I exist? Oh god, what shall I do? I can't exist. No, not yet at least. This world is destined to be destroyed, eaten by itself. We're merely parisites on this rocky surface. We have to explore the hevans and chaos, we must explore the universe, space.

I can't exist yet, I have to help humainity out of here, and I don't want to ruin it, not this earth, not yet... But yet here I am................. existing with all these dirty humans.

But I have to, to escape this world, I have to destroy it in the process... It is always like this. Explore, but destroy. Forever and ever. I am supposed to be a saving grace, but I am a demon in this near apocalypse.

Just a demon, just an angel, just a person.

          I've always known my father as a noble man. He wasn't violent or full of rage, and everyone that met him would never think of doing him harm. Now that I'm old enough, I know that life loves to fuck with your emotions.

          I remember being in a dream about flying through the clouds when I was jolted from my sleep. I can still hear my thoughts like they were moments ago; My dad is so mad. I stared wide-eyed at him, and his sweat dripped down his pale face. I can feel the worry creep into my bones as questions ran through my mind. He just woke me up, and he said "I got a bad feeling about my life." His voice cracked as I looked up at him, fear choking his throat like a noose on a convict's neck.

          "Dad, everything is fine," I get out of my bed slowly and began to dress myself. "How bout we take you to the hospital and see if we can figure out what's wrong?" I tried to be brave like the doctors told me, but when he picked up and chucked my lava lamp across the room shattering the glass, I lost any sense of calm.

          The visual fear in his face grew, like a roaring thunder it burst from him as he wailed and screamed. "You don't give a damn about me! You've always hated me, you little prick!" His fear transformed into something I hadn't seen from my father before, and for a moment the man standing in front of me no longer resembled the man I called Dad. The phone on my nightstand was inches from my fingers as I raised my other hand between him and I.

          "You need to take your pills Dad, they'll help you calm down," I was absolutely terrified at this point, and I couldn't do anything about it. Not yet anyway. My hand had slipped around the phone and was now slowly pressing the numbers deliberately. My father realized the tone of each button and looked at me with pain, like he had been betrayed.

          "9-1-1? Really?" The next few seconds happened slowly than any other moment in my life. The operator had begun her rehearsed line, the same one that gets said every time I had to call. This time I never got a chance to respond. The man in front of me that had once been my father was drawing a gun from behind his back, tucked away in his waistband in case he ever needed it. My breath caught in my throat as I looked into the barrel. I could have sworn I saw the bullet leave the chamber and pierce my body, but how could I have? By the time I hit the ground, I was unconscious.

          The operator was screaming into the phone, trying to get a response, but a second shot went off. My father's lifeless body slumped against the wall, his brains decorating the walls. That was the last time my dad complained about his life, and the one time he ruined mine.

Chanlyn woke up, blinking in confusion. She was lying on her side, curled in the foetal position. Her muscles felt stiff & sore, aching like she'd been holding that position for some time. How long have I slept? Loud cracking sounds greeted her as she stretched. Feels like forever. Dazed, she tried to remember last night. Her eyes wandered, searching for clues and found an empty vodka bottle beside her. Shaking her head, she got up and went to the kitchen, frowning as she noticed the dead plants. Then she saw the stain. Then the body - the dead body. She screamed.

There's always that one friend who sticks to the group like a discount sticker on a used book, and who is tolerated by necessity because any removal might leave behind a sticky residue. Among Skye, Keith, and Kim, this was Lames, whose Mom had long admitted to being high when she tried to write "James" on his birth certificate. When Skye, Keith, and Kim came upon the Cube, without hesitation they excluded Lames from the Pact. And they didn't care years later when, at Lames's 89th birthday, he glared bitterly at their youthful bodies. They could wait a little longer.

Callouses cover his hands as he toils under the moonlit sky. Crickets chirping melodies of salvation bring him comfort and the world around him seems bleak and destitute. His garments are mere rags and his shoes are fashioned from cardboard and string. His faith is the most valuable thing he owns.

In the distance, he hears the wailing women crying out to God. It is said amongst the townsfolk this ritual began during slavery. The slaves would gather in the cotton field and pray for their freedom. Now, every evening the elderly women gather in the same field to pray and weep for the children – children like him who have nothing.

He had been abandoned by his father and his mother listened to the voices in her head which led to her permanent home in the state mental institution. He had no family. His only means of survival had come from the kind townsfolk who offered him work for meals and a warm place to stay. However their kindness never made the transition to love. If only someone, maybe one of the wailing women, would open their door and heart to him.

His search for potatoes yields a feast he expects to last him for at least three days. He gathers his meal and heads for the makeshift home constructed out of cardboard boxes and palm tree branches. He was a man at 12 years old. His innocence stolen by life’s circumstances; however, he remained optimistic about life.

Outside his humble abode he prepares a fire for his meal of potatoes and two leftover carrots that had fallen from the grocers dumpster. The lad was a pauper’s chef and his meals were fit for a king. And occasionally, on cool summer nights he would entertain imaginary royalty to keep him company. As the wind began to howl, the poor boy pulled the collar of the disheveled jacket to cover his chest. The night winds were growing colder, winter would soon be upon him. All of a sudden he heard footsteps approaching him.

“Christopher,” whispered the old man. It was Patches, the town drunkard. The aroma of Christopher’s dinner had awakened Patches out of his drunken stupor. “Sumpin’ sho’ smell good, boy. Got enuf to shay wit me?” he asked.

“Sure Patches. I was expecting the king and his lady, but it appears they are running late. Pull up a seat. There is plenty to go around,” said Christopher.

“Boy, ain’t no king or no lady comin’ out cha to eat wit you. Jes’ me.”

As Patches grabbed a potato from the fire, bright blue flames licked at his knuckles. “Oww, dat deh is hot!”

Chris let out a giggle. Served Patches right for insulting his guests and his wits. The two sat in silence, eating until their stomachs were so full they could barely move.

“Sho’ is gettin’ cold. You gonna need sumpin’ betta den dat to keep ya outta da’ cold,” said Patches. “I gotta sista who don’t live too far from ya. She ain’t got no chillun’ or no husband. I can see if she would take ya in. She ain’t got no use fo da likes of me, but you – deh’s hope for you.”

Christopher welcomed the idea of having a place to lay his head at night. His homemade shelter was located a few yards away from a hobo camp. Every day new men would show up, most, like Patches, were harmless; however, the others were men recently released from chain gangs. These men knew nothing but hard living and violence. Two nights ago, a late night brawl over a newspaper resulted in a man being stabbed to death.

If it wasn’t for Patches, Chris would have no one to protect or look after him. Patches was considered the mayor of the shanty town. Although he had no formal education, life had been his teacher and he had learned his lessons well.

Chris had overheard stories about Patches’ past life, about how he had once been a train conductor and that after his wife had died he began drinking heavily. Patches soon lost his job and everything he had owned, forcing him to live among the other vagrants and vagabonds of the Shanty Town. His stature and intelligence-he was almost seven feet tall and had completed the 9th grade-allowed him to be elected mayor. His appearance intimidated many and only a few actually had the nerve enough, after a few beers, to test him. These small contests of might all ended in Patches’ favor.

The following afternoon, Patches found Christopher rummaging through the grocer’s dump searching for food.

“I spoke to my sista’, she say ya can come. But ya bet be on ya best behavya, or she gon’ put you out. Ya here me boy,” said Patches.

“Yes sir. Thank you, Patches,” said Chris almost bowling Patches over as he hugged him. “I will be so good; she won’t have to worry about me.”

“We got ta go git your stuff from the woods. She gonna be waitin’ fer ya at fo’ o’clock, on the corner of fif’ and Main Street.”

It was 3:30 p.m., and the walk to the woods took about 10 minutes. They hurried to Chris’ cardboard shack to gather his belongings. Five minutes later they were headed to meet Patches’ sister.

His sister arrived at four o’clock on the dot. She slowly pulled up to the curb in the fawn grey Ford Model T. Chris had never ridden in a truck, or a car for that matter. His parents were poor and could barely afford food much less a luxury such as a car.

Chris hopped in the truck as Patches threw Chris’ belongings on the truck’s bed. “Thanks again Connie, I sho’ do ‘preciate ya fo’ doing dis,” said Patches.

“This child needs a home, and I couldn’t live with myself knowing he needs help,” said Connie. Connie and Patches looked nothing alike. She had light brown eyes that sparkled as the late afternoon sun hit them. Under her hat were dark brown locks that caressed her shoulders. She appeared to be considerably shorter than Patches at least from what Chris could tell.

“Patches, you take care of yourself,” added Connie as she pulled away from the curb. Patches stood on the corner and waved at Chris as they drove off.

“So child, what’s your name?” asked Connie. “Where is your family? How old are you? Where were you born?” The barrage of questions flowed from her lips like bullets from a Tommy gun.

“Chris, ma’am. My ma’s in a mental hospital, my pa left us when I was just a baby. I’m 12 and I was born at home in Hankersonville,” he replied.

“Hankersonville? That’s about two hours away. Did you walk all the way from there to Mandalin?” she asked with a southern twang.

“No ma’am. I rode the rails here. Mandalin seemed like a nice place. I saw the statute of Horace Mandalin in the town’s center and decided that if a man like him felt this was a good place then maybe I should make this my home too,” said Chris.

Horace Mandalin founded the town in the early 1800s. He was a former slave who had bought his freedom from an old Georgia plantation owner. Horace had worked hard and earned $500 which he used to purchase 100 acres of land in a remote area. He bought the land for $300, a very cheap price because the land was desolate and no one ever thought anything would grow on the land. But here it was the early 1900s and the land was flourishing with farms.

My sister will not eat seafood. She is a brown-haired, brown-eyed girl, all inherited from my mother, and she is picky, an inheritance from no one. Or perhaps a suspicious ancestor—maybe the caveman who ate the poisoned mushroom?

We (the boys) are wide, sandy, blue-eyed beasts. We'll eat anything, be it a bagel or small dog. It's that cavalier attitude Mom rewarded with meals that stretched the definition of food. She was not the best cook, and sometimes pizza would be recast as "lumps," or toast as "carcinogens with a side of yeast." Nor was she the most honest about ingredients. She wanted us to eat, after all.

So, Sis found herself in a constant state of seafood consumption. She'd eat tacos and realize afterward: "These were fish tacos!" She'd eat red beans and rice to discover soggy shrimp.

My poor sister. She's had more sushi than a sushi chef.

We're a society divided, not a nation united.

We sit in front of our computer screens, our tablet screens, our smart phone screens, our TV screens - literally living our lives through a screen.

We see the number of friends on our social media, the number of followers or the number of likes & believe that somehow, this makes us worth something.

But how many of these people do we physically interact with?

How many do we actually know?

If you fell on hard times, how many of those people would step up & support you, be there for you as a friend would do?

Be honest now.

Think long & hard.

I'm sure you can count them on one hand, or maybe you realise you can't count any at all.

People have become a commodity.

Friendship is nothing but a competition, a game, something taken for granted, a novelty we think no longer requires effort.

We have all these ways to communicate yet we never truely converse.

We think that we can just message anyone at any time we want & sure, we can.

But we don't.

Soon will come the day when you can't, when a certain someone who meant so much isn't there anymore.

& you will see it on a Facebook post; a sad and solemn announcement.

Just like that, a person's life is reduced to a status.

How much regret will you carry then?

How much guilt?

& before you know it, it will be your turn.

How will you be remembered?

As nothing more than a series of tweets or posts?

Nothing more than lifeless letters on a lifeless, lonely screen?

How many precious moments have you missed because your eyes were glued to that screen?

How many moments have you actually seen with your own eyes instead of through the eyes of a screen?

How much time have you wasted?

How many times have you wondered how someone was & checked their profile to find out instead of calling them or paying a visit?

Sometimes i wonder, are these sites that claim to unite us actually meant to divide us, separate us, segregate us, categorise us, isolate us & weaken us?

Ask yourself, do you still feel lonely despite your 500 Facebook friends, your 20,000 Instagram or Twitter followers?

Does anyone even know you anymore?

Does anyone know the authentic version of you, or do they only see the image you portray, the image you want them to see; the image you hide behind - like you hide behind your screen.

A screen where we can watch the news flash by & trick ourselves into thinking we're well informed.

But are we really?

The media shows us what we want to see.

You can't control people with the truth & heaven forbid they're allowed to think!

Real facts are boring after all & boring doesn't get the ratings.

& we believe all we hear because, its easier to believe what we're told rather than do our own research or seek out the truth.

Even though we have the resources to do this very thing.

But we're lazy.

Media.

Another way to divide us, separate us, segregate us, categorise us, isolate us & weaken us.

The weaker we are, the more susceptible we become.

The more susceptible we are, the easier it is to hypnotise us, fill us with fear to the point where we are suspicious of everyone & accepting of no one.

If we are separated, how can we fight?

How can we stand up for ourselves?

How can we possibly win?

We live in a delusion of freedom yet still we cannot see it.

Still we fall for the same old lies & the same old tricks.

Technology.

The whole world in our hands at just one click & what have we become?

Slaves.

Screened.

Mindless shells.

A society divided, not a nation united.

So turn off your device.

Shut it down & unplug.

It's when the screen goes dark that you will finally see the light.

COPYRIGHT: CJ

                                                                                             Friday-June 3rd- 6p.m.

Dear Journal,

Here we are, as suggested by my therapist. Can’t a girl have a bloody meltdown in the public library any time she pleases? Well, not really a meltdown. No, just a moment of frustration actually. Frankly, there was some screaming aloud to myself and the occasional deep sigh, and some sobbing so I suppose I understand how strangers might see it that way. I suppose that is understandable when I write it and re-read it. Anyhow, it has led me here in the bathtub with a beer in one hand, and you in the other. I have been advised to write down my events of the days, and my feelings about those as regularly and honestly as possible.

I’m already bored.

If I’m honest, (which I always am) it seems I am always one step away from utter destruction or exquisite happiness. It is like a see-saw of some sort. As of late, the prior has become a more likely turn of events. Yep. Life is pretty much rubbish right now. Bills piled higher than my dirty dishes, and loneliness that not even a room full of cuddly puppies could fix.

Well, you haven’t tried that one yet, now have you Helen?

*Note to self: Create an online post entitled “Lonely 20-something Seeking Puppy Cuddles Following Dreadful Heartbreak.” That could very well do the trick. At any rate, I’m sure to have some sort of a social life following a post like that. *More on that later!*

Back to what I was saying, life is absolute rubbish lately. Even my grocery store trips have turned completely miserable since a peculiar, grey headed woman cashier arrived last month- covered in diamonds. That’s right. Covered in diamonds, and working at the Midtown Market. Who needs a cashier job when you’re that old and rich? The downside to this you might be wondering? I’ll tell you. It has become quite apparent to me that once you reach a certain age in life, you begin to lose track of time, and you typically do not care to try to find it. Translation: A simple juice run becomes a full on conversation about the good old days and how lucky I am to still be young. Gag me. Rich, old people kill me with their “Oh to be pretty and young again” lines at precisely the wrong moments. It never fails. As soon as I am having as decent of a day as possible, I run into some well-meaning and overly eager individual. Today that individual was Martha. Our encounter went something a little like this.

“My what a beautiful dress you have on today, Helen! What I wouldn’t give to be so young and pretty again, like you dear! Back in my day, a dress like that would have cost a pretty penny. You would have had a special date with a special fella in a dress like that. I remember once I was courting a young man- son of the Mayor, ummm…let’s see, what was his name…? Oh I remember now. It was Benjamin Corbin! Oh what a handsome and bright young man he was! All the gals were just wild about him! “

“Look, Martha there is nothing I’d rather do than listen to you go on and on for hours about how wonderful your youthful years were and how many rich boyfriends you had in places I will likely never have enough money to visit, but….”

Oops. Did I say that aloud? Nope, she’s still smiling creepily at me. Phew, close call Helen.

“Martha dear, I’m unfortunately running very late for a very important meeting.”

With my DVR and Ben and Jerry.

“Could we maybe pick this back up the next time that I run in for more cranberry juice?”

“Sure dear, sure. You come back real soon to see me and I’ll tell you all about my fling with Mr. Corbin.” She winked knowingly, and gave me a sly smile, while handing me my bag.

“Splendid!” I grabbed the bag, and made a dash for it before she tried to force that wrinkly receipt into my now sweaty palms.

*Note to self: Don’t ever get a flippin’ UTI again and cranberry juice runs won’t be necessary.

Oh to be young and pretty again. Good one, Martha.

[Knock, knock]

So much for a therapeutic bath. Wonder who it is? Angry apartment manager Jim asking me to sign over my first born son as a form of payment before he is even conceived, or my gaudy grandmum inviting me to the monthly Potluck breakfast that somehow always manages to carry on through lunch and dinner? Fingers crossed that it is Jim. Signing off for now.

Honestly, Helen.

                                                                                         Sunday- July 5th- 10 a.m.

Dear Journal,

Potluck was delicious. A bit on the elderly side, but probably the most scrumptious arrangement of food ever spread before my hunger-filled eyes. Rather glad that it wasn’t Jim now. Although, I wouldn’t mind a visit from Bart right about now. Bart is a middle aged creep who smells of whiskey, and has a bad habit of wearing his shirts 1-2 sizes too small. Primarily though, he is the stubby guy that was hired to pretend to give a crap when something breaks or stops working in my apartment. We have come to be very friendly, Bart and I. Could it be because after my most recent breakup with who I deemed the “love of my life”, I am now so dreadfully lonely and pathetic that I am intentionally ruining every major appliance in my living space just for the sake of having some semi-regular company? That seems to be the opinion of Jim who makes a point of reminding me just how many times Bart has been to my apartment alone in the past year every time we chat. The loathsome truth however, is that I live in an actual, absolute dump. One week the A.C is out, and just as I begin to accept my fate as dying from heat stroke, in rushes (read as: wobbles) Bart!

Ahh, my drunken hero! The next week when I realize I am fresh out of underwear and should really get started on my massive pile of dirty laundry, the washer locks up on me, and the dryer smokes. This particular incident has honestly happened entirely too many times than it should. Today, those two things were working just fine. My refrigerator on the other hand, was not. Had it not been for those delicious boiled eggs I kept from the potluck, I might have not noticed until it was too late to save anything. But, thanks to those eggs, I was alerted by the pungent aroma at around 7 a.m. this morning. Lovely. It is now 10 a.m. and still no sign of Bart to the rescue. My stomach is angry with me and I can’t help but wonder if those eggs are still edible, or should be tossed? More importantly, how many people on my floor were woken up to the same smell? Better get that taken care of. More later.

Honestly, Helen.

Chapter One

Hot, sticky air pressed against my skin, creating a feeling of nostalgia for days in May, when the air was on the borderline of hot and cool. Long, chestnut hair was tied back in braids, and dangled down my back. The cool dirt was refreshing against my bare feet and the blades of grass tickled my ankles. I would much rather be inside with a glass of lemonade and a mystery novel in front of me, transporting me into a world of adventure, than out in the impenetrable heat. I looked wistfully behind me, where a forest of towering trees stood like soldiers. The shade would chase away the heat, but I knew I must not step a single toe inside. Stories about the forest by Spruce Lane always seemed to lurk at the back of my mind like a shadow, and I wouldn’t have been so close if it wasn’t for my brother.

“Harriet!” My brother, Will, yanked me from my daydreams and dunked me headfirst into reality. “Kick the ball already!”

I grumbled under my breath, but kicked the soccer ball across the field. Will was two years my elder and saw it fit that those two years should give him superiority over me. He was on the soccer team, starting this season, and decided to drag me outside to practice at the hottest time of day in July.

“Can’t we practice somewhere else?” I asked quietly, petrified by a rustle I heard behind me. When I saw Will staring at me in confusion, I repeated my question louder. He only scoffed and sent the ball up the field and over my head - right to the edge of the forest.

“Go get it!” He called.

“You kicked it!” was my only response.

“You’re closer!” When I stayed in place, Will called again. “What? Are you scared?”

At that, I had no choice but to inch closer to the forest. I couldn’t tell Will that I was, in fact, scared of the forest.

As I got closer, I froze, a strong breeze at my back, propelling me forward. I wouldn’t have thought it strange, but instead welcomed it with open arms, except the leaves on the trees stayed still. The wind whipped around me, forming a strange sort of cyclone. The distinct smell of the aftermath of a thunderstorm reached my nose - a mix of soggy leaves and rain accompanied by a feeling of uneasiness. I knew right away that something unusual was going on. I didn’t know how right I was.

“Did you feel that?” I asked Will, referring to the strange wind. He looked at me in a way that hinted that he thought I was crazy.

Finally, I reached where the ball was submerged halfway into some shrubs. I bent down to get it, then, as I rose, came face-to-face with a pair of glowing red eyes. The pupils were like a black hole, and they had a manic, malicious glint to them. Just a single glance sent a shiver down my spine, like someone dumped a bucket of ice-cold water down my shirt (which has happened many times thanks to Will). I dropped the ball in surprise and spun around.

“What was that?” I screamed, sounding more like a kindergartener afraid of thunder than a twelve-year-old, fresh off her first year of middle school.

“You’re imagining things.” Will rolled his eyes in annoyance. “Now get the ball already!”

With my eyes closed, I reached down to get the ball. I groped around the shrubbery for a minute before opening them-only to find that the ball was gone.

And so were the eyes.

Chapter Two

At dinner, I picked at my food quietly, not making eye contact with anyone at the table. Will, as always, sat across from me. He didn’t speak, but wolfed down his food like an animal. He quickly excused himself and left, leaving his plate on the table. My parents didn’t stop him.

“Harriet?” Mom asked me. Her light brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she was wearing jeans and a navy shirt. Her blue eyes were the same striking shade as Will’s. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah. I’m just a bit tired.” I lied smoothly. Mom believed it and started up a conversation with Dad about Will’s soccer. For a second, a voice seemed to remind me that Will always seemed to be a priority to Mom. I almost wished she would not believe me when I lie, instead of just brushing off whatever suspicions she had. I almost wished I was the older sibling. I quickly shook the thoughts from my head, but they were replaced with those of the eyes.

Dad gave me a look, and I knew that he, unlike Mom, knew I was lying. He had my brown hair, my chocolate eyes, and hosted a special ability to be able to read me. He could tell when I lie, and he knew I knew he could tell. I think that he thought that it was a small thing I was lying about, one that would warrant the look instead of further investigation.

Suddenly I wanted to be alone. I ate a few hasty bites before getting up from the table.

“Harriet!” Mom called. “Put your plate in the sink!”

I turned towards the table abruptly before picking up my plate and making a big show of putting it into the sink. Again, I started towards the kitchen door before my mother stopped me.

“Harriet!”

“What?” I could barely keep the aggravation out of my voice.

“Can you put your brother’s plate in the sink, too?”

That night, the weight that came with seeing the eyes loomed over me like a storm cloud about to bring a torrent of thunder. I couldn’t close my eyes without seeing them. Ever since I saw the eyes, I felt the intense stare of someone who was up to no good. I have been unable to concentrate, looking over my shoulder constantly out of paranoia. I groaned as I flopped onto my bed and buried my head in my pillow.

I was walking through the forest, alone. I could hear the wind whistling through the trees, creating an odd hum that made my ears tingle. Trees towered above me, making me feel lost in the big canopy. I kept walking, deeper and deeper into the forest, until the trees were so thick and hosted so many leaves it blocked out all light, only letting down small shafts of filtered sun.

Something felt … off about the forest. Evil. Although I wasn’t quite sure why it felt evil, or how something could even be described that way, I was certain that evil was the best way to describe the shiver in my bones that only intensified.

For a second, the strange wind came again. I felt it whip around me; I smelled the scent of a thunderstorm. A shadow was cast over me. For a moment, I felt like a horrible doom awaited me, reminding me of when I saw the red eyes. I whipped around, fear clenching my heart, to find -

My eyelids snapped open, my heart pounding and my hands sweaty. I tried to reassure myself that it was a dream, but it seemed so lifelike, so real. I thought back to the eyes. So? I asked myself, You have a strange day, then a nightmare. You're just off today. It's just a coincidence . . . Right?

I stepped out of bed, checked on my family, and peered into every nook in the house, just as I did when I was little. In the hall, my bare feet made soft padding sounds that seemed to echo through the house and make my home feel eerily empty. First, I went downstairs, flashlight in hand. I shined the light into every room and glanced around. I climbed back up the stairs and looked into my parent's room. They were sleeping peacefully, undisturbed by my nighttime prowl.

Lastly, I came to Will's room. My heart rate had slowed down by now, and I was calm. I inhaled and exhaled deeply, relaxing.

Soon I wouldn't have that luxury.

I stood in Will's doorway. His dresser had open drawers, clothes spilling out, as always. His bookshelf was littered with ear buds and a few odd knick-knacks, as always. His bookshelf featured similar items, suffocating the few, unfinished books. His windows were open, unlike usual, wind blowing his curtains away, giving an outside view . My heart started to pound in a strange way, and I turned to face the bed, slowly, as if I expected something to be wrong. It was . . . empty.

Panic consumed me. I screamed loudly, not yelling any words. Later, I was certain that I sounded like a wounded animal more that a human. The noise brought my parents in, a mess of bedhead, pajamas, and slippers falling off their feet in the rush. My mother’s scream was that of a banshee, and shook me as much as Will’s empty bed. She and my father ran around the house for several minutes, dashing downstairs to look for Will’s shoes, upstairs to look for his phone, and downstairs again to look for his wallet. All were in their places. Their fears were storm clouds, growing darker as they darted across the house. Eventually, all storms conquer the baby blue skies. In my mind, it was already raining and thundering without lightning. The police were called, but I stayed at the doorway frozen in shock. Eventually, the police investigated the empty room that belonged to my gone brother and I was lead to bed. I didn't hear the scared, half-hearted reassurances my parents whispered to me. The words were that of liars, people who wanted to help someone when they didn't know if life would ever be all right again. I climbed into bed, but stayed awake, mulling over what I had seen out the window in Will’s bedroom.

The glowing red eyes.

Chapter 5

The first time I saw the eyes I was terrified.

The second time I saw the eyes I was paralyzed.

The third time I saw the eyes I was calm.

I stood, Will’s soccer ball still in my hand, staring at the red orbs that appeared to be hovering in midair. The eyes stared back.

A beat.

Then they were gone.

I don’t know why I did it. It wasn’t logical. It wasn’t smart. But I entered the forest.

The Forest by Spruce Lane was always the town’s ghost story. It was almost a tradition of sorts: every September, fifth graders would wrangle groups of first and second graders to tell them the stories. Some of the children already knew a story, warned by over-cautious parents as to keep their children from exploring alone, or scared by older (and mean) siblings. It was almost sweet in some strange, twisted way, the way the stories seemed to unite the school. In elementary school, kids of all ages would huddle together, listening to some new version of the story. In middle and high school, the stories were almost a joke, now that people were too old to believe them.

Will - Will - told me about the forest when I was about five years old. He came into my room one night and he told me. I slept in my parents bed for weeks afterwards, an overactive imagination not playing in my favor.

The stories seemed to change every time I heard them, a little bit being added each time to make the story scarier.

At first, the tale was that everyone who entered the forest would be found weeks, months, or years later hidden in the basement of the school, killed by a ghost (It didn’t help that our school loved Halloween decorations.).

Then, it was told that there were actually two ghosts, sisters who had been kidnapped and murdered in the forest by an evil creature - a witch, a wolf, or something no one had seen.

In third grade, Connor, one of my classmates, swore that he had met one of the ghosts in the forest. She wore a white, old-fashioned dress, an ax through her head. She swooped at him, but Connor ran out of the forest before she could kill him. After all, everyone knows that ghosts can’t leave the place they die. No one believed him. (I convinced myself that I found the idea preposterous as well, despite the part of me that clenched with icy fear.)

In fourth grade, I was playing with my friends, and we decided to have a contest to see who could get the farthest into the forest. Emily made it several paces in before dashing back. Maddie touched the bark of a tree. I made it to the treeline before I was petrified by fear.

Everyone believed that you shouldn’t go into the forest, even adults.

But here I was.

Title: The Forest

Genre: Fantasy

Age range: 12-18

Word count: 2158

Author name: Samantha Eill

Why your project is a good fit: It is an original take on a genre of book that already has been shown to be successful.

The hook: The hook to this story is that it introduces more mature themes than those which are most common in this genre, which most commonly focus on friendship and the triumph of good over evil. This makes it more appealing to teenage audiences that have outgrown other fantasy books.

Synopsis: Twelve-year-old Harriet Palmer loves mystery novels, but she never expected her life to turn into one. Stories about the forest by Elm Street have always lurked in the back of her mind, and Harriet starts to believe them when she happens upon red glowing eyes peering out from the forest. When Harriet's older brother, Will, disappears, Harriet stumbles into a new reality and finds herself in a world she never thought possible.

Target audience: Children and young adults who enjoy books such as Harry Potter and Percy Jackson, but are interested in a more intricate plotline and theme.

Your bio: Writing has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. The Harry Potter series served as an immense inspiration as I realized that I wanted to touch a child as much as J.K. Rowling has touched me. I attend the Baldwin School in the suburbs of Philadelphia and live with my parents, older brother, and dog. My friends and family are a never ending source of ideas, inspiration, and feedback.

Platform: None currently.

Education: I will be entering ninth grade this September.

Experience: I have been writing short stories, poems, and novellas since I was very young. I have had three poems selected for publication by the American Library of poetry and have completed three summer writing courses - two from West Chester University, and one through John’s Hopkins Center for Talented Youth.

Personality/writing style: My writing style is mysterious and magical, but with political undertones that reflect the real world around us.

Likes/hobbies: I love to write and read, and enjoy listening to music, rowing, playing with my dog, and running.

Hometown: Malvern, PA

"Hello." 

That was his first word, the one word that took her away from me. I couldn't bear to see the piercing eyes, lit up like embers, underneath the stainless, pristine white mask that hid his face. As quickly as he appeared, she left me for him. I thought she loved me. Of course, lies always came from her...

She has a twin. And that twin loves to hang around me and my step-brother. It sickens me to see her...the twin reminds me so much of my lover. 

But my lover prefers men with both eyes, I suppose. 

Just recently, I saw them hugging, near kissing. I couldn't bear seeing it. So I left the room. My mind constantly reverts to that scene. Whenever my eye closes, it is like someone stamped the image on the inside of my eyelid. It wasn't me. Unless she really doesn't like my eyepatch, or my jet, or me in general. We were so close. It took nearly forever to gain that..."close-ness". Then, in one swift move, it was all stolen from me. 

I never see her smile the same way. She never looks at me the same way. Each time I'm around her, my gut wrenches into several, tightly tied knots. 

I never thought that the blissful moments we shared would end so quickly.