more frightening. This morning’s show will prove if I can actually do a decent job for the show with the parents or not. Whether I have a chance. At last, I am standing stiffly on the stage with the curtain closed on everyone who is about to perform the opening song. Some other kids and I take turns peering through a small hole in the velvety curtain. Impatient and curious children are flashing eager glances toward the fabric wall. We are hushed and told to get in place. I take a deep breath. There is a snap and a pop, and then one of the teachers says a few quick words. Bright and cheery music starts illuminating my ears. My hands are violently shaking. Sudden movement from the curtain makes me jump, and the curtain floats towards the walls in what seems to be slow motion. I just need to get through tonight, I think to myself. I start to sing with the others.

I sing and dance on que, trying as vigorously as possible to keep the fear out of my eyes so no one can see. Time whooshes by a gazillion times faster than before I had started the show. Scene after scene flies by, with no time for me to review how I’ve done so far in the process. But the thought of that big solo I have coming up with the time between it and now swiftly crunching will not stop racking my brain.

Several(but not enough) minutes later, I am descending the stage stairs and walking towards the end of the gym floor, preparing for the song where only I will sing. People are staring at me, and I know for a fact that my face is as red as an apple. How have I gotten here? The confidence from earlier has been instantly drained. I remember how much I had wanted this, how much I had wanted to be on that stage a few months ago. I know all these thoughts are true, but I feel like it is physically impossible for me to sing my song, that I am not qualified for the job I have been given. I am terrified, and I know that I will mess up, only embarrassing myself. If I don’t sing my song though, I will always regret it, I know. I realize something; it is definitely too late to get cold feet now. I am going to have to try as hard as I can to make this a worthy song. As light flashes in my face and children gasp in amusement, I decide to be in the moment, to not worry about things I can’t control. So against all odds, I skip down the floor, letting my voice exert the notes.

Feet bounding, mouth caroling, I keep my eyes facing straight in front of me, for I don’t know if I would be able to handle it if I were to look right into the eyes of the crowd. I just keep singing and singing, somehow belting out the right notes. My heart is racing.

I hear some of the younger students gasp in joy, and that helps me relax a bit. The more they giggle or gasp, the more I feel better. It feels like there are huge clouds in my brain, fogging up any thoughts that don’t have to do with the song. I keep waiting for the moment where I stumble on my overly long costume or for my voice to make a weird noise, but nothing happens, and I just keep on marching, keeping my head held high. Before I know it, my song is over, and I am reunited with my friends and everyone else on the stage, chanting the Ending Theme. I can hear the snapping and feel the light against my eyes from photos being taken. The crowd made up of mostly children is elated, whooping and estactically jumping up to let out thunderous applause. The whole while, all that is on my mind is one conception; I have done it. I have done it, and I am proud of myself for it!

Later I went through the night performance. After that I was given many congratulations. That performance helped me be less shy in front of people and more comfortable on stage. But most of all, I learned that if there is something I want to do, I can’t let fear get in the way.

 

 

 

 

-Cassie W.

 

 

Looking over the blue horizon, I saw nothing but water. Clear skies and deep blue water surrounded me. This was my perfect paradise. But it can effortlessly change. The dark water grew grimmer and eerie as the murky clouds drifted overhead. With no land in sight, this would become the truly ultimate nightmare. But in this terrifying world, you either bravely fight or cowardly run.

I tied my sail onto the faded metallic hook and pushed off from the shore. My goal for this expedition was to survey the shore. I didn’t know much about this lake except the area around our dock, so I wanted to explore around.

Slicing through the waves, I quickly sailed my boat into deeper waters. I had a vigorous feeling, and I was ready to sail into anything the waves threw at me. The wind on Warner Lake was almost nonexistent while standing on the shore, but once I was forty or so feet out there was a consistent breeze floating my way.

I wanted to stay close to the shore to give me a better impression of the lake I grew up on. The shores I had whizzed by on our tube were now revealed to me. The sail slowly tugged my boat along the shore, passing docks after docks and house after house, and each one was as peaceful as the last.

The true beachline on the northern shore had muddy and rocky sand. It was the only place that wasn’t all rocks and smelly seaweed. To the south near the dam, it was very shallow and somewhat sandy, but it was full of seaweed. The eastern shoreline was rocky and seaweedy, and the western shore was similar. To the northwest, it was dark and uninhabited. From where I was I saw a small wooden dock, but that was it.

As I approached I saw that small wooden dock protruding from the forest’s shadow in more detail. It looked very worn and old, but why was it here in the middle of an uninhabited, dark, grim forest? I continued farther along the murky coast towards the edge of this place when the wind shifted.  All of a sudden, instead of going forward, I went nowhere. When I realigned with the wind to sail across the waves, I was pulled towards the shore. I was hopelessly stuck in this bog.

I didn’t know what to do as I crept closer and closer to the shore. The waves pushed me closer to the shore, and the water was dark brown. I was nervous; no, I was scared for my boat and my life. Fighting bravely against the wind was my only escape, but it was nearly impossible. If I went into the wind then I wouldn’t move, but If I went with the wind then I would be marooned. I only had one painfully slow option, using the rudder as if it were a fish’s tail; I slowly pushed forward. Left, right, left, right was all I thought. Left, right, left, right. My arm was tired, and I just wanted to give in. I still pushed on. Left, right, left, right.

 Hours passed, and I was still stuck in unknown territories. I slowly made more progress away from the grim forest, pushing back out into the open lake. The water slowly turned back into its deep, dark blue once again, and I felt a wave of relief now that I was winning in an unlikely war.

As I got back out into the open water, the wind no longer pulled me towards the shore and now was helping me push forward, but by this time it was getting late, and I needed to return to our old dock. I cut through the middle of the lake instead of following my original route and quickly carved through the water towards the rock I had pushed off hours ago. The journey back was uneventful, which was a good thing after the battle back at the unknown shore. Every now and then a small gust of wind pushed me along.

Bravery aided my safe return from my expedition like how it aided Leonidas's three hundred or the French at Dunkirk. Bravery is one of the most important traits to have in life. Problems that need to be solved or faced won’t wait forever, for if you don’t face them then they’ll face you.

 

 

 

-Walker J.

 

 

Have you ever forgotten to do something? Well, this is how my forgetting to close the door turned bad. I have two huskies, one named Sophie who is eleven years old, and I am very close with her. Juno is four years old, a very skittish dog. Sophie is an off-leash dog, and Juno is an on-leash dog. Both of them were always very crazy. This is how just forgetting to do one thing turned real bad real fast.

It was a sunny summer day out on Keuka Lake, and my grandparents were going out wine tasting with my aunt and uncle; they were gone all day. I said I would walk all the dogs. My grandpa said, “Juno does not like to be alone for too long. She might run away as fast as a cheetah if you do.”

 It all started when we were at the lake.  I thought that the dogs should do some walking, so I went up to the trailer and put Sophie on the leash, and we walked down to the water and came back 30 minutes later. I could hear Juno wincing at the door; Sophie was off the leash, going inside when Juno slipped and slid through the door, through my legs.  My hand caught her tail as she yelped and ran off as did Sophie. She thought she was helping, but she was not helping at all; she was making it worse.

As I came across the road, running, I chased Juno, followed by Sophie, barking with a deep low voice, echoing across the lake. All the screaming like a wild animal finally got Dad’s attention, and he looked at the dogs.  By the time he was running the dogs were what felt like miles away, but it was only a few yards. Juno had stopped at a nearby dock to go to the bathroom. I leaped at the chance to get them both. I first got Sophie, and then when I went to get Juno, but  being so skittish, she jolted. Dad had just caught up, and Juno was still running but now towards people's houses next to the highway

I was running after her, and now people were coming out of their houses just to help. Dad had just tripped and took a nice tactical roll uphill; that was not even the weirdest thing that happened. How do you roll uphill? He got so solemn that it looked like he was about to fight. Dad’s rolling skills scared Juno even more, so she darted around the corner and zigzagged around the houses until Sophie and our cousin’s dog, Piper, boxed her in; a guy came out of his house sleepy and thought Juno was his dog! He picked Juno up and tried taking her inside like he was a crazed man until his son came out and said that it was not their dog. The man apologized, and we put Juno on the leash and then slowly walked them to the cabin, put the dogs in their cages in the house, and slammed the door shut.

You could tell by my clumsy and ignorant actions at the beginning of the story that I had no care in the world about what my grandfather said. Now, because I learned from my mistakes, I was no longer careless with two huge dogs. I was someone who was empathetic and learning from mistakes. Essentially, anyone can learn from any mistake; you will never grow if you don’t learn from your mistakes.

 

 

 

 

-Vanessa C.      

 

 

 

 

A vacation at a beach and taking an exam. Though these things may sound like polar opposites, one factor remains unchanged in both of these activities: preparation. We prepare for events, and perhaps we prepare for what may happen after we make a decision or choice. But preparation comes with a cost, whether it be in money or time, so how do we know when to prepare?

“You should definitely get a warranty,” my mom said as we were configuring the options for the laptop.

“But I’ll be careful," I pleaded. I was on a budget, so I was trying to minimize the cost.

“I know you’re trying to save money,” she insisted, “but you already have a coupon. Just get the warranty. You’ll never know when something will happen.”

“Fine. This better not be wasted money, though.”

The laptop arrived a month later, on my birthday. Unboxing it was a joy, as it always is with new things, the pristine packaging and the satisfaction of opening it up one piece at a time. It also felt good to let all the excitement stream out of me after a month of waiting and anticipation. At that moment, the warranty was merely a faint thought, like a grain of sand in a vast desert. However, the warranty I had refused to buy would save me just weeks into owning the laptop.

It was an ordinary day. I strolled into my room and hastily opened the lid on my laptop. I pressed the power button, ready to relax and play some games to finish off the day. I fumbled with my mouse to pass the time. I waited for the screen to display an array of colors that signaled it was powering on.

Nothing happened. Confused, I pressed it again, slowly this time. I felt the plastic button reach its full depth and produce a metallic click. But again, the screen maintained the placid blackness it displayed moments before.

Dumbfounded, I checked for any obvious signs of systematic failure, but nothing seemed unusual; the charger was plugged in, there was no physical breakage, everything was of the ordinary. After consulting online forums, I discovered that my computer was, to my horror, broken.

 I was left with no choice but to call Dell Support.

Before I called, I thought that the problem I faced with my computer was a common one and had an easy fix. My mind had no idea about the rollercoaster of emotions I would face just moments into the call.

The call I had with Dell Support was a long and stress-inducing one. It consisted of the agent trying to find the source of my problem for what felt like an entirety, though this proved a waste of time as he found no leads.

 After an endless amount of questions, the call ended with this conversation:

“Is your charger displaying the blue on the ring light?” he asked.

“Yep, the charger is fine.”

Sigh. “Looks like we’re gonna need to replace your motherboard.”

As if I was trying to convince myself I misheard him, I asked, perplexed, “Sorry, what did you say?”

“I said, we need to replace your motherboard.”

My heart dropped, and I was immediately overwhelmed by a barrage of feelings. The day was no longer ordinary. My fate was sealed. The cost of the motherboard was detrimentally high and would cost north of $1,000. All that was going through my head was how outraged my parents would be when they heard the news, and my mind could simulate the inevitable screaming that would come out of their mouths and swallow me into their dark abyss of rage. As I embraced this, I asked the agent one final question:

“How much will the repair cost?”

“Well, because you have a premium warranty, the cost of your repair will be entirely free.”

Though this experience was a concise one with an exceptional end, I constantly reflect on this memory whenever I open up my laptop (which is now fixed) and ponder the endless possibilities that this experience might’ve ended in, questioning myself and what would’ve happened if I made a perhaps different choice, or taken the risk of not buying the warranty. Though there are multiple answers to those questions, all I know is that though a risk may seem small, it doesn’t mean that it won’t happen, and you should always “prepare for the worst, hope for the best.”

 

 

 

 

-Tyler W.