Mental Illness
Stained voices inflict upon many choices.
Silent thoughts creep around the curves
Clinging onto the smallest of nerves
What was thought to be deserved
Gleaming bubbles tried to be preserved.
Cluelessly wondering of the gain
Brought on by the pain
Curing attempts in vain
Ends up driving me insane.
Sad for the things that made me mad
Glad for the good I had
Grateful for a mom and dad
Growing and learning from the bad.
Lost in the casual sway of drowning thoughts
Fishing through the mind of frost
There is a line that has been crossed
And everything comes with a cost.
Calculating is constantly frustrating
Suffocating is NOT captivating
Hating the lies they are stating
Rating truthfulness is irritating
Waiting is extremely debilitating.
WHEN WILL PEOPLE COME TO TERMS
WITH THE FADED REALITY OF DAMAGED MENTALITY?
Chapter 1: A War Zone
I was born to a wandering woman, she had left my father a few months before I was born. At least that's what the old woman has always told me. It's not that hard for a four-year-old to comprehend, I was abandoned. Most people think being young means you're clueless. What they don't realize is that we're always listening, always watching. To them, we might be mere innocent children but I'm much more than they will ever know.
My footsteps are steady as I walk over the rubble that litters the street that leads to our shack. Off in the distance, I can hear the gunshots echoing into the sky like a song of death. I recognize the sound instantly as an M16 rifle. It's firing is loud and unsettling to most. But loud noises have never made me jump.
"Hey boy, you looking to make some cash." A man says from across the street, he wears a black bandana over his nose and mouth. He's part of the Black Star gang, they've been terrorizing this town for as long as I can remember. I stare at him blankly like I have no clue what he's referring to. I've realized that remaining clueless is always the best option here. "Or maybe you want some food?"
"I have to get home," I mumble making sure to keep my voice steady, when they hear weakness they exploit it.
"You see maybe I should've reworded it." His words sound hollow almost lifeless. I tilt my head to the side to get a better look at him. Splotches of dirt dot his pants and shoes, his hair is blanketed by dust, and his eyes look just as pale as his skin. He mirrors a corpse almost exactly. I watch as he draws the gun that rests at his hip and points it at me. An old pistol, one that hasn't been very well taken care of. "You're going to do what I say, ok?"
I take off running through the street. Bang! Bang! His shots ring off at me as I jump over rubble and twisted cylinders of metal. I could tell from the way he held his gun he'd have terrible aim. I got lucky, something that I rarely get. He curses aloud as I disappear into an alleyway. He must not be from around this area, which is great for me. I have the advantage. I can't help but let a smirk slide onto my face. If you don't know these crumbled streets then there's no point in trying to chase someone in them, you'll just end up tripping over the debris.
My house is in the center of all the chaos if you can even call it a house. It's more of a shack: two sheets of metal for a roof, four corroded walls made of wood, and a large hole that we've been using as a door. I slip through it easily. The noise of someone clearing their throat fills the dry air as I stand.
"Where have you been?" The old woman asks as I look up to her.
"I was on a walk," I say as I walk to the other side of the room to grab a bowl of rice.
"It's dangerous out there." She says, sounding anxious. "You could die."
"I know," I say letting the smirk fade away from me. "I don't care though."
"That's no way to talk, Holden." She replies as she places her hands on her hips like she's my mother. I roll my eyes at the name Holden. This woman insists on calling me that because she lost her son with that name. To her, I am simply a replacement. Just as I mean nothing to her, she means nothing to me.
"Whatever," I mutter as I find a spot in the dirt to sit.
"For a four-year-old, you sure talk too much." Her words echo in my head. Silence can be a strength but at the same time a weakness.
"Well for an old lady you sure scold too much." I shoot back at her. She tilts her head back and laughs. As the cheerful noise rings through the air I can't help but smile.
"You're going to that school tomorrow." She says her voice suddenly turning serious. We have been over this a bazillion times. She always tells me I'm going to school and I'm always telling her that schools pointless. "There are a few other kids your age, maybe you could make some friends."
"What do I need them for?" I ask as a snort escapes me. Friends, I hate that word.
"For support and guidance. Also to have fun." She says as she brushes some locks of black hair out of my face. Her pale blue eyes match mine almost exactly, to most we probably do look related.
"Fun isn't something I need." I spit back at her. Her face softens and I can see it written all over her, it's pity. I hate pity. "I'm going to bed."
"Ok then." She says gently.
As I close my eyes the sounds of gunshots seem to ring in my head even louder than before. I keep hoping they'll stop so I can rest in peace but I know that's a stupid wish and here stupidity gets you nowhere.
"White birds fly, can you hear them bidding goodbye." The woman sings sweetly as I hear her plop down next to me. "For when the sun rises the air will be new with surprises."
Her voice trails off as her breathing slows down. I wait for her breathes to even out before shifting to my side to face the wall. The air is colder tonight and somehow lonelier. My gaze shifts to the hole I had just slid through moments ago. I watch as rats scurry along the dirt in search of any leftover food that I might've spilled. They won't find any though, I've always been careful about spilling food. We don't get much around here so there's no room to be wasteful. Although sometimes I'll intentionally spill it outside of the house just so they stay out. I don't like hearing their screeching little voices all through the night. They remind me of spirits of the dead screaming for help.
It's annoying.
Title: Distant
Genre: Young adult fiction, Adventure, Action, Drama
Age range: 12-18
Word count: 1,069 (in excerpt)
Author name: Reagan Hancock
Why my project is a good fit: My project is a good fit because it's a captivating read for young adults. It expresses feelings and problems that many of us have or encounter, including personal struggles and struggles with relationships. Also, it's easy to work with because of how it's so flexible and open to change. I recognize that I have plenty of room to grow and with feedback, my book would be a great hit.
The hook: "Most people think being young means you're clueless. What they don't realize is that we're always listening, always watching. To them, we might be mere innocent children but I'm much more than they will ever know."
Synopsis: He is a boy unnamed, abandoned, and broken. From a very young age, he's always been smart, cunning, and strong. Being born to a war zone has only contributed to who he is now. When the only person that's ever cared for him is killed he's forced to move in with a new friend. But once things take a dark turn they're both brought to a "school" run by the notorious terrorist, Dexter Heath. There he is trained to be an assassin and to his advantage, he seems to have a talent for it. This book follows him along with his missions as he progresses through his life trying to figure out who he is and how he's going to break free.
Target Audience: Young Adults, 12-18
Bio: I'm an ongoing student who's in love with writing. Whenever I have free time writing is how I spend it, being able to create my own world to escape to is a blessing. One day I hope to be able to be a professional writer as well as a New York Times Best Seller. So far I've gotten Editors Choice for one of my articles on Teen Ink, but I don't plan on stopping there. Currently, I live in California and enjoy swimming as well as bike rides.
Platform: I don't currently have one
Education: High School Student
Experience: I write on TeenInk and Inkitt fairly regularly. I also got Editor's Choice for an article on TeenInk and I got 3rd place in divisions 7-9 for the Saroyan Writing Contest.
Personality/Writing Style: I'm a very motivated person that always does something once I set my mind to it. Although I do enjoy going after things I'm more of an introvert and prefer to spend a lot of my time alone. I like to express feelings and thoughts through many different words so that it can reach the reader. So I would say my writing style is articulate and declamatory.
Likes/Hobbies: Soccer, Painting, Writing, Running, and Wakeboarding
Hometown: Bakersfield, CA
Age: 14
Sentenced...
I trudged towards what would be my fate. Sentenced for mocking the gods, I had flung a red Solo cup full of wine across the chest of a statue of Dionysus on a night of revelry. Some lightweight, sensitive weasel had seen me and reported me to a member of the Boule. My defense was drunkenness. The verdict was to face Dionysus himself, known to be a grumpy fellow, and to make him laugh. It was said that he never laughed…
I entered the temple, escorted by two hoplites in full battle dress. There was a high chair and smoke curled about making it difficult to see. The great god of wine, fertility and madness sat still on his throne. Four naked youths were standing nearby holding grapes, platters of cheeses and nuts and a richly adorned kylix of wine. The bearded god’s face did not move, he simply stared seemingly through me.
One of the youths, in a slight voice asked, “What brings him here?”
One of the hoplites said with a bellow, “This man has defaced the image of the great Dionysus, and has been sentenced to face him himself.”
Dionysus didn’t move.
The youth said, “What is his task?”
“To make him laugh,” the hoplite replied.
The youths began to giggle. I was in trouble.
The hoplites stepped back.
I stood alone in front of Dionysus.
I couldn’t help it.
I farted.
The youths froze with looks of horror on their faces.
Dionysus’s mouth began to twitch and he smiled and began to howl and guffaw with abandon. His head leaned back and he clutched his ample belly, jiggling about as he laughed uncontrollably.
The youths laughed nervously at first and then joined in with fits of hysteria.
Dionysus grabbed the kylix and tried to chug some wine but he laughed again, spewing it all about.
He looked at the hoplites and waved them to take me away.
I left the temple hearing the roaring laughter behind me.
Free to go, wine splattered across my tunic.