Blazing Readers & Wordy Writers discussion

You know, I just couldn't resist a meme reference...

If you don't know already, I struggle with adding detail. On the other hand, I've improved SO much as a person and a writer since I began in seventh grade!

I'm not going to post any of my Projects™ right away. I'm starting with short stories and articles. This one was a school assignment in our mythology unit.
Why Zebras Have Stripes
326 words
Very long ago, when the oldest person on Earth was little more than a baby, a huge herd of wild, white zebras roamed the African savannah. They were happy and they were free, but they had one problem. These zebras were very vain! Now, as we all know, a little dirt won’t harm anyone, but the zebras hated how it dusted their ivory fur, and so they stayed as clean as they could.

A lion lived on the plains, too. He stalked the zebras from a distance. “I will eat one of those zebras for breakfast!” he said to himself.

They heard the lion coming and panicked.

“What can we do?” wailed one.

“I know,” said another. “Let’s hide in the grass.”

So they did.

“I CAN SEE YOU,” roared the lion. “YOUR WHITE FUR STANDS OUT AGAINST THE BROWN WEEDS.” Then he chased them around for a while.

All the zebras managed to escape, but it was a close call.

“My beautiful fur is streaked with mud. This is horrible,” one complained, and the others agreed. They were about to travel to the watering hole to bathe when there was a growl in the distance.

“Do you hear that?”

“What?”

“It sounds like a cheetah.”

“A cheetah! But that’s our worst enemy. The cheetah is even worse than the lion.”

They stood absolutely still.

The cheetah came closer and closer. Soon, she was so close that she could have touched the zebras with her paw. And yet, she did not attack.

“I thought for sure there were some zebras around here,” she said. “I was wrong, I guess.” Finally, she left.

The herd looked at each other, confused.

“I know why this happened,” said the wise elder. “The mud on our fur blends in with the grass. If we keep it on, our kind will be safe forever.”

That’s exactly what they did; to this day, the zebras have black streaks on their white fur.

Hatred On the Net: What You Can Do About Cyberbullying
252 words
When I was in seventh grade, I was a cyberbully. Oh, I didn’t mean to be—if you had asked me how I behaved on Nameberry, my then-favorite forum, I would say that I tried my best to be a positive influence. I may have even told you that most other users were the toxic ones. This wasn’t a complete lie; there were members of the site who were downright rude. But, with three years away from the site, I can see that I was a problem, as well.

Why am I writing this? It’s not for attention, or to condemn the site. I merely aim to educate others so that they can avoid falling into the same mental traps that I did.

How do I know if I’m being a cyberbully?

You lash out at people you believe are in the wrong. In other words, you fight fire with fire.
Other users stop replying to your posts, or seem annoyed when you comment.
They overtly express hurt at what you post.

How do I know if I’m being cyberbullied?

You get less enjoyment out of the Internet than usual.
You dread seeing a certain user’s activity for fear that they’ll say something hurtful.

What can I do in either of these situations?

Apologize to anyone you’ve wronged.
Talk to a trusted adult in real life.
If the problem is pervasive, then consider leaving the site altogether. I hope you never have to deal with cyberbullying, but if you do, remember these tips.

Book Review: The Unwanteds, by Lisa McMann
252 words


I recently read a middle-grade dystopian/fantasy book titled The Unwanteds. On the surface, this book looked like just another bland Harry Potter wannabe—but it surpassed my expectations.

The plot

In the futuristic realm of Quill, strength and cunning are valued, while creativity causes you to be Purged, or labeled an Unwanted and sent to the Great Lake of Boiling Oil. At least, that’s what everyone believes. Actually, the Unwanteds are rescued by a mage named Marcus Today and taken to a realm called Artime, where they unlock their true artistic potential and learn to use magic.

What I liked

The novel combined the best elements of “The Giver” and “Harry Potter”, without copying either.

The good characters weren’t perfect, and most of the bad characters seemed to at least have a bit of humanity.

The worldbuilding was superb, immersing the reader in Artime while providing just enough information about Quill.

There were definitely some plot twists I didn’t see coming.

What I disliked

Some of the events of the story were a bit predictable.

The main character was a little too flawed at points, making him unlikable.

Maybe I’m being picky, but a quill is a traditional symbol of writing, and thus, creativity. Why would the oppressive, boring world have that name? It doesn’t make sense to me.

Overall

I’d rate The Unwanteds four out of five stars. Any tween who doesn’t mind a bit of peril and fighting will enjoy it.

Outspoken, Outrageous or Outstanding Opinion? Accelerated Reader (AR)
307 words


I’m writing to address the topic of Accelerated Reader’s place in the curriculum.

In my opinion, AR has no place at any grade, in any classroom, of any skill level. It’s a disgrace and it destroys, yes, destroys many a student’s desire to read. First of all, according to a respectable blog called Gifted Guru, AR teaches children that reading is extrinsically rewarding, rather than intrinsically rewarding. In other words, while reading should be fun on its own, AR, its point system, and any prizes a school may attach to those points can teach children that reading only has value when there is something else to look forward to afterwards.

Second, according to Pennington Publishing, the database of available quizzes is extremely narrow. This sends a message that only well-known books are worthwhile, and obscure, old, out-of-print books are ‘not worthy’ because you don’t get points for reading them. Would any hospital function if the doctors only received a pay check for treating common ailments? Imagine if a doctor said this, “You’ve got a broken leg, so I can help you.” Compare that to, “Oh, you have an acoustic neuroma. That’s treatable, but my boss won’t pay me to help you, because it’s not in the database. Sorry, buddy.”

You may think that AR is the only way to get kids to read, and I can understand that not every child will naturally gravitate towards a book, but there are effective alternatives to the insipid quizzes. Donalyn Miller makes a case for sustained silent reading, a tactic in which children have time for free, nonacademic reading set aside during the school day.

In conclusion, I despise AR with a fiery passion for many good reasons. Please, for the sake of your students, for the sake of their futures, for the sake of literature, don’t use this program.

Kiwi-Blackberry Infused Water: A Healthy Drink
122 words
Are you looking for a refreshing summer treat? Are you eager to cook, but pressed for time? Look no further! I recently found and tried an easy recipe for infused water. My whole family would recommend it.

For one serving, you'll need a 1/2 pint jar, enough water to fill it, 1/4 cup of blackberries, and 1 Kiwi (peeled and sliced).

Put the fruit in the bottom of the jar and mash it well. Fill the jar with water, stir it a few times, and refrigerate overnight. If you like, you can add sugar or other sweetener.

Variation: My sister left out the Kiwi and added 1/4 cup of raspberries.

If you tried this recipe, what did you think?

Online Gym Class: Yes Or No?
230 words


I have never liked traditional physical education classes. From having to hurriedly change clothes, to feeling embarrassed at my lack of skill, there were many factors that made me dread this part of my day.

When I heard that an online version of the class was offered, I jumped at the chance to join for a semester. As I soon discovered, it’s a great choice—for the right type of person.

How is it similar to regular PE? You exercise, obviously, and you need a doctor’s note if you wish to opt out for a while. That’s where the similarities end.

How are the classes different? I’ve come to the conclusion that online PE requires more discipline and responsibility; for the one offered at my school, you have to fill out a weekly exercise log, complete assignments (which range from short reports to vocab tests to demonstrating a drill you’ve learned on camera), and watch videos. There’s no set period in which all of this is done—I actually completed my first assignment on my iPad at home.

So, should you sign up for this if your school offers it? Well, it depends on your interests and personality. Are you more introverted? Are you good at planning? Then by all means, take online gym. However, if you’re an extrovert, or if you tend to procrastinate, I’d suggest sticking with the tried-and-true approach.

Top Five Futuristic Novels
300 words
If you’ve ever talked to me about books, you know that my favorite genre is science fiction—more specifically, books that are set in the future. Today, I’ll be counting down the five best dystopian or post-apocalyptic books I’ve ever read.

5. The Hunger Games series by Suzanne Collins. I was obsessed with this mega-popular series a while ago. The love triangle is a little unnecessary, but it’s written in a way that’s not too distracting. The first book in the series is good; the second, Catching Fire, is all right, but not superb; and Mockingjay, the finale, is absolutely amazing!

4. Allegiant by Veronica Roth. Yes, I know it’s third in a series. Divergent and Insurgent were just okay—nothing I’d rave about, but readable. Their sequel, though it garnered a lot of criticism from fans, was a tragically wonderful way to end the story.

3. Incarceron by Catherine Fisher. This book is pure dystopian, masquerading as a steampunk novel; at first, you think it’s set in Victorian times, but that’s just an elaborate façade that most of the characters live under. The other set of characters live in a sentient prison. Does this sound confusing? Read the book to find out what I mean.

2. House of Stairs by William Sleator. A little-known classic involving near-Pavlovian conditioning experiments being performed on teenagers. (You don’t specifically find out that it’s set in the future until the end, but hints are dropped before that.)

1. The Giver Quartet by Lois Lowry. The first book won a Newbery, and for good reason; the other three (Gathering Blue, Messenger, and Son) are great, too. This is the series by which I judge all other dystopian novels. If you decide to read just one of the books on this list, let it be The Giver.

"Steven Universe" Unveils Heartbreaking New Episode
249 words
For a cartoon that started out so silly, "Steven Universe", now in its fourth season, has become skilled at breaking viewers' hearts. A fine example of this is the newest episode, "Storm in the Room".

The episode begins innocently enough, with Steven and his friend, Connie, playing cards. However, once Connie's mother comes and has a touching moment with her daughter, things quickly turn dark.

For those of you not familiar with the show, a key plot point is that Steven's mother, Rose, "gave up her physical form" for him to be born. In realistic terms, she died during childbirth. Recently, she's turned out to be a hypocrite; she forbade another character from shattering (killing) a major villain, then turned around and did exactly that.

Steven goes into the room that used to be his mother's. Knowing that it grants wishes, he tells it, and therefore her, "I want to know the real you."

An appiration of Rose appears, and all seems well. The mother-son duo even play football together for a while. Then, Steven realizes that this is not his mother. It's just what he wants her to be.

"Did you create me just so you didn't have to face all your mistakes?" Steven laments. "Is that all I'm here for?"

For one suspenseful moment, it looks like Rose might attack Steven. But she doesn't--the episode ends with him coming to terms with her legacy and leaving the room.

This episode was phenomenal, one of my new favorites.

Book Exchange Is Scholarly Success
215 words
What’s the best solution when you have a lot of books to get rid of? For me, it was setting up a table full of free books near the English classrooms at my school.

The staff have had something like this in the teachers’ lounge for years. One day I thought, ‘this would work great for students, wouldn’t it?’

Talking to my English teacher, Jill Gastrock, was the first step. She was enthused about the idea and suggested that I check with the principal.

Luckily, he also liked my proposition, and several teachers even agreed to hang up posters with relevant information. A few days later, I set out at least fifty gently-used books.

At first, nothing happened. People would grab a book every few days, but overall, traffic was slow. Then, things suddenly picked up! An anonymous donor supplied even more books, and several students enjoyed the books they had chosen.

I will admit that the idea has gone through some changes from my original plans. It’s in a completely different spot, for one thing. For another, there’s now a disclaimer in front of the books, advising students to check with their parents before selecting a more mature book. On the whole, however, I think this will improve the literary climate of our school.

Dead People You Should Know: Jagadish Chandra Bose
222 words


Jagadish Chandra Bose was a pioneer in several scientific fields, but chances are you’ve never heard of him. I’m here today to fix that.

Bose was a Bengali scientist who lived in India when it was a British colony. He was a pioneer in science fiction, botany, and radio science.

He was born on November 30, 1858 in Bangladesh and received a wide, varied education at several different schools. His father wanted him to be a scholar, luckily for scientists everywhere—if he had followed through with his plan to go into the military, we may not have radios today. Eventually, he was accepted into the University of Calcutta.

In 1899, he discovered more about microwave radiation; this contributed to the development of radios.

He ran many experiments on plants and how their cells respond to stimuli, proving that their responses were electrical rather than chemical, and he invented the crescograph, which measures plant growth.

Speaking of plants, Bose did have one unorthodox belief—he thought plants could feel pain and understand affection! Although he was a genius, this claim is a little out-there, in my opinion.

He also wrote The Story of the Missing One, which was one of the first works of Bengali science fiction.

Overall, I think Bose is a very important figure who did a lot of important scientific work.

Five Classic Novels for the Whole Family
214 words
I will confess: I don't really care for classic novels. They tend to bore me or annoy me. The ones I do usually like--such as "Of Mice and Men"--aren't really great for younger readers

However, there are a select few that I WOULD recommend wholeheartedly for a wide range of ages. These would be great read-alouds.

1. "Pollyanna" by Eleanor H. Porter. This is actually not as cheesy as people seem to think. I read it this summer and enjoyed it immensely. There are sad moments, uplifting moments, and redemption arcs galore!

2. Little House in the Big Woods--Laura Ingalls Wilder. Pioneers, living in days gone by. Cute moments of storytelling around the fire. After you read it, you could try making some of the handmade goods that the Ingalls family did.

3. The Witch of Blackbird Pond--Elizabeth George Speare. A clean, subtlelove triangle, a spunky heroine, and some good messages about not judging unfairly.

4. "The Secret Garden"--Frances Hodgson Burnett. Speaking of redemption arcs...also features the power of the outdoors on young minds.

5. Anne of Green Gables--LM Montgomery. Pollyanna-esque, but with more power of imagintiation, and better descriptions. I'd suggest all of the books on this list, but if you have to pick and choose, this would be better than Pollyanna, honestly.

Media Battle: Big Hero Six Versus Frozen
254 words
Today, two modern Disney classics will be compared, contrasted, and judged.

Let’s talk about Frozen first. Making its theatrical debut in 2013, this retelling of The Snow Queen was a hit. Four years later, it’s become less popular, but still has plenty of fans.

I liked the sisterly bond, which has only been done in a few Disney movies before this. The music was decent—not amazing by any means, but catchy.

I didn’t like the spoken dialogue much; it felt trite and forced at some points.

Also, after the movie became popular, it was very overmarketed, to the point that even if you liked Frozen before, the constant hype could almost make you hate it.

Now, Big Hero Six is vastly different from Frozen, and yet, it’s similar.

Both feature a sibling bond, both have good music (I could almost make another article out of judging “Let It Go” vs. “Immortals”), and they were released within a year of each other.

On the other hand, Big Hero Six features a lot more action and several more light scenes. This would normally make me dislike the movie, but there’s a balance there, too.

The sad scenes are rather heavy, but don’t seem melodramatic.

Also, Frozen had a happy ending, while Big Hero Six’s last scenes could be described as…bittersweet.

As a bonus, it’s far less hyped than Frozen!

Which movie would I recommend more? Well, I really enjoyed both. It’s a close race, but I’d have to say…

Big Hero Six is the better movie.

TV Review: Over The Garden Wall
210 words
“Somewhere lost in the clouded annals of history lies a place called The Unknown.”

So begins an amazing cartoon miniseries called Over The Garden Wall. It’s dark, yet witty, so it appeals to teens and adults—but for the most part, it’s completely appropriate for younger viewers.

What happens? PLOT TWISTS.

In all seriousness, the ten episodes follow two stepbrothers named Wirt and Greg as they try to find their way out of a mysterious forest, aided by a talking bluebird who used to be human. Adding conflict is the spectral figure known as the Beast, along with his unwilling minion, the Woodsman. It’s a classic fairy tale plot. In fact, it could come off as cliché in the hands of an amateur. But the show’s creator, Patrick McHale, obviously knew what he was doing.

The series starts out silly, complete with a mildly annoying song titled “Potatoes and Molasses” in the third episode. Soon, however, it’s clear that things are not what they seem. The last few episodes leave you floored—while still retaining that whimsical air.

Would I recommend this? Yes, but only if you have patience. The early episodes are a little hard to sit through at times.

I’d give Over The Garden Wall four out of five stars.

Eight And A Half Tips For A Better Study Session
264 words
Studying can be hard and frustrating, but it doesn’t have to be. Here, for your convenience, I have my top eight and a half tips for better study habits.

1. Get organized. I struggle with this myself—my notebooks are a mess. Nevertheless, if you know where all your papers and notes are located, you’ll have an easier time finding them to study from.
2. Use Kahoot. If you’re over sixteen, you can create your own multiple-choice review game at getkahoot.com.
3. Use Quizlet. This is better for vocabulary than actual application problems. You can make flashcard sets or search for ones that others have made.
4. Enlist the help of others. Have a parent or sibling read practice questions aloud to you. Study in a group of your friends. The possibilities are endless!
5. Do your homework. If you don’t learn the material in the first place, your test grade is doomed from the outset.
6. Participate in class. Ask questions about material you don’t understand; share your existing knowledge with your classmates.
7. Take good notes. This goes hand-in-hand with organization and homework. Studies have shown that writing something down helps memorization.
8. Don’t try to study in inconvenient places. Busses, stadiums, and your very short work breaks don’t lend themselves to learning. Wait until you’re in a relatively quiet place where you have time to study.
8.5. This only applies to one subject, so I’m not counting it as a full entry. Search for ‘Spanish tank game’ if you want to review preterit verbs or certain other grammatical topics for Spanish class.

Why I’m Not Wearing Blue on April Third
232 words


It is with some trepidation that I write this article. I mean no offense in the following words.

The Student Council at my school recently sent out an email encouraging students to wear blue for autism awareness day. A few years ago, I would have gladly done so. I’m autistic myself, after all.

However, I’ve recently learned some facts about ‘lighting it up blue’ that make me hesitate. The campaign was started by a group called Autism Speaks, which is very problematic. Here are just some of the reasons why:

They want to cure autism, which they see as a disease. I’m not saying autism is always a good thing, but it’s not nearly as terrible as Autism Speaks makes it out to be.
They focus mainly on services for autistic children, ignoring or minimizing teens and adults.
They claim to care about autistic people, but rarely, if ever, consult us. There isn’t a single autistic person on their board of directors.

I know the student council had the best of intentions—but, knowing what I do, I can’t comfortably go along with wearing blue on the specified date. Instead, I’m wearing red, the official color of the neurodiversity/autistic pride movement, which seeks to help autistic people (of all ages) with their struggles, while still celebrating their good points and value as people.

Will you join me in making a stand against ableism?

Interview With A Navy Pilot
361 words


I interviewed Mr. Raymond Kerr, a local World War II veteran. It was a very enlightening experience. Here is my interview.

Me (Raevyn O.): What was your rank?

Kerr: I’m a Leutenant Commander.

R: How many years did you serve, and in what branch?

K: I served about fifteen in the Navy. But I was in active duty about four.

R: Why did you join the military?

K: When I went into the military, they were drafting people. But I wanted to fly, so I joined the Navy before they drafted me,

R: What were your expectations for service, and how did they differ from what it was actually like?

K: I expected it to be hard and it was ten times as hard as I expected. The Navy sent me to four universities.

R: What was your favorite part of service?

K: Flying.

R: What was your least favorite part of service?

K: Killing people.

R: How did you change?

K: I grew up from eighteen until I was in the midst of the fighting at 21.

R: What was the most useful lesson you learned?

K; I had to study hard at my four colleges. I didn’t study as hard as I could have in high school..

R:How could the modern military be improved as a whole?

K: It’s changed a lot since I was in, and I don’t know all the changes.

R:If you could give new recruits one piece of advice, what would it be?

K: Study harder so you know more so you’re more prepared for life.

R:Who or what did you miss most?

K: The family. I didn’t see my family for a couple years.

R:How have war tactics changed in the past decades?

K: I helped it change, in certain respects. I had a lot of influence as a Navy pilot, and they took suggestions.

Although it was somewhat difficult to talk to someone I didn't know well, I was very happy to learn about a perspective I hadn't considered. Speaking face to face with a veteran of our country was a worthwhile experience. Thank you, Mr. Kerr for your service to our country.

My Experiences As A Student With Asperger's
342 words


My name is Raevyn, and I have Asperger's syndrome, a form of autism. My condition is both an integral part of me and a barrier--at the same time. In this article, I will be talking about the positives and the negatives.

Disclaimer: Please don't assume that everything I say applies to all autistic people. Always remember that we're a widely-varied group.

One good point is that I'm a very fast reader--when I was last tested, I could read 357 words per minute aloud...and that was when I made an effort to slow down. However, this is sometimes a problem because I'd rather read than socialize. When I was younger, a lot of my school problems stemmed from my habit of reading when the teacher was talking!

A bad part of my autism is that I have misophonia, or an intolerance to certain sounds. I cannot stand the noise of someone chewing or cracking their knuckles. I try to be polite, but sometimes I cannot help but shudder!

I do have high empathy. I yearn to help people, and I cry at the sight of suffering. This is a good trait, generally, but it can be a hindrance when I see sad things on the news.

I get frustrated easily, and I'm a perfectionist. For me, any grade below 85% is a cause for panic! On the other hand, I've been trying really hard to keep calm these past few months.

I'm clumsy and overall disinterested in sports, and I tend to be awkward when conversing (I find it hard to reply to what others say, even when I'm genuinely interested). This alienates me from my peers, but I have found a select few who accept me for who I am.

Like many autistic people, I have a few passions, known in certain circles as 'special interests'. I could talk about writing, Adventure Time, or Operation Christmas Child for hours if you let me.

In conclusion, being autistic isn't bad, but it's not always a good experience. My feelings about it are mixed.

Sing A New Song
Christian fiction
1996 words
Maybe moving to the city would be terrible, but I preferred to think of it as a chance to start over. A chance to get away from the small town where I’d grown up. Where everything had fallen apart.
The first thing I noticed as my family entered the city was the enormous red bridge we crossed. My brother closed his eyes. At age ten, I thought he was too old to be afraid of heights, but there was no way to convince him of this fact.
Once we pulled up to our new apartment, my enthusiasm began to wane.
This place was small and dingy, nothing like our old home in the country. Our neighbors, so to speak, were a hardware store and an empty lot filled with trash.
Nevertheless, I reminded myself that anything would be better than the place where my father had died.
We entered the dingy little living room, with its faded shag carpeting and uncurtained windows, and began to unpack our boxes and bags. I found my piccolo and held it up triumphantly; my mother gave me a strange, sad look.
“Anne…I should have told you sooner,” she murmured. “I didn’t want to worry you.”
I stared at her, unnerved. She was usually straightforward, direct. If she had put off saying something, it couldn’t be good. “What is it?” I asked.
She sighed and averted her eyes. “I talked to the principal of your new school,” she told me. “They don’t have a music program.” Looking at my brother, she added, “Or any art classes.”
I sat down hard on an empty carton. Music was my life, and my brother was constantly drawing or painting. “That’s—that’s okay,” I realized after a moment. “We don’t need fancy classes to be creative.”
She shook her head. “The other residents of this apartment wouldn’t appreciate your practicing, and we don’t have room for any art projects.”
My brother cried and argued, but I just sat there. I was horrified, of course, but I didn’t want to cause my mother any more stress, after what had happened over the last few months.
The first day at my new school dawned a week later. I boarded the city bus— there was no transportation specifically for students—at seven o’clock in the morning. Glancing around, I kept expecting to be mugged, or at least leered at. But everyone seemed too drained and sad to notice me at all.
I got off the bus half an hour later. The school was made of red bricks. This would have been charming if not for the cement yard around it, and the glazed eyes of everyone going in. As it was, the building itself seemed to sag in defeat.
“Be positive,” I whispered to myself. Then, I started up the dull grey steps.
When I got my schedule from the main office, a man I assumed to be the principal was talking loudly on the phone: “Yes…no…of course we don’t have a pest problem!”
At that moment, a cockroach scurried across the floor. I shuddered.
My day was otherwise uneventful. I made no friends and no enemies. The classes were dreary. Finally, the last bell rang. Freedom!
As I got used to the city over the next few weeks, my mother began to trust me more, letting me go shopping once a week as long as I kept our budget in mind. One day, I decided to go to the secondhand store on Main Street, a rustic place that was, to my surprise, neater and more welcoming than the rest of the city.
What to buy? I glanced at the musical instruments, but turned away quickly.
A dainty ceramic statue of a ballerina caught my eye, but I knew that my rambunctious brother would end up breaking it.
With no other options, I wandered towards the book section. Trashy romance novels, cheesy sci-fi from the fifties, a cookbook titled 1000 Recipes for Jell-O…in short, nothing interesting.
I turned to leave, but something held me back. I needed to look one more time.
An old, thick book with a black cover lay to the side of the pile. I turned it over to read the gold writing.
Holy Bible.
My father had been Christian, but now that he was gone, we’d stopped going to church. This Bible was an uncomfortable reminder of that.
I shrugged. There was nothing better to read, I decided as I bought the book.
Between homework and chores, I didn’t have time to read until late Sunday afternoon. As I took the Bible off my shelf, I felt inexplicably excited. Like my life was going to change—for the better.
Of course, that had also been my thought when we moved, and look where it got me.
I opened to the first page and began to read. At first, the language was nearly incomprehensible, but eventually I began to read faster and faster. And then I came to the New Testament.
In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.
I am the Way, the Truth, and the Light.
Verse upon verse that I never really cared about before—they all meant something extraordinary. Tears filled my eyes.
I stayed up until three in the morning, until I had finished the whole Bible.
I wanted to be part of God’s Kingdom, and I told Him so. I whispered that I repented of my sins, and that I believed in Jesus’s sacrifice.
Peace washed over me. All would be well.
The next few days passed in a blur. I was reeling from my decision. This didn’t change my family’s circumstances, but when I found myself becoming bitter, I now knew I could pray about it.
I went back to the thrift store one day and found a collection of hymns— church songs. An idea hit me like a ton of bricks, and on impulse, I bought the songbook, ran home, grabbed my piccolo from the top shelf, and headed towards the bridge.
Could I do this? I was good at reading music, but I didn’t know a single one of the songs—and there was safety to worry about, as well.
I shrugged off these concerns as I stood away from the traffic. Opening the book to a random page, I studied the notes for a moment, and then began to play a song called Amazing Grace.
A blue Toyota pulled up, slowed, and stopped. A twinge of apprehension gripped me, but I kept playing.
God, protect me, I thought.
A man got out of the car. His shoulders were stooped, and he moved slowly to the edge of the bridge.
I played louder, hoping to scare him off. Instead, he straightened slightly and turned to me.
What was he going to do? The song ended. He was right in front of me now.
I was prepared to fight—but I quickly noticed that there were tears in the man’s eyes as he said five words: “Thank you. And thank God.”
Finding my voice, I asked, “What do you mean, sir?”
He wiped his face. “I was going to jump off this bridge,” he said. “Join my wife, so to speak. But your song reminded me of—of Who made me. I don’t think He’s ready to see me just yet. Tell me, what’s your phone number? I need to talk to your parents about what a Godly daughter they have.”
I hesitated, and said a quick prayer in my mind. No alarms went off, so I told the man, who thanked me again. We went our separate ways, and I had nearly forgotten about it until I got home.
My mother was on the phone. “We’re not Christians,” she said. “You have the wrong number. Goodbye.”
She hung up and rounded on me. I had to endure an hour-long lecture on two subjects: stranger danger and the so-called foolishness of religion. This ended with me being grounded. By the time my mother had finished, I was boiling with rage.
“I understand that you were afraid for me,” I said in a carefully controlled tone. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you where I was. But God is real, and if you’re going to punish me for knowing that, then you’re the fool.” I snapped my mouth shut.
What had I done? I knew I’d crossed the line there, no matter how wrong her beliefs were. Without a word, I left the house. My hands were shaking and my face was red.
I wandered the streets for half an hour, my heart breaking. I’d had to choose between my earthly home and my eternal one. I knew that ‘only a fool said there was no God’…but the Bible also said to ‘obey your parents’.
I sat down on a stoop and put my head in my hands.
“Excuse me, miss?”
I looked up to see the sad man from earlier, now clean-shaven and standing a bit straighter. “You helped me, remember? Is there anything I can do to return the favor?’
The whole story came pouring out of me in a rush. When I finally stopped talking, he muttered something that sounded like a Bible verse. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to have a word with your mother,” he told me. I nodded and led the way to our apartment.
He rang the doorbell. My mother opened the door, looking haggard. I felt a twinge of guilt. She’d said some bad things, but I hadn’t meant to worry her like this.
“I’m the man whom your daughter—and God—saved from suicide,” the man said bluntly. “She told me that you’ve given up on the Lord.”
A flash of anger crossed her face. “If there was a God, he wouldn’t have taken my husband,” she hissed. “I suggest you leave before I call the police.”
He smiled. “First off, I’m not technically inside your house,” he said, gesturing to the doorstep under his feet. “Second, I felt the same way, after I lost my wife. God can fix things. I used to be a pastor; I can tell you about God, if you want me to.”
She hesitated, looking at me. Do it, I mouthed. Almost imperceptibly, she nodded before stepping aside, allowing the man into the building.
I stayed out of the way as the two adults talked. After what I’d said and done, I knew my mother would react better if I were to lay low.
At eleven PM, she called me into the kitchen. “I accepted God,” she said, looking meaningfully at my brother. I hadn’t even noticed he was there.
“So did I,” he said.
I rushed over and hugged them both. “Lay off,” my brother muttered, but I could tell he was happy.
After a week, we found a church with a Biblical basis on the outskirts of the city. We settled into our new life. Then, things changed again.
The man, whose name turned out to be James Callahan, had been visiting us a lot. I could guess what was coming when he and my mother entered the apartment together with identical giddy grins on their faces.
“We’re getting married,” she said, while James nodded in the background.
I can’t say I was unhappy—James was a Godly, wonderful man, and my mother deserved love. But…what about Dad?
“I know I won’t be able to replace your father,” James said gently. “I do, however, want to give you a nice place to live. A place where you can sing, and play music, and paint.” Seeing our surprised looks, he said, “Your mother told me about your problems with this place. Once the wedding is over, in a couple months, we’ll be moving to my house in the country.”
**
It’s been a year. I still miss Dad, and it was awkward at first, having a new stepfather. But, with God’s help, we got through it.
That’s all I could ever ask for.

The Flame Will Fade
Prologue: Martha
1645 words
From the day the King’s younger son was born, I knew he would have a bad time of it. His mum had said, throughout the whole term, that as long as he was healthy, she'd be fine. She talked so excitedly to the King about “Carson II”; she told the older one, Samuel, how great it was going to be to have a little brother.
As long as he was normal, everything was great. But when the Queen finally gave birth on the sixth of June, things changed.
As a lowly servant girl of sixteen, I wasn't allowed in the delivery room; as a matter of fact, I didn't know what all the fuss was about for a long time. All I knew was that the Queen wouldn't hold, or even see, little Carson. The King was crueler than ever--he was so upset by whatever had happened to the baby, that he had all of us whipped at least once for minor mistakes, like dropping a glass of water. Before, he’d at least respected the lower-class folks.
In the servant’s hall, rumors started to spread like a virus. Some said the baby was sick, probably dying. Others swore up and down that his father was not the King, but some other man.
Neither of these turned out to be even close to the truth. In fact, when I did see Carson for the first time, four months later, I didn't notice the problem for a minute or two. He was lying face-up, alone in his crib, which was located in the corner of a dusty storage room--that always seemed cruel to me, but the servants who felt obligated to care for him said he wasn't affected by it.
The baby had clear grey eyes and black hair, just like his father. He was a little small for his age, but not enough to cause concern.
I knew from raising my little siblings that you should talk to infants, that it helps them relate to the world. So I stepped closer. “Hey, little guy,” I said. The baby just smiled. For the life of me, I couldn't see why the King and Queen hated him so much.
Then he sat up. At first, I was delighted--it's a small miracle when babies first figure out things like that. But I soon noticed the problem, the imperfection: He had white, feathery wings on his back, as though he was one of those angels from the old stories.
I knew he was no angel--he was a mutant. We had all heard tell of people being born different, on account of the radiation from the War; I'd’ve never thought that there'd be one born to the royal family, though!
I ran out of the room and straight to the King’s office. I grabbed the gilded doorknob and almost opened the door when common sense came back. I couldn't just waltz in and bother the King.
I was impatient, but I forced myself to knock. The door was opened, and I stepped in.
Unable to keep quiet any longer, I blurted out, “Why didn't you tell me?”
The King glanced at me. “Sit down, Martha,” he said. There was a edge of annoyance to his voice and his expression, but he mostly sounded like he was...defeated. I sat. He paused for a moment. “So you found out about the...child.”
I nodded. “There's no shame in having one like that, your majesty,” I said. “It could have happened to anyone.”
“But we aren't ‘anyone’!” he snapped. “We are royalty. Untouchable. Perfect. At least, that's what the public needs to think.” He looked at me for a long time. “I told the press that the baby was stillborn,” he said, quietly. “It didn't help our image, but it's better than the truth. You are dismissed. Tell no one what you've seen.”
I left, disturbed in my heart and soul. Now that I'd gotten time to think about the situation, the mutation wasn't that bad. Back before my family had found our way to the Palace, we’d come across far worse creatures than Carson. In the wasteland, there'd been horrible, twisted abominations, so affected as to not be human--monsters with claws and green skin, and a taste for human flesh. Compared to them, this baby was completely average.
*
I visited Carson again and again. At first I was drawn to the storage room by some twisted curiosity, but as time went on, I got to be fonder of the child than his own mother was. Not that that's saying much.
I was the only one in the room when he took his first steps, you know. He was an early walker. I was so proud of that kid, and I wanted to tell the Queen--but I knew she wouldn't care, and might even have me whipped for bringing up the subject.
So I went back to cleaning and delivering messages, like I'd always done. Never said a word about Carson to anybody.
Once, at about midnight, I was jarred from a sound sleep by footsteps outside my door. I knew from the light tread and the click of high heels that the Queen was passing my room.
What could she be doing at this hour? I wondered. My mum always said I was nosy, and this time was no exception. I waited for the Queen to retreat down the hall a ways, then I left the room and followed her, trying to be quiet. I knew the Queen to be a good woman who usually wouldn't mind my presence; but something, some instinct, told me that tonight was different.
She was carrying something, but I couldn't tell what it was in the dark.
I stayed out of sight as I slipped after her, and eventually I realized where we were headed. When she reached the storage room, she hesitated and drew a deep breath before she went in.
Was she going to see her baby? He was close to a year old, now--he wouldn't recognize her, since she'd never visited him before. Didn't the Queen know that?
Her voice drifted into the hall where I stood. “I have tolerated you for so long. I've kept you a secret, hidden here. And I don't regret it.” Her voice hardened. “My only regret is that I didn't take action sooner.”
Something was really wrong. Heart pounding, I rushed into the room. The Queen held a large linen pillow above Carson’s face, while he slept peacefully, unaware that his mum was about to smother him.
“”Get away from him!” I yelled. Against my better judgment, I launched myself at the Queen, grabbing her arm and trying to pull her away from the crib. The pillow fell harmlessly to the floor.
She turned to me, and I saw madness in her eyes. “You don't know what it's like,” she hissed. “Preparing yourself to raise a prince, only to give birth to--to this!” She gestured wildly at the crib.
Rage boiled within my veins. “He’s your own flesh and blood!” I yelled, although I knew I should have been quiet. “And you’re willing to kill him, just because he's not exactly like you!”
She raised her hand, palm open, and slapped me. The painful sting of it was unpleasant--the Queen was a strong lady--but worse than that was the emotion behind it. I knew she'd never come to reason.
I was glaring at her, and I knew we’d start fighting seriously any minute, when a small voice came from the corner of the room.
“Mama!”
I turned and looked, and so did the Queen. Carson was awake and standing unsteadily, wings fully extended, a childish affection on his face.
It wasn't the Queen he was talking to, that was for sure. He was looking at me.
The Queen exited the room in a huff.
As I got Carson back to sleep, I tried hard not to cry. I wasn't his mum, but I knew why a child would think that, since I was the closest thing he had.
The next morning I received a summons to the Queen’s room. I can't go into any great detail here, as it pains me even to think of what happened. All I'll say is, she looked down her nose at me, not seeming to recall that I was always her favorite servant, and she told me I was being reassigned to work in a factory on the outer edge of the Kingdom.
There wasn't a thing I could do. Quiet--and, dare I say, cowardly--as ever, I boarded the hovertank they sent for me. I didn't understand why people could fly in these machines and be celebrated, but Carson was hated for doing nearly the same thing on his own.
As I watched the scenery go by, I wondered what it was like before the War. I'd heard tell of greenery that grew right out of the ground, instead of in a greenhouse. My Gran had seen it, and called it grass.
We entered the city district, a collection of square stone buildings that all looked the same, except that some were bigger than others. All of them were connected by cracked sidewalks.
There was a jolt as we landed in the airfield. The doors slid open, revealing two guards on the other side, presumably waiting for me. They stared daggers at me as I followed them, head down, to the factory a block or two away.
When we reached the factory, I dared to look up. The building was the biggest in the city, reaching up to the clouds. Three metal smokestacks, each in the shape of a cylinder, stuck up from the roof.
I wondered what would become of me in this harsh place. But more than that, I wondered what would become of the child I left behind.

Problem: Chapter One of my WIP is too long to post. (I guess that's a good dilemma to have, as far as dilemmas go, but it's still kind of annoying). I'd rather not split it into two posts, but I might have to...

There's really nothing you can do except split it into two posts or shorten it.

The Flame Will Fade: Chapter One: Cove
Fourteen Years Later
2439 words, in two posts
“You’re a monster!” my father screams. “A mutated freak! You cursed our family--”
He emphasizes each word by striking me with his belt. I struggle to get away, but I'm in too much pain to stand, and besides, he's moving so fast…
“I'm sorry,” I say, desperate to calm him down. “I'll do what you say next time, I swear!”
I sit bolt upright in the corner of the storage room I call home. My heart pounds, and my hands shake. I fold my wings around my body--a nervous habit that I picked up as a child.
These nightmares are only getting worse as time goes on.
There's a faint beam of sunlight coming from the small, barred window near the ceiling. Soon Father will come, and judging from the argument he had with Mother last night, he’s sure to be in a worse mood than usual. This time it was about whether or not to increase taxes on the citizens; she was against it, but he was dead set on the idea, claiming that we need all the extra Kingdom-Standard Currency we can get.
Eventually the subject turned to me, like always. They both agreed that if they didn't have me to take care of, they'd have more KSC.
I can't fathom why it costs so much, when they give me rags for clothes, and barely feed me enough to keep me alive. But it's not my place to ask questions. I'm a demon, according to them--and what would a demon know about civilized society?
The heavy wooden door slams open, and Father storms into the room, holding a half-empty bottle of whiskey. This is going to be even worse than I expected.
“Get up,” he says. “I swear, you're getting slower and stupider every day.”
The words shouldn't affect me; I shouldn't care what this man thinks. But, after all these years, it still hurts to hear his insults.
“I need you to cook a meal for ten people,” he continues. “Me, the Queen, our only son, and seven guests. And remember...stay out of sight. No one wants to be around the likes of you.”
When he mentions my older brother, my heart sinks. Samuel is what they call a ‘normal’, perfect in every way. He used to be relatively kind to me, but in the past few months, since he turned seventeen and began military training, everything's changed.
I limp out to the kitchen; I'm trying to walk quickly, but my right leg hasn't completely healed from a few months ago. The memory threatens to overwhelm me. When I try to focus on it, the only thing I can remember is a blur of pain and screaming, with no real details...
Don't think about that, I tell myself.
There's no need to ask what the group wants. I know from experience that whatever I serve them, they'll hate it. So I decide to give them a simple, easy-to-make soup recipe.
I wash my hands, then grab a knife and a cutting board, intending to chop a few tomatoes. However, it's hard to concentrate when my father is glaring at me from the doorway. As I work, I can't help glancing at him every few minutes, wondering what he wants.
The other guests arrive after a few minutes--I can hear them talking and laughing, part of a world I'll never know, as they gather in the main entryway.
The King berates me again before he goes to join them. “Remember, you may have the privilege of serving these estimable people, but you are, and always will be, far beneath them.”
“Believe me, I've heard,” I mutter, too quietly for Father to hear as he leaves.
I realize, suddenly, that no one will know if I steal some food. It wouldn't be much, of course; just enough so that I don't starve. When I was younger, my parents were willing to let me have scraps, at least, but not anymore.
Turning off the stove, I inch towards the refrigerator…
And I stop at the last minute. If the King finds out anything is missing, I'll be killed or worse. It's not worth the risk.
The guests are getting impatient. Their conversations drift out into the kitchen:
“Where is the servant?”
“Hope it’s not poisoning the meal.”
“I wouldn't be surprised. You can't trust those animals with anything.”
My father cuts in. “I assure you, I keep a close eye on it. The food is perfectly fine.”
I turn the stove back on and continue stirring the pot of soup, but my hands are trembling again, and not from fear--this time, it's because I'm furious.
Why can't he at least acknowledge that I'm sentient? That I can understand every single word he and his fellow nobles say?
No. This won't end well if I keep letting myself feel. To survive, I have to remain passive, cold.
Putting a neutral expression on my face, I enter the large dining hall and give them their food.
One of the guests, my father’s sister, pushes her chair back as I approach her. I can see fear and disgust in her eyes; she doesn't even know I'm her nephew, and I plan to keep it that way.
Deaden your emotions, I remind myself.
“I must say, these floors are beautiful,” another guest, seated across from my father, says. I bet he wouldn't compliment the gleaming hardwood planks if he knew I was the one who polished them yesterday.
I move on until I reach the last guest, Sir Randall Hackett: a fat, slovenly, ruddy-faced man whom I despise almost as much as my father. Breadcrumbs are stuck to his long reddish beard, and the brass buttons on his blue suit are likely to fly in every direction at any moment.
He's had too much to drink, more than the others; his wine glass is empty, and he sways slightly as he looks me over.
“If I came across one of these mutants near my household,” he drawls to no one in particular, “I wouldn't take it in as a servant. No sir, I'd either kill it, or...I'd alter it to make it close to normal. A little surgery would do the trick.”

(Cont.)
A chill runs through me. He's saying he’d--what? Cut off my wings?
I know he's drunk, and he's always been stupid, and his words mean nothing, but I'm not willing to stand by any longer.
My father nods, agreeing with everything he says.
I'm just about to say something when Hackett leaps back with surprising agility, knocking his chair over.
“You didn't tell me it could control fire!” he says, backing away.
He's waving his arms frantically, but I get a glimpse of a singed spot on his left sleeve, just above the wrist. I don't know what caused this, but the damage doesn't look too bad.
I start to slip away and go back to my storage room, but Father has other plans. “Stay where you are,” he says before reconsidering. “No, never mind. Go to your room and stay there until I fetch you.”
I waste no time in getting out of the dining room.
My room is small and crowded with pathetic, useless things. I guess it's fitting, in a way.
Among the stacks are pieces of pre-War technology that stopped working years ago--an old television, a hand mixer, a stereo, and more. There are also plenty of banned books that no one remembered to destroy, their covers faded with time and dust. I wish I could read the titles, but the letters seem to switch around whenever I try to learn. Samuel told me a while ago that I probably have a condition called dyslexia, but Father says I'm just stupid.
I walk past all of the old stuff and head to the corner I've always slept in. The one working clock shows me that it's barely noon, but I'll need to save my energy for the confrontation that's sure to come.
The air is cold enough for me to see my breath. No surprise there, I guess; it's January, and the window has been stuck open for as long as I can remember, letting the chill wind find me every winter. I'm used to it, though.
I fall asleep after a few minutes, thankful for the threadbare blue sheet that keeps me at least somewhat warm.
It's dark in this dream, strangely; my worst memories, my nightmares--they usually take place under fluorescent lights.
I’m remembering a time when I was a small child. I can tell from how the walls seem to rise to infinity, and how the ceiling is so far away.
A woman stands over me, too tall and wide to be the Queen. I can't make out her features in the dim light, but when she speaks, her voice breaks slightly.
“I have to go now,” she says. “I made a mistake, a big mistake. I know you can't understand me, as you're so young. But I have to tell someone anyway.”
And then she begins to recite what sounds like a poem.
“Agur nire umea gozoa.
Maiatzaren segurua izango duzu beti.
Ez dut ahaztuko.
Goodbye my sweet child.
May you always be safe.
I will not forget.”
The woman leaves quickly after that. And I am alone again.
When the sound of footsteps wakes me, back in the present, there's an emptiness inside my chest. I know now that I was loved, once. What happened to the strange woman?
I can hear my father talking to someone outside the door. “Maybe it will be of some use to me, after all.”
When he enters the room, my first instinct is to put up a fight and at least try to delay my punishment. I stand up quickly, trying my best to seem defiant, but I almost collapse; I'm weak from starvation, and I feel lightheaded. The King takes this attempt wrong anyway, seeing it as a sign of respect. “That's right, you’d better rise for me,” he sneers.
Samuel stands behind him. A few years ago, he would have helped me--even if there was nothing he could do when I was being beaten, he always reassured me afterwards. Now, though, I see nothing but disdain etched across his face. When did he change from my beloved brother into another one of the King’s minions?
My father grabs my arm and drags me into the hallway.
I have to try one more time. “Sam!” I beg, looking into my brother’s eyes.
He smirks. “It knows my name. What a surprise.” And then he spits in my direction.
We were brothers.
We stuck together no matter what.
He used to hate the King as much as I did.
In an instant, I give up. All the fight I had left in me is gone; if Samuel doesn't help me, no one will.
The woman from my dream is probably long dead, if she existed at all.
I go limp as I'm led down several flights of stairs, each one darker and damper than the last. There's no point in resisting, and I'm not even afraid this time--the only thing I can feel is a vague, detached curiosity about what might happen. It's almost like I'm watching someone else, another unfortunate boy from another time.
“A fire mage,” my father mutters to himself. “In my household! I knew it was a freak, but this is going too far!”
This brings me back to reality. I'm not a fire mage--am I? Everyone has heard of them; they can control flames with a thought, and they usually live in small units in the wastelands, never associating with those outside their families.
The incident with Hackett had to be a coincidence, a weird accident. I'm different enough without an extra power.
The King pushes me into a rusted metal folding chair that leans against the wall. I know without being told that I should stay there until ordered to get up.
He glares at me. “Couldn't you at least hide your mutation, freak?”
With a faint sigh, I retract my wings into the near-imperceptible slits I've cut in the back of my shirt. It's a strange feeling, unpleasant, but I can't argue with the King.
Going over to a stone basin filled with charcoal, he grabs a lighter and sets it on fire. The flames begin to flicker, then to burn in earnest, reaching towards the ceiling. I don't understand why he’s doing this, but I know it can't be good. Should I run?
“Come here,” the King snaps. I do as I'm told, standing at a safe distance in front of the basin.
“Closer,” he says, and I step a few inches forward. He grabs my arm suddenly, forcing my hand towards the flames. Is he crazy? I've been punished in pretty horrible ways before, but this is a new level of sadism. “We’ll see…” he whispers.
I struggle to pull away, but he's stronger than me. “Let me go!” I yell. It’s no use--my arm is engulfed by flames. I close my eyes, expecting searing agony. I'll probably lose my arm--
Except that there's no pain at all, just a sensation of warmth. Tentatively opening my eyes, I realize that my clothes and skin aren't even burnt.
My father has backed away until he's standing at the foot of the stairs, his eyes wide with horror. Sweat stands out on his face.
So it's true.
I'm officially a fire mage.
*
If, in some hopeful corner of my mind, I thought my father would treat me with more respect now, I was horribly wrong. Over the next few days, his treatment of me gets even worse. I'm locked in my room twenty-three hours a day; the hour of “freedom” I get is spent watching propaganda videos with titles like The Mutant Epidemic: How To Stop These Vicious Beasts. If I look away from the screen for even a second, I'm whipped until my clothes--and the feathers on my wings--are soaked with blood. Needless to say, I soon learn to pay attention, even when the words flashing across the screen say that people like me deserve to die.
No matter how hard I try to stay positive, I eventually begin to believe the messages. What if I really am a monster? I can't let myself show emotion when my father is around, but in my room at night, I've started to talk to myself, asking why I keep living. Honestly, I don't have an answer for myself.

City of Lanterns, part one (contest entry)
1137 words

I am standing in a meadow, and I only know two things.
My first name is Talvi.
And I have to reach the City of Lanterns.
What does this mean? I don't know, I realize, looking down. I notice that I'm wearing a spring-green dress that blends in with the grass around me; it ends just below my knees. Pink ballet flats protect my feet. My only adornment is a blue stone on a simple grey cord around my neck.
Turning in a slow circle, I see that to the south, there's a mountain range. To the east and west, nothing but poppies and lavender stretching on for miles. But there’s a cobblestone path, barely visible through the vegetation, leading north.
It may not lead to the city, but then again, it’s my best chance, maybe my only chance. So I start down the path.
It's eerily quiet. No birds chirp, and the air is still, without a hint of breeze to rustle the flowers. The sun scorches the meadow with its bitter heat. I trudge on, longing for a little rain, or at least a change in scenery. The flowers are pleasant to look at, but after half an hour, I'm ready to see something else.
Soon, my mind wanders to much bigger problems: Why can't I remember anything? Where is the City of Lanterns, and what's waiting for me there?
My heart pounds, partly from fear of the misty unknown that's both behind and in front of me, partly from exhaustion and overheating. Sweat trickles down my neck and my palms. I brush my damp blonde hair away from my face with one hand.
“Keep going,” I whisper to myself. I have what I instinctively know is a Finnish accent. With a twinge of sadness, I realize that until this moment, I didn't even know what my own voice sounded like.
About ten more minutes pass. No change in the world around me, no sign of any civilization, but I need to rest.
Too exhausted, terrified, and weak to stand any longer, I sit down right on the path, drawing my knees to my chest. The blue stone on my necklace seems to glow a brighter blue than before. It has to be a trick of my delirious mind.
Maybe this whole thing is a fever-induced dream. Maybe...maybe I'll wake up in a hospital with my memories intact, seriously ill but on the road to recovery.
I close my eyes and wait for a voice from beyond to pull me back to reality.
Quickly opening my eyes, I realize my theory was wrong. This is reality--no matter how strange and uncertain it may be.
I grip the blue stone; it's blessedly cold to the touch. When I let go, I notice something strange--even stranger than everything else that's happened. My hand seems to be coated with frost. I spring to my feet with a faint cry of horror.
It's spreading! The ground at my feet is turning to ice. As I began to run, snowflakes swirl in tempestuous white gusts through the air, which has quickly become at least twenty degrees cooler. I would be happy that it's not so miserably hot, except that I caused this, and I don't know how.
Miles go by, my legs burn and snowdrifts form to the sides of the path, but I mustn't slow down. A town looms in front of me. Could it be the City of Lanterns? Was my journey that easy?
I stumble toward the gates, but I can barely stand, weak from running. “Please,” I gasp, looking at the guard. “I need help.”
He's about thirty, with dark almond-shaped eyes, dark hair, and olive skin. For a moment his face is impassive, though naturally kind. Then his expression softens. “You look like I might have, when I came here long ago. Desperate, afraid, helpless. I don't mean to offend you,” he adds. “I suppose the inn has room for--”
I don't hear the rest. My knees finally give out, along with my frenzied mind, and I collapse into darkness.
*
When I wake, I'm lying on a worn blue couch. Raising my head as much as I can, I see that the room I've ended up in is small, but well-furnished, with walls of a reddish wood--cherry? Voices sound from behind a closed doorway.
“We cannot keep her, Ambrocio,” a woman’s smooth voice says. I can tell just from listening to her that she's used to getting her way.
“And why not?” I recognize this person as the guard.
“We know nothing about her. She could be a thief, a murderer--”
“Don't jump to conclusions.” His words are authoritative, but his tone is affectionate. “We’ve been over this, my daisy.”
“I am not your ‘daisy’!” she snaps. “I am Rhiannon Kelly-Reyes, mayor of this town. I expect you to treat me as such, even if I am your wife.”
Ambrocio’s voice is colder when he replies. “Very well. Rhiannon you shall be. But no matter what I call you, we are not going to turn the girl out into the world. What kind of example would that set for our children? Speaking of the children--Solas! Gabi! Come here.”
I hear the sound of two pairs of pattering feet entering the other room. Ambrocio continues. “We have an invalid in the other room. Go and check on her, please.”
“Yes, Father,” two piping voices reply. The door opens, and the children walk over to me. “She's awake!” the boy, who looks to be about eleven years old, exclaims quietly. It’s dark in the room, but there’s a golden aura surrounding him, casting a glow on the walls and ceiling. Seeing my confused state, he giggles nervously. “Bet you've never seen anything like this before. Don't worry--it's just my power. My name means ‘light’, you know. Call me Solas, and that's Gabi.”
From what I can tell, Gabi appears to be slightly older than her brother. She hangs back and stays in the shadows, though, so I can't see her very clearly. “Don't pester our new guest,” she says.
“Sorry,” Solas says. “Anyway, what brings you here?”
I hesitate, absentmindedly touching the blue stone, which is still cold, but nothing like it was. “Honestly? I don't remember,” I finally admit. “I was told--sort of--to get to the City of Lanterns. And I'm finally here, I guess. The question is, what am I supposed to do now?”
Gabi inhales sharply through her teeth, as though she's both annoyed and surprised. Solas looks uncomfortable. Averting his eyes, which I notice are a golden color with vertical pupils, he tries to explain. “Um--well...”
“What?” I ask, trying to sit up.
“Hey, don't exert yourself. The thing is...this isn't the City of Lanterns. That's another day's journey from here.”

The Flame Will Fade
Chapter Two: Iris
1558 words
My sisters and I are visiting the hydroponic gardens for the first time today, and we can't wait! We should've gone long ago, but there was an influx of new refugees, and we were so busy showing them around that there was no time for admiring plants.
You'll notice that I'm saying “we”, rather than talking about myself as an individual. That's because Kate, Mercy, and I do literally everything together. Ever since--
Well, let's just say we’ve been inseparable for five years now.
I glance over at Mercy, skipping slightly ahead of us. Always the excitable one, she's been looking forward to this trip for a full two weeks. Kate walks more sedately beside me, her long blonde hair tied in a ponytail. As usual, she carries herself with an air of aggression, but I know her too well to be intimidated--it's just an act.
One of the recent refugees, a twelve-year-old girl with thick pigtails, walks up to me. I'm not sure of her full name, but I know her first name is Hannah. We don't know what her powers are yet--she's told anyone who asks that she has none.
I smile in greeting.
“Can I go with you?” she blurts out. “I really want to see the gardens! What kind of plants do they have?”
I tell her. “Peach trees, peanuts, and all kinds of flowers. We're working on bringing back some types of grass.”
Hannah gasps, her eyes shining. “I've never seen any of those before!”
Does every sentence she utters have to be in that excited tone? I wonder. Out loud, I remind her, “None of us have, at least in the wild. The War fifty years ago caused near-extinction for all life.” Since I'm her teacher on Mondays, I add, “Do you remember how these plants were saved at all?”
She thinks for a minute, then recites as though from a textbook: “It was through a combination of emergency storage systems and genetic engineering.”
I nod approvingly and we continue on until we reach the sealed doors of the greenhouse. I type in the passcode (161211430, not that you need to know that!), they open with a hiss, and we enter. Hannah grips my arm tightly; her breath comes in quick squeaks. I don't know why she's so thrilled.
Kate looks at us. “Relax, kid,” she tells Hannah. “It's just plants.”
Hannah makes an effort to compose herself. “You're right,” she replies. “Just plants…”
But there's a weird look on her face as she speaks.
I check on the grass seedlings; they're doing well, save for a few yellowed spots, but aren't even close to mature, since we just planted them recently. Kate and Mercy separate for once to check on the food items, and Hannah wanders over to the flowers.
Noticing that she's reaching out to touch one, a delicate maidenhair fern, I walk over and pull her hand back. “They're really fragile,” I reprimand her gently.
She doesn't seem to hear me. There's a faint frown on her face, and she continues to move her hand closer to the fern.
Hannah doesn't strike me as the disobedient type. What's gotten into her?
I grab her shoulders, maybe a bit too roughly, and pull her away.
She turns to face me, looking annoyed. I notice something strange--
Her normally-blue eyes have turned green.
This can't mean what I think it means
“That plant is dying. They're all dying--they're sick. Haven't you noticed?” Hannah asks.
I shake my head mutely.
“Well, the fern told me. And plants don't lie.” Her eyes widen, and she claps a hand over her mouth.
I manage to find my voice. “So you're a Gardener?”
Before she can answer, Kate comes rushing over, with Mercy trailing behind. “The peach trees are wilting, and so are the peanuts. We think it's the Blight.”
I gesture at Hannah. “She's a Gardener,” I tell my sisters.
Turning to her, I grasp at our last hope of saving our most important work. “You can heal plants, can't you?”
“No,” she replies, her voice uncharacteristically quiet and tremulous. “My power isn't that strong. I can communicate with them and make them grow, if they're healthy, but that's it.”
*
We head to the agricultural leader’s office. Mr. John O’Keefe is the most powerful Gardener in the haven. There are rumors going around that he raised a full-grown oak tree from a seedling in less than two hours when he was ten years old. I don't doubt this claim, either.
We all expect Hannah to be excited, but she trails behind us, her step heavy with dread. I can literally feel her fear--I’m what’s known as a High Empath. Or, as Kate likes to say when she wants to get on my nerves, an “over-sensitive ninny”.
Today isn't the time or place for name calling, however, and Kate is silent for once.
Hannah speaks up once we reach the door, with its green plastic nameplate to the side. “Mister O’Keefe won't be happy. What if he thinks I caused the Blight?”
“He won't,” I reassure her.
She raises her fist and knocks hesitantly. At first, there's no response. Then, someone on the other side unlocks the door, and a voice tells us to come in. Hannah looks at me; I nod, and she enters the office first. O’Keefe is sitting at his desk, surrounded by cracked flowerpots, papers covered in messy handwriting, and three data screens, all of which are flashing different colors. Hannah begins speaking immediately. His apprentice, another young Gardener, ushers us inside. I smile at this girl, who’s probably about my age. Strangely, I haven't seen her around before. She flips her long, mousy brown hair behind her shoulder and scowls. Okay, then. It's not my problem if she wants to be stuck-up.
Turning to O’Keefe, who doesn't appear to be listening to Hannah’s explanation, I ignore the girl.
“...and so we really need your advice,” Hannah finishes.
O’Keefe shrugs, his eyes on one of the data screens.”I admire your tenacity, but I'm a bit swamped with work right now. I'm sure you can figure something out. Have a nice day.”
Hannah is about to protest, but the apprentice girl practically shoves her out. “You heard him,” she says with a simpering smile. “He’s very busy with important work.”
“Okay,” Mercy says, speaking up for the first time. “We’ll come back later.” But we all know that's unlikely.
*
Once we’re out of earshot, Kate starts in with some choice words for O’Keefe. “That no-good, pretentious, snooty piece of--”
I cut her off. “Watch it,” I say, glancing at Hannah.
“It's okay,” Hannah replies. “I'm not a child.”
“You're twelve,” Kate mutters.
Hannah turns slightly red. “Well, I feel the same way as you about what happened back there. And I think I have a right to be taken seriously.”
“Stop it, guys,” Mercy says. “We have more important things to worry about. Like--”
“Revenge!” Kate says, brightening up.
“I was going to say ‘finding a cure for the Blight’,” Mercy tells her, rolling her eyes. “But if you want to waste time with petty grudges, it's your call.”
I hear a faint giggle in the hallway behind us. Whirling around, I see the mousy-haired girl. A broad smile spreads across her face. “What's so funny?” I demand, stepping towards her. She whispers something to herself, but to me, the words are unintelligible.
Suddenly overwhelmed with rage I can't explain, I scream wordlessly and leap at her. Kate only just manages to hold me back. “She's not a Gardener at all!” my sister says, her voice rising in panic. “She's a Manipulator. So that's why we were all bickering just now.”
The girl snaps her fingers, and the anger fades away. “That's right. But don't tell anyone, or I could make you say and do things you'll forever regret.” She strolls away casually, with a spring in her step.
We look at each other in horror for a long time. Kate lets go of my shirt collar. Then Hannah speaks up warily. “Um...what's a Manipulator?”
Kate shudders. “You don't want to know.”
“But she needs to know,” Mercy adds, gentler now that the girl’s influence is gone. To Hannah, she explains, “They're not common at all--in fact, I didn't think we had any in the haven. Their powers range from making people sick to toying with mental states, like you saw just now. Occasionally you get one who has good intentions, but there's no way a Manipulator can use their abilities and not hurt someone.”
“Sorry about freaking out on you, by the way,” I tell them.
“It's not your fault,” Hannah says. “So, are we going to tell someone about her, or not?”
“No!” the rest of us say in unison.
“Why not?” Hannah asks.
Mercy pulls nervously on a strand of her pink hair. “First off, the leaders wouldn't take us seriously--we already found that out. Second, you heard what she said. Just imagine how she'd corrupt us. We should probably stay out of her way.”
Hannah considers this, blanching at the thought of what the girl might be capable of. “You're right,” she says after a moment. “We’ll pretend we never met her. But what will we do about the Blight?”
None of us can answer that.

The Journey
Chapter 3: Cove
2243 words
(Part one)

It's been two weeks since I discovered what I'm capable of. Nothing has changed, really; I finished watching all the propaganda videos, and since I can't read the text versions, Father has made me go back to cooking and cleaning.
Today, he has yet another meeting, even larger than the last one. This time, there will be thirty people staring at me in revulsion and whispering when they think I can’t hear.
I usually avoid looking at the large mirrors lining the hallway, but now I accidentally catch a glimpse of myself in one of them. The person staring back is pallid and gaunt, with long, tangled black hair.
Is that really what I look like? No wonder the guests treat me the way they do.
I turn away and move on. My father is waiting for me in the kitchen.
“You think I'd trust you around food--or anything remotely valuable? New studies have shown that your kind is naturally sly and untrustworthy. I'm having a human servant do the cooking today.”
Looking into his steely eyes, I have a horrific idea: I could burn him to ashes. Set him on fire and finally run away from this.
The thought only lasts a moment, but it leaves me terrified of myself as I retreat into the storage room. Father was right all along; I’m dangerous, evil, not in control.
The day passes slowly. I refuse to sleep, or even to relax, choosing instead to keep watch in a chair that's in direct view of the door--I learned long ago that Father’s anger and punishments can come at any time, even if I've been completely obedient.
My thoughts turn, as they often do, to escape. The window is no help; I think of flying out of it, but up close, it's too small to fit through, even for me.
Could I slip away in the middle of the night? Probably not--Father is a light sleeper, and besides, he has alarms on the doors.
I don't let myself consider the possibility of hurting him; that would make me as bad as he is. Wouldn’t it? I'm not crazy. I'm not a monster. And I'm definitely not like him…
I'm gripping the arm of the chair so hard that my hand begins to cramp. When I force myself to let go, there's a scorch mark on the wood.
This curse, or gift, or whatever, is getting harder to control with every passing day. If I'm not vigilant, who knows what could happen? Eventually, Samuel comes in. I cringe at the sight of him, but there’s a part of me that still wants his approval, so I dare to speak to him.
“What happened to us?” I blurt out.
He ignores me, looking deliberately at a rotary telephone.
“Don't you ever think about any of the times we cared for each other?” I continue. “The first time Father whipped me, when I was a kid, you helped wrap my wounds. And that's just one example out of hundreds.”
Samuel’s head snaps up, and he glares at me with eyes that are the green color of a garden snake. “You called the King Father,” he whispers. “Well, you're no son of his. And I'm not your brother.”
“But you're the one who told me we were kin in the first place!” I protest, getting angry. “You showed me my birth certificate a few years back. Remember?”
He smiles sardonically. “What does that matter to you? It's not like you could read it. Anyway, pretending like you have the capacity for emotion has been fun, but that's not why I came in here. I’m supposed to tell you that, since you've outlived your usefulness and grown weak, your exile has been scheduled. You'll be sent away in three days’ time, and good riddance.”
Most people, when faced with the news of their impending banishment, will panic and beg for one more chance . But not me. Not after all I've been through.
Instead, I start to laugh.
“What's so funny?” Samuel asks. I don't answer him. Free at last! I think. They won't be able to hurt me ever again.
He backs out of the room slowly, a disconcerted look spreading across his face.
I stop laughing. This is a stroke of good fortune in some ways, but I have to wonder what they'll do to me beforehand, and where they might send me.
Wherever it is, it can't be any worse than this.
*
The next day, I pick up one of the books, a dictionary, and flip to a random page. No matter what everyone thinks, I'm not completely illiterate. I can read a few of the shorter words, anyway.
The book is heavy, with a plain blue cover and faded ink. If I had to guess, I'd say it's over a thousand pages. That's okay--my goal isn't to read the whole thing. I just need a word that could also be a name.
I might die in exile, but I’m not going to spend my last days as Carson Hartford the Second.
This won't change anything, I know; but I have to commit one final act of rebellion, however small and insignificant it is.
Most of the words are too long and complicated--I can tell that they wouldn't work even if I could read them.
Finally, I find the best option. It's short, simple, and, as far as I can tell, it doesn't mean anything bad.
Besides, I'm tired of looking at the small print in this book.
I try saying it out loud. “My name is Cove.”
*
Finally, at noon on the third day, the time comes for my departure. Surprisingly, Father doesn't try to make an example out of me or anything like that, and there are only two guards waiting for me as I board the hovertank. They force me into a seat, handcuff me to the armrests, then take their own positions, one on each side of me. I was ordered to wear a large backpack full of what I can only assume are rocks--this is so I can't spread my wings.
The guard nearest to the window looks strong, but not bulky; he has a face like a rat, with beady, mud-brown eyes and a pointed nose. He pretends I'm not there, instead trying to engage the other guard in a conversation about the weather.
“It's supposed to snow later,” he says.
The larger man rolls his eyes. “Of course it is. It snows every day, every month, every year. We live in the midst of a nuclear winter, Jethro.” The next moment, his expression shifts from annoyed to almost worshipful as he adds, “It's a good thing the Kingdom provides the worthy with places to live. I'm almost inclined to believe that the royal family can't do anything wrong, even if they wanted to.”
They're both silent for a few seconds, then the unnamed guard turns to me with an ugly grin on his face. “Except for keeping you alive. That was the King’s one great sin.”
Rain begins to fall against the Plexiglass window. At first it's just a few drops, but soon it's pouring. Our hovertank swerves and bucks in the wind. The pilot's voice comes over Jethro’s two-way radio: “There's no way we can go on in this weather. I'm going to land this thing.”
“No, don't!” Jethro tells him. “It's just a minor squall. We’ll live.”
“I really don't think--”
A burst of static drowns out the rest of the pilot’s sentence. Jethro and his companion look at each other nervously.
Lightning illuminates the cabin, and the noise of thunder surrounds us. But somehow, we’re still airborne. In fact, I think we might be gaining altitude. Jethro notices this, too. He presses a button on his radio. “You were right, let's stop for now.”
The only response is more white noise. “Hello?” Jethro says, pushing the button harder and bringing the radio closer to his mouth. “Martin, this is ridiculous. Hello? Do you read me, Martin?”

(Cont.)
Even the static falls silent, leaving dead air in its wake.
Finally, Martin speaks, his voice deadly and quiet. “I'm tired of doing what the Kingdom wants. I won't be a pawn any longer. And if I have to take a few civilians with me when I go...that's not a problem.”
He laughs without humor. Jethro stares at the radio speechlessly.
We start to plummet. The other guard begins to chant a prayer.
“God save us. God save us…”
I look at him. Religion isn't forbidden in the Kingdom, but it will get you branded an eccentric and kept under surveillance. I've only heard things like this in whispers, when the offenders thought the King couldn't hear.
This man doesn't seem like the type to do anything out of the ordinary.
What other secrets have the King’s most loyal subjects been hiding?
I guess I'll never know.
We’re falling faster and faster.
There's a faint click, and I'm released from the handcuffs. Is it the pilot’s one act of kindness, so I can be free before I die?
Probably not, but I hope that's the case.
We’re pressed back against our seats. Jethro shuts his eyes, and I instinctively do the same.
It might be half an hour, or it might be two seconds--I've lost all sense of time. Either way, we hit the ground all too quickly; the horrible sound of tearing metal comes from the front of the plane.
When I open my eyes, I realize I must have been thrown forward; I've landed in an awkward position, lying in what used to be the aisle. I think I'm unharmed, until I sit up; agony rips through my right wing.
I cautiously take off that stupid backpack, but this is so painful that I nearly pass out. What's wrong with me?
And there's another problem, one that I was in too much pain to notice until now: a heavy piece of fuselage pins my legs down. I'm pretty sure they're not broken, but that's not exactly a good consolation, since I can't move to get out of here.
The guard’s voice comes from a few feet away, startling me--I assumed he was dead. “Jethro, you have to wake up. The King will have my hide if you die on me. And besides…”
His voice softens. “We've been friends since we were kids in the Junior Army. I can't live without you.”
There's no answer. Despite what he said about me earlier, despite the fact that he's unfailingly loyal to my father, I can't help but feel sorry for this man.
He turns slightly and freezes, noticing me. His brow furrows, but I can't tell if it's because of hatred or...something deeper.
The man is silent for a long time. Finally, he says, “I don't know if I could survive on my own out there. We must be miles away from the castle. But you're one of...those. Imagine me, Nero Sempers, rescuing an Avian. And then using it as a guide!” He laughs at the idea, but soon he breaks down and starts crying.
I look away; this is embarrassing and awkward for both of us.
Nero composes himself after a while, then moves past me to a large hole in the side of the hovertank. I didn't notice it before, with everything else going on, but it's letting cold air in. And that gives me an idea.
Just before Nero leaves, I speak up. “The weather’s awful out there,” I say.
He turns back and looks at me suspiciously. “I know that. I'm not blind.”
I have to keep calm, no matter how rude he is. “You’re not dressed for this kind of weather,” I continue.
“Well...neither are you, freak.” He gestures at my ragged clothing, which is torn and about three sizes too large for me.
I'm losing my patience. “Listen, if you want to die out there, that's your choice,” I say, my voice suddenly becoming as cold as the world around us. “Just know that I'm not only an Avian--I'm also a Fire Mage.”
“What's your point?” Nero asks dryly.
Is he really this dense?
“I could summon enough fire to keep you warm, for one thing. But if you’re really going to let your pride get in the way of reason, then go ahead. Leave. Freeze to death.”
Nero hesitates, and I wonder if I've gone too far. Finally, he storms over and lifts the fuselage, setting me free. He doesn't look happy about it, though.
I stand up, careful to keep my injured wing as still as possible, and walk out into the blizzard. Nero is right behind me.
“Do your magic, boy,” he says.
“It's not magic,” I reply, but he's obviously not listening. So I cup my hands and try to figure out how this works. Do I just have to think about it? That seems too easy, but it's worth a try.
“Is it working?” Nero demands.
“It was, until you broke my concentration…”
After a while, I succeed--a small flame appears in my hands.
Unfortunately, the wind extinguishes it within a few seconds.
“I knew I couldn't trust you,” Nero mutters. “Well, let's just start walking and hope we find shelter. It's not like I have anyone better to travel with.”
“The feeling is mutual,” I say.
And so we head west, a soldier and a freak.

The Home For Wayward Children
2176 words
As I slowly pack my small, battered suitcase for the long journey, my older sister dusts, hoping to make our cottage look presentable for the next residents. I'm making this last as long as possible, picking up each item and pondering it carefully before deciding whether to keep it.
“Hurry up,” Agnes says, an edge of impatience to her voice.
I ignore her and make a great show of weighing a stone coaster in my hand.
“Rose, you know that we can't take much with us,” she continues. “ I had to sell my best dress. You can't expect to hold onto everything.”
Determined to tune her out, I start singing. “O, the snow it melts the soonest when the winds begin to sing;
And the corn it ripens fastest when the frosts are setting in…”
Agnes storms away, into the kitchen. I fall silent, knowing that she has a point. Then, I lay the coaster on a table. Let someone else have it.
The suitcase is full of beige dresses and hats, exactly like the outfit I'm wearing now. The material is plain and unattractive, but it will last until winter, at least.
When I finish my task, Agnes enters the room. Her face is still tight and red, but she makes an effort to be civil.
“Are you quite ready?”
I nod.
“Good, then we should go. The director of the orphanage will be expecting us soon.”
We gather up our meager belongings and leave our home for the last time. My black shoes click on the stone path.
On impulse, I stop and turn around. The cottage is small, but well-kept. Three windows provide a glimpse of the interior. Although it's devoid of furniture, thanks to the debtors, a dusty end table and a navy-blue woven rug are still there. The fireplace is unlit, but I can imagine some other family gathered around its warmth in the same way we were, just six months ago.
Agnes sighs, impatient; I tear myself away from the sight of the house and follow her reluctantly.
We travel in silence for a while. The trees above us sway in a light breeze, and a butterfly the color of a robin’s egg flutters across the well-worn path. And yet, I'm not at peace. Eventually, I speak. “This bothers me, Agnes.”
Without turning around, she asks, “What is it?”
I hesitate. “Well...I don't think Mother would have wanted us to sell the house.”
Her shoulders stiffen, but when she replies, her voice is carefully controlled. “Mother is dead.”
“You don't know that,” I say. “She could be in the city. She could be waiting for us. She--”
Agnes cuts me off with an angry gesture. “Even if that might be true, she is dead to me. No respectable person would abandon two young girls. I'm only sixteen, and you are but twelve. We shouldn't have to survive on our own.”
“She had no choice!” I protest. The forest has gone dark, the sky is grey where it shows through the trees, and a few drops of rain land on my hat. “Besides, she said she would come back and make everything right.”
“That was six months ago,” Agnes mutters.
“She promised…” I say.
My sister whirls around, her eyes ablaze with sudden fury. “Mother also ‘promised’ never to beat me again, but she gave me bruises up until the day she left!”
I stare at her. “It was an accident.”
“An accident that kept happening, over and over and...?” The storm begins in earnest, and I can't tell if it's rainwater or tears on Agnes’s face. Suddenly, she slumps, abandoning her always-perfect posture. “You wouldn't understand. You were her angel. She never blamed you for our poverty.”
And without a word, she continues on, head bowed against the weather and the past.
“Wait!” I yell, running to catch up with her. She glances at me sideways, but doesn't speak.
We keep walking. The downpour softens, but never completely stops. Thunder rolls in the distance, and it's hard to see the ground through the looming darkness.
Just as my legs begin to ache, the treeline ends abruptly, revealing a well-worn, paved path. And just beyond that?
The city rises up to greet us, tall buildings stretching above our heads, automobiles and carriages managing to coexist on the streets.
We’ve made it.
Before I can take in many of the sights, Agnes grabs my arm and pulls me along towards the orphanage.
The large building is made of stone, which has been painted white in a halfhearted effort to make it look cheerful. There are a few children in the unkempt yard, but they seem to look right through us.
Agnes rings the doorbell and speaks to me for the first time since our argument in the forest. “Unless they ask you a question directly, let me do the talking.”
The door opens after a few seconds, revealing a middle-aged woman in a dark wool dress. Her face is lined, and her eyes are shadowed, but there is kindness in the way she looks at us.
“You must be the Mallory sisters. Please, do come in.”
We follow her through the empty lobby and down a dim hallway. She talks the whole time.
“You can call me the Matron. I gave up my real name when my husband passed away. That's why I'm wearing black, see.”
We nod and make vague sympathetic noises, both of us wondering if the Matron has any inhibitions whatsoever.
“He made the place what it once was,” she continues. “I try to keep it up--for the children--but I was never very good at housekeeping, you know.”
“We could help,” Agnes says. “We ran our household for six months after our mother’s death.”
“She’s not dead!” I protest, forgetting my instructions.
“Yes, she is,” Agnes tells me. To the Matron, she says, “Rose is a bit addled from grief right now.”
I reach over and pinch her in the side; I know I'm too old for such childish behavior, but I don't care. She winces, glares at me for a moment, and keeps walking. I can hear her repeat the phrase: “Yes, definitely addled from grief."
*
I'm told to sit outside while Agnes talks with the Matron. The door to the office has scarcely shut when a small girl, no more than eight years old, sits in the chair next to me. Thick glasses are perched on her nose, her curly white-blonde hair is unkempt, and the dress she wears is an ugly, lurid shade of pink. Without introducing herself, she tells me, “My parents are coming back for me any day now. They left me here because I am precocious, pedantic, and inquisitive, but they should reconsider soon. The human mind is fickle at best. Oh! I almost forgot. My name is Claudia Nettie Farrow. And you are…?”
I smile in spite of myself. “Rose.”
She pushes her glasses up. “No middle name? Or surname?”
“Most children don't ask that kind of question right away,” I say drily. “But if you really want to know, my full name is Rose Edna Mallory.”
“Mallory,” she says. “Are you of Anglo-Saxon descent?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“I rather enjoy the study of genealogy.” She doesn't look at me, but I can tell that she's happy to talk about this.
Agnes walks into the room, looking happier than she's been in a long time. “We’re accepted, as long as we help take care of the children,” she says.
“My parents still want me,” Claudia blurts out. “Or at least, they will soon. They have to!”
Agnes looks on quizzically as I pat the younger girl’s hand, trying to reassure her. “I know,” I say. “They'll see your value one day, and it will be soon.”
It's an awful feeling, to lie.
*
Our room has faded lavender wallpaper, a cream-colored carpet, two well-made beds, and a desk with a lamp; although it's old-fashioned and spare, it's not as run-down as the rest of the orphanage. The night passes quickly, and the next morning, we report to the Matron’s office.
“It's your first day in a new city,” she says as soon as we enter. “I can handle a dozen children for one more day! Go out and explore.”
We do as she says.
The city is huge and bustling. “Vegetables! Get ‘em while they're fresh,” a man behind a wooden cart yells to everyone he sees. We have to stop for a moment when a scrawny brown dog chases a large white cat directly into our path. An extended family of gentry passes by; all of them, from the grandparents down to the infant in his carriage, wear dark velvet and bright lace. We don't buy anything, since we haven't earned our wages yet, but we spend the day looking around in awe.
*
It's been a month. We’re beginning to settle into our new life, taking care of the children and helping the Matron with various household tasks. We’ve even gone to church most Sundays. I accept Christ and begin to read my Bible.
I don't want to lose this peace.
But a plan is taking hold in my mind--a plan involving our mother. I can't tell Agnes, who still says that Mother is dead. Nor can I tell the Matron; she would think I was insane. And, although I'm becoming like a sister to Claudia, she wouldn't understand, either.
The only way to do this is to keep it a secret,
One day, when everyone is distracted by the traveling library that comes to town every so often, I slip away. If this were for any other purpose, I'd regret my decision--I love reading.
But even books fall by the wayside in this case.
Once I'm on the street, I pick a trustworthy-looking person and walk up to her.
“Do you know a woman named Belle Mallory?” I ask. The woman gives me a strange look. “No, sorry.”
I try a man next time. “Have you heard the name Belle Mallory recently?”
“No, can't say I have. Good luck finding her, though.”
Not everyone is so polite about it. “Go away,” an older woman sneers. “I don't know you. You're probably trying to pick my pocket when I'm not paying attention.”
I'm about to give up, but I force myself to trudge up to the next person. “Do you know Belle Mallory?” I ask quickly, expecting this woman to say no. But she doesn't. She says something even worse.
“I saw that name in the obituaries a few months ago.” Seeing my distraught face, she asks, “Did you know her somehow? She didn't amount to much. Just a woman of the streets.”
The world seems to tilt around me. I turn and run, not even sure where I'm going. My mind is frozen with horror.
She would never sink that low. Would she?
She was unsaved. And she's dead. I don't want to believe it…
The graveyard gate is already open, so I slip inside and begin to look frantically at the names on the tombstones. There's a moment of panic when one reads “Belle”, but the last name is “Johnson”. This Belle wasn't my mother. I thank God for that, then continue on.
My heart lightens; none of the dead so far have been Belle Mallory.
Then I stop short. In the corner by the fence is a small stone, already weathered.
Belle Mallory, 1891-1923.
It doesn't say anything else, but I know it's her.
Please, God, not this, anything but this…
The world spins as I crouch next to the stone. I'm crying openly, and I don't care who sees me. “Mother,” I whisper.
Agnes speaks from behind me. “I can't say I'm as upset as you are.”
I jump up and whirl around to face her, surprised. “How can you be so heartless? And why did you follow me in the first place?”
She doesn't look away, though I expect her to. Instead, she locks eyes with me. Her expression is full of sadness. A few bruises and cuts that I never noticed before still mar her face. “She was the heartless one,” Agnes says quietly. “I know you wanted a happy ending, and I knew you might not get it. Even if she was alive, do you think she would have welcomed you with open arms? She made a choice to leave, Rose. I was just trying to protect you from that choice.”
Can I really give up this easily?
“I heard the Matron talking to the authorities,” she adds. “She wants to adopt us, and probably Claudia, to raise as her own children.” Extending a hand, she smiles faintly. “Come on. Let's go home.”
I don't hesitate this time. God wants me to do this; I can feel His guidance, pushing me into a new life.
I take my sister’s hand, and together we walk out of the graveyard, into the sunlight.

Author’s note: This was based on a picture called “The Woods”.

The Journey
Chapter Four: Iris
1103 words
Our psychiatrist peers at us over the top of her tortoiseshell glasses. “Since you three experienced the...unfortunate demise of your parents, you have become unnaturally attached to each other. You're inseparable.”
“How is that a bad thing?” Kate demands. “We’re sisters. We’re supposed to be close.” I can feel her anger, filling the air with scorching heat. Of course, I'm the only one who notices anything.
The woman gives us an oily smile, but I sense that she's annoyed. “You've gone beyond closeness; you wouldn't function for five minutes without each other, my dears.”
We just stare at her, dumbfounded. I notice that her hair is perfectly cut into a sleek bob. Also, she's wearing mascara and lipstick. This bothers me; we're in the middle of a war. Why would anyone care to look so perfect? Finally, Kate leans forward and tells her, “We could if we had to.”
I glance at her. What is she thinking?
“If you say so,” the woman says. “I'll make sure you all get separate assignments soon.” Glancing at her polished gold wristwatch, she adds, “That concludes our session for today. Goodbye.”
We look at each other in confusion. These sessions usually take about an hour and a half, but it's only been fifteen minutes.
“I said,” she insists, “goodbye.” Her irritation hits me full in the face.
I get up and leave hastily, with Kate beside me; Mercy trails behind us.
*
A few minutes later, we enter the library, where we’ve been assigned to sort and repair the books that a salvage team found. There isn't much literature left from before the War, thanks to the King’s censorship laws, so every book we can find is important. The head librarian nods absently in greeting, but she's busy teaching some younger children about the Dewey Decimal System. In other words, we’re on our own.
Kate picks up a battered picture book and looks at it distastefully. “Look at the water damage on this one,” she says. “There's no way to fix this, right?”
“Probably not,” I say with regret. Kate feels the same way, although she doesn't like reading. I look at her curiously.
“It's a shame,” she adds. “Every book we save from the King is another battle won.” Frowning, she tosses the book into the incinerator.
I'm concerned for my sister. The rest of us at the Haven are focused on saving everything and everyone that we possibly can, avoiding direct confrontation with the enemy. But Kate believes in absolute rebellion and the end of the Kingdom--even if it would destroy us, too. I guess it makes sense. Those with superhuman strength, like she has, tend to get angry far more easily, and they can hold grudges for months or years.
I'm glad Kate is on our side, that's for sure.
*
After a few hours of sorting books, we’re startled when the data screen next to us lights up with a notification. We crowd around to look at it.
Mercy Sutherland, go to Port 1 for your mission.
Mercy tenses up, alarmed. Everyone knows that Port 1 houses the best hovertanks, which are only used for missions that end up near the Palace. In her panic, she begins to fade out of view--her power is hard to control at the best of times. I touch her arm gently; she goes back to being visible within seconds, but she’s trembling.
“I'm not prepared for this!” she says. “I've never been on a high-risk mission, I've never even had training for it--”
Another high-pitched noise from the data screen cuts her off. The new message reads:
Kate Sutherland, you have been assigned to janitorial duty.
Of course, Kate doesn't take this well--her face turns red, and for once, she’s speechless.
She and Mercy look at me. I hope my assignment is something better than what my sisters got. The screen glows blue for the third time:
Iris Sutherland, go to Port 5 for your assignment.
It could be worse, I guess, but it could also be a lot better--Port 5 is where the leaders of the Haven keep the old, run-down hovertanks. If someone goes there, chances are they'll end up on a boring patrol in an area the King has long since abandoned.
We go our separate ways, but none of us are happy about it.
*
Ten minutes later, I board the hovertank and sit next to the pilot, whom I'm happy to see is my cousin Briar. Even if she wasn't related to me, I'd be glad to have her along. As an Avian, she's naturally small--this trait makes it easier for people with her mutation to fly--but she's also stronger than she looks. In the unlikely event that we run into trouble, she could be a valuable asset.
Her four wings, which are iridescent and crossed with fine lines, flutter rapidly. I’ll admit, they're unlike those of any other Avian that I know. Briar is also wearing gloves; she's a Rime, which means her other power is ice manipulation.
“This is my first mission as a pilot,” she says. “I wish they would've given me a newer model, though--I'm afraid this one is going to crash. Well, let's get going.”
She flips a few switches, and the tank rises into the air, creaking ominously.
“Where are we headed?” I ask once we’re steady.
“I'm pretty sure it's the Ruins,” she tells me, grimacing. I don't blame her--nothing has happened there for a long time, save for a few skirmishes with bandits.
The snow outside smacks against our windows. There's something seriously wrong with anyone who chooses to be outside in this weather, in my opinion. Well, except for Briar and the other Rimes, who actually thrive in sub-zero temperatures.
The dark shapes of abandoned buildings lurk below us. I have to look away--even though the Ruins are usually peaceful, there's something creepy about them. Maybe it's the fact that thousands of people lived and prospered here, only to die in the War.
We land and disembark. I look around; we’re in a clearing between two crumbling skyscrapers. I begin my patrol, while Briar guards me from behind. The only thing that could be construed as interesting is a rusted sign.
Welcome to Georgia, the peach state!
I have no idea what a ‘state’ is in this context. We’re always trying to get information about things like this, but the King has worked very hard to erase all history that doesn't benefit him in some way.
Finding nothing else, we return to the tank and start the voyage home.
What a waste of time.