It's been almost a year since I lost you - almost a year since I held you in my arms and watched you take your last breath. One year since those beautiful brown eyes held light and love. One year since your fragile form became limp.

A year since I buried you.

And though this year seems to have gone by in the blink of an eye, it also feels like it's been a lifetime. A lifetime without you. A lifetime of me calling out your name, looking for your face on holidays and road trips. A year of looking back and imagining how everything would be different, better, if only you still stood by my side.

It's impossible to describe the ache I feel each time I think of you. Which is all the time. It's impossible to picture myself as anything other than this heartbroken mess. It's impossible to imagine how I've made it this far without you, and how I'm going to make it further. Two years, three, a decade.

I'll never forget the day you arrived. You were a ball of energy that lit a fire in my heart. And for those two months, those two amazing, short months, you weren't just my best friend, you were my family.

I'll never stop regretting.

I'll never look back and wonder if I could have saved you. If one thing of a thousand had been done differently, would you still be here? Just one moment. One decision.

You were supposed to be okay. I was promised you would be okay. I learned the hard way to never make a promise you couldn't keep, because an unkept promise cost your life.

If I'd known - if I'd known I was spending my last few hours with you, I would have stayed up all night. I would have gotten up when I heard you moving around the room. Would have taken more time to notice how you were struggling. Would have rushed you to help sooner. But now you're gone. Now I'll never get those hours back.

I would give the world to spend even one more minute with you. I'd give anything to see that goofy face one last time.

You went home, Bubba, but I wasn't ready. I wasn't ready for you to leave me. You were my home.

I've never felt more alone than I did that day - than I do now. Now that it's nearly been one year. Six more days.

If I'd known I would only have you for six more days, I would have done things different. I would have spent more time with you, loved you more, cared deeper, made those last moments the best we could have.

But the past can't be changed and the pain won't go away.

So I'll sit here, alone and in tears. One year later.

Each morning, I sigh as I rise from my bed. My body aches, soreness from my futile attempt at exercise. But that's not the only thing that aches. My heart, much more so than my body, sends waves of pain coursing through me. Each morning, the first thing I want to do when I awake, is cry.

Should I? Do I let the salty tears streak down my cheeks? Go to work with a red face and tired eyes? Do I let my friends know the pain I feel inside? Or do I, once again, keep to myself. Let nobody in. Let nobody see.

I choose the latter.

I don't have to practice my smile in the mirror anymore. I've had too much practice. I can even get the gleam in your eyes one only achieves from genuine happiness. It's foolproof.

As I go throughout the day, each little thing seems to rub off the mask one tiny piece at a time. I hear a sob and think of my own sorrow. A scream and I'm reminded of my scariest days. Even laughter seems to bring back a terrible memory. Memories of one so broken she has nothing to do besides pull herself up and carry on.

But then I find myself wearing down more and more and more. Until I have to rush to the bathroom. Hide. Calm myself. It'll all be okay. I am strong. I can do this..

I feel the tears well up in my eyes. I can't cry. Not here. Not now. So I take away the pain another way. My fist finds a wall, punching, punching, punching. Until I no longer want to cry.

I would rather be angry than cry.

But you'll never see that. You'll never see the broken hearted girl that stands before you.

And that's just the way I like it.

I couldn't stop thinking about it. Actually, I still can't stop thinking about it.

You see, my dog died seven weeks ago. 52 days ago, to be exact. I've been counting.

That was the worst day of my life.

My dogs are everything to me. They are my world. My life. I would do anything for them. And this little guy . . . well he was something special. He was a Chihuahua mix. With what, I don't know. But his legs were twice as long as any Chihuahua I'd seen and his snout was half as long. He had an underbite and sometimes his tongue would stick through it. I was never a Chihuahua person. Never wanted one. Never really cared for them. Until the day I brought him home.

It was January 27, 2018. He would be dog number two. And I only got him because my other one needed a friend. Somehow, my rowdy 40 pound dog chose to take him as her brother. She loved him immediately. Even cried when I hopped in the car without him, but I had to run to the store.

I, however, was not quite sold on him right away. He was a scrawny, mangy looking thing. And the dumbest dog I'd ever met. He never did learn much. But there was something endearing about it. The way his ears flopped over. And how he would prance instead of run. How, when he and his sister wrestled, he would jump on top of her and then make sounds like he was dying. And then at bed time when he would come curl up right next to my neck.

Before long, he too, was my world. It was just me and my dogs.

But then, something happened. The dumb dog started a fight with his sister. She tried to be gentle. Grabbed him by the scruff and threw him away from her. She actively tried not to hurt him.

There was no blood.

He seemed fine.

But then he started to swell. The vet said his trachea was torn. He said Patches would be okay. That it would heal on it's own in a few days.

But Patches continued to swell.

Bigger, bigger, bigger.

And the next morning, he died in my arms.

The moment I lost him is a moment I'll never forget. It was the day before Easter. I still have his basket.

I can't seem to get over the loss of him. I wonder, if I'd gotten him to the vet sooner that morning would he still be here? If I'd put an end to the fight even a second sooner, would I bubba be alive?

I'll never know.

I have stared up to heaven and begged his forgiveness. Apologized over and over for letting this happen. For not preventing it.

And then one night, as I lay in bed, sobbing uncontrollably. As I thought about everything I could have done to save my Patchy boy, I felt the familiar warmth of his body against the back of my neck. Instantly, my tears stopped. My dog was there with me, I knew it. And he didn't hate me. He didn't blame me for what had happened. In that moment, I knew my dog loved me. He didn't want me to tear myself apart over losing him.

I felt him there until I fell asleep.

I know, it sounds silly. He was a dog. He can't have possibly been there. He can't have possibly communicated with me that night. But I know what I felt. I felt my Patches. My buddy brought me peace when I needed it most.

@danceinsilence

Despair.

Regret.

Longing.

Guilt.

Those are just a few words that come to mind when I think about you.

I remember bringing you home. You were nervous, but excited. You always were nervous. It came from your past, whatever that was. But you tried to be brave, tried to be everybody's friend, even when they made you unsure. I remember how unsure you were of me at first, but you got over it quickly.

After all, you knew I was there for you. Just as you were there for me.

I will never forget the way you curled up on my lap. The joy that came from your funny face. How endearing your stupidity was. It made me laugh. You lit up my world with that light in your eyes.

I remember how determined you were. Though small in body, you were huge in heart. No matter what, I never saw you give up. Not once.

And I remember how frustrating you were. How you could make me so angry, but then, in the flash of a second, you could brighten my day again.

And I remember that day. That day I lost you. That day was the worst day of my life. I've had rough days, but nothing so bad as that.

I was holding you in my arms when you took your last breath. But at the time, I refused to believe it. It wasn't until I saw it for myself. Saw you, lying there on the table, that it dawned on me. I remember it every day. I will remember it for the rest of my life.

And now, I feel a pit in my stomach. I feel a hunger to find you. To reach up into heaven and to pull you back down.

It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair to lose you. To have you taken from me so suddenly, so unexpectedly. I find myself searching for air. You are my air. You are my world. And the oxygen was sucked away as my world burned around me.

You gave me light in the darkness, color when it was black and white. But now, everything is muted. What was bright has turned dull. I hear a buzzing in my ears. The buzz of silence.

The ache in my heart turns to knots in my back, pain in my legs that threaten to keep me in bed until noon. It turns my arms to jelly, prevents me from jumping in myh car and driving away. I feel sick. I feel nauseaus. I feel weak.

Each time I think of you, tears feel my eyes, though they don't always fall. Sometimes, I have shed so many tears, it seems I've run out.

I would tear the earth apart if it meant you could return to me. My fists would strip mountains down until they were nothing more than rolling hills. I would scream and cause the rain to cry. The ground would crack beneath my feet with a simple lulluby.

I feel so guilty. I feel responsible. You were in my care. I promised you when I brought you home that I would protect you. That I would keep you safe. I feel like such a failure. I broke my promise to you. It was a promise I should have been able to keep. I only hope you can forgive me because I doubt I can ever forgive myself.

My heart bleeds its hurt I feel. The guilt. I loved you more than words can tell.

I miss you.

I love you.

Goodbye.

If I'd known . . . I never would have let you out that day.

If I'd known . . . I would have kept you by my side.

If I'd known . . . I would have gotten to you faster.

If I'd known . . . I would have gone back for help sooner.

If I'd known . . . I wouldn't have had to let you go.

If I'd known.

If only I'd known.

Your life was short.

Your life with me was shorter.

Before fate came and swept you away.

Before the light that twinkled in your eye twinkled with the stars instead.

Before your name, spoken loud and soft, with excitement and with anger, became a name that would be said with a heavy heart.

Before I realized every little thing you did that made me angry, would soon be missed.

Before I would give anything for you to anger me just one more time.

I don't understand why you had to go.

Why someone so loving, so sweet, could be taken from me so quickly.

Sometimes I hear footsteps behind me and turn to see that you aren't there.

Or I hear the familiar jinkgle of your collar, but nobody to wear it.

I wish you were here, Patches.

I wish I could reach into heaven and pull you back down to earth.

I know what happened was an accident.

But why could it not be prevented?

Why could I not save you?

Why did you have to leave?

I wish you didn't have to leave.

I have learned the most important thing in life is to put yourself first.

Not in the sense that you can never put somebody else before you, but that for the most part, you need to think about how something will affect you. Can you stand back from yourself, from the pressure put on you and think about what the end result will be?

If you're asked to stand out in the cold, are you going to do it? Or are you able to refuse because you know you'll be sick within the hour?

Sometimes, we meet people. People who we think will be our everything, whether it be a significant other, or a friend, even a family member. We think we know them. We think they would never do anything to hurt us.

And perhaps, it's not intentional.

But intentional hurt is still hurt.

And sometimes, that person becomes everything to us anyway. We would kill for them. They are all we want, all we think we need.

But after a while, we can feel that something is off. It may be a subtle feeling, or perhaps, it's one we won't admit to feeling. Suddenly, we feel ourselves searching for something else, but at the same time, we are hoping that 'something' belongs to them.

However, as time goes on, it becomes more and more difficult to deny the obvious.

This person is toxic.

What a difficult thing to admit to oneself.

But when you're in a relationship where everything you do is wrong because the other person says so, even if there is no reason for them to think that. Where you do something one way, and then try it another, and another, and it can still never be right.

When somebody toys with your emotion, manipulates you.

And you tell yourself, you're leaving.

For good.

But later, you find yourself coming back again.

And again, you find yourself with that pit in your stomach. You find yourself replaying every memory with this person over and over, and none of them seem to be good.

And you keep yourself in this loop. You tell yourself that forgiveness is key. That they'll be different this time. That they can't hurt you again.

Afterall, you have been bulding a resistance. You think your walls are strong enough to withstand anything they may throw at you.

So when you go back to them again, you go in thinking you're bullet proof, and yet, they know where each and every crack is located. They have built ladders to climb over the wall and dug tunnels to reach beneath it.

And there you are again, hurting and exposed with each action and each word they toss your way. You realize, that instead of growing stronger, you've grown weaker. Your knees buckle and you feel as if you're going to cry. You want to hide, but you have nowhere to go.

But eventually, you have to make a choice.

The hardest choice you will ever make.

You have to choose yourself. This is your life. Nobody else can control it. And so you steel yourself. You get ready for the epic battle you are about to cause. As you decide, this time, when I walk away, I am not coming back. And this time, you mean it.

And suddenly, everything floods from your lips, every word you left unsaid. Every feeling you had tucked away. And you tell them that you're gone. They laugh, reminding you of each and every time you came running back, or every time you begged them to stay. Because, after all, they owned you. They controlled you.

You take a deep breath and you turn and you walk away.

And in that moment, you know you have to prioritize yourself. You spent so long trying to please somebody who didn't give a crap about you. But now, you are going to give a crap about yourself.

I sit alone, in the cold basement bedroom. As I try to write, instead, all I come up with are thoughts of the past. I play the song on repeat, and I wonder what I could have done differently. Or, if I even wanted to.

I've made mistakes. A lot of mistakes.

But that's all they were.

Mistakes.

I'm told that my passion is too much.

That my compassion is suffocating.

So I stepped back.

I stepped away.

And when my best friend decided she didn't like that,

I was the one to blame.

I should have asked if she was 'okay."

But, isn't that the same thing that made her angry in the first place? Ask if she's okay. If there's anything I can do to help,

And suddenly, she hated me.

That was difficult, at first. But then it got easier.

It became easier in the moment I decided to walk away.

The friendship was toxic. We hurt each other day after day. I spent half my days crying over somebody who wasn't worth the tears.

And it took far too long to realize that.

Yes, it was still hard, but I did it.

Until she decided she missed me. That she wanted me to be her best friend again.

I chose to forgive, but not to forget.

No longer is she my best friend in the world, but more of an aquaintance.

No longer will I be hurt.

She was once my favorite person,

But now she's somebody I can look back on and give a bittersweet smile to.

A smile to the times we had, and a smile to the choice I made.

I stand amidst a crowd,

Though the voices and echoing footsteps seem to have disappeared.

There is only one face I see.

Your face.

As my hands clench up,

Pressed into such a tight fist,

My knuckles go white,

And my nails dig deep into my skin.

But in this moment, I don't care.

My teeth grind against each other.

My breath seeps from my nostrils in hot waves.

I feel it in the pit of my stomach.

In the heat of my head.

The heavy whisps of breaths don't disappear.

The day wanes,

But the feeling remains.

Growing bigger with each passing minute.

Turning into a burning desire

To scream

To yell

Until my fist comes into contact with the plaster of a white painted wall.

And again.

Over and over.

Until not only is my hand seeped in red ooze,

But the battered wall is as well.

I stretch the cracked knuckles,

Trying to regain feeling in the hand.

And feeling in the heart.

The feeling that had grown numb with rage.

My heaving breaths finally slow,

Though I find a small part of myself is still enraged.

And if will be,

Unless I can find a way to let it go.

To forgive you.

Caleb tried the car door once again, shaking the handle several times as he shoved his weight against the metal. Nothing. Caleb was an idiot. An idiot who was in huge trouble.

“There’s no point, kid,” the driver said, adjusting his mirror so he could look at Caleb. “You’re not getting out.”

Choosing not to respond, Caleb pressed his head against the window. He didn’t bother to wipe away the tears.

Someone would come looking for him, right? They would notice he was missing soon and call the police - one of the workers at the group home. That was, of course, if anybody actually cared enough about him to report the disappearance.

His day had started out bad and ended up worse than he could imagine. Caleb closed his eyes, replaying everything that had happened to lead up to this moment.

------

Caleb stared hopelessly at the broken glass on the floor. He dropped the rag in his hand, his mouth hanging open. Those had been very expensive beakers.

Within seconds, his science teacher, Mr. Kelley, was next to Caleb. There was an odd growling sound coming from his throat, barely loud enough for Caleb to hear.

“I’m so sorry,” Caleb said.

“I hope you have the money to pay for this,” Mr. Kelley said.

By now, everyone in the class noticed the mess. Caleb felt very small beneath all the stares, smirks, and comments. “I don’t. I - the state, they can’t -”

“You are going to have to pay for this. I will be contacting your caretakers immediately.” Mr. Kelley swept off into his office, leaving Caleb to clean up the glass. The bell rang just as he finished. Caleb was more than grateful to get out of there. He couldn’t stop shaking throughout the rest of school. He was terrified of what Mr. Lindsay would say.

He could only hope that nothing else would happen before he got home. He should have learned not to get his hopes up. He kept his head down as he got on the bus. If nobody saw him, nobody could bother him.

“Trying to hide?” Caleb recognized that voice. He hated that voice. It belonged to Mason Bryce. He was a burly kid with spiky auburn hair and eyes so dark they were almost black. He pushed Caleb to the window, sliding into the now empty seat next to him. “I heard about you breaking the beakers in science. Mr. Lindsay is gonna be furious with you.”

Mr. Lindsay, while being the head caretaker at the group home, was not a very caring man, at least not to Caleb. He always handed out the strictest punishments.

“It was an accident.”

“He’ll still be mad, stupid. He’ll have to fill out paperwork and get money from the state. Again. I would remind you of all the times he’s had to do that before, but there’s too many to count.”

“Maybe if you could count on more than one hand it wouldn’t be so hard.” Caleb winced. The insult would come back to bite him and he knew it.

“So you admit you’ve damaged a lot of property.”

“Shut up,” Caleb said.

“I don’t think I will,” Mason said. “You should know, this is exactly why you haven’t been adopted. Nobody wants a kid who’ll blow up their house.”

“I said shut up.”

“Maybe if you were a little more careful and a little less clumsy people would actually like you. But you’re not worthy of love. You - “

Caleb couldn’t take it anymore. He punched Mason in the face. Mason’s hands flew to his nose, as drops of blood forced their way between his fingers.

The bus pulled off to the side and the door opened. The driver was glaring at him. “Off. Now,” she said.

Trying to ignore the whispers, Caleb stood, shoved past Mason, and exited the bus. He would have to walk the remaining mile to the group home. He debated not going back. Mr. Lindsay would be angry enough with him before he punched Mason. But he would have nowhere to go, and it was home, even if he sometimes hated it. He would have to go back and face whatever punishment was awaiting him. He would probably be cleaning toilets, wiping up vomit, and scrubbing dishes for the next month.

Mr. Lindsay was waiting in the living room for him when Caleb arrived home. “You’ve made quite the mess of things.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean -”

“You didn’t mean to punch Mason Bryce?”

“Well, I did. But he pushed me to it. He said that I wasn’t -”

“I don’t care what he said. It does not excuse your actions. You broke his nose.”

“What’s the punishment?” Caleb asked.

“I have not fully thought that over yet. Keep in mind that this is your fourth infraction in six months,” Mr. Lindsay said.

“The farmhouse was an accident. And if the stall doors had been locked like they were supposed to there wouldn’t have been a problem.”

“Enough, Caleb. For now, you will be confined to your room. You will miss the festivities and dinner. In the morning we will discuss the rest of your punishment and your possible relocation.”

“Relocation?”

“To a correctional facility for troubled boys.”

“What? You can’t put me in there. Please, Mr. Lindsay. Those places are awful.”

“I wouldn’t consider it if I didn’t think it was necessary. Now go on to your room.”

Caleb took a deep breath.Though he felt like collapsing, he kept his head up until the door was closed behind him. Twelve years old and he was being treated like a criminal.

It was only hours later that he made the worst mistake of his life.

Caleb sat down on his bed next to the window. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to break something or cry. He did both. He picked up a ceramic dog - a token his social worker had given him when he was six and first ended up in the system, and a promise that one day he would find people who loved him, who wanted to adopt him - and threw it across the room. It shattered against the wall. Immediately, Caleb regretted the decision. He picked up two of the biggest pieces and spent the next several hours staring at them, feeling an overpowering sense of loneliness.

At ten o’clock, he finally put the pieces down. The rest of the boys were still celebrating, though it was an hour past the usual bed time. Caleb was exhausted. He was ready to slide himself under the covers and be done with the day when he noticed movement outside the window. Odd. There was usually nobody out at this time. He pushed himself out of bed, standing in front of the window for only a few seconds before he caught another glimpse of movement.

Moments later, a figure appeared under a streetlamp. Caleb could not see a face - it was covered, but it was clearly a man, and he seemed to be staring straight at Caleb. And then he pointed, and then beckoned to Caleb to come to him.

Gasping, Caleb took a step back. He pointed to himself and the figure nodded, beckoning once again. Caleb’s fingers found the lock on the window. He pulled it open and pushed the screen out. Slowly, he climbed out the window, leaping the few remaining feet to the ground. The screen’s plastic crunched underneath his feet. The sensible part of Caleb told him to climb back in that window and never come out again. However, he had never learned to listen to his own reason, so he walked across the street to meet the figure at the streetlamp.

The man stared at him for a moment, unblinking. He shook his head slowly. Caleb was about to ask if the man needed anything when a hand shot from the darkness, grabbing his arm, and pulling him out of the light.

“Let go!” Caleb yelled. His voice became muzzled as the second man’s gloved hand covered his mouth. Caleb bit the fingers of his captor. Shaking his hand, the man cried out in pain. But Caleb didn’t have time to do anything else before the first man shoved a cloth into his mouth and threw him over his shoulder. Feet kicking, hands pounding on the man’s back, Caleb used all his strength as he tried to free himself. His efforts only wore him down.

He was thrown in the back of a car and the door slammed behind him. Caleb pulled the soggy cloth from his mouth with one hand and wiggled the door handle with the other. Childlocked. As soon as the two men entered the vehicle, Caleb threw his arms around the driver’s neck. The man in the passenger’s seat - the one who had been hidden in the dark - wrestled Caleb off the driver. He pulled a roll of duct tape from the dash, and with help from the driver, taped Caleb’s wrists together.

“You can’t do this. The police will come after you. Mr. Lindsay will call them and you’ll be caught.”

“Shut up,” the driver said.

“I see why they wanted him,” said the passenger. “He’s tough.” Before he could ask what they were talking about a piece of tape covered his mouth.

The car roared to life and Caleb watched helplessly as the life he knew become distant and faded into the night. He knew it wouldn’t work, but Caleb tried the door again.

“There’s no point, kid. You’re not getting out.”

Caleb couldn’t keep his tears in any longer. He leaned against the window and started to cry silently. They drove through the night and well into the next day. Several hours after their departure, the two men engaged in a hushed conversation, but Caleb could still hear every word they said.

“You’re positive he’s the right boy?” The passenger said.

“He fits the description,” the driver said. “Scrawny. Black hair, blue eyes. Pale skin. Sums him up pretty well.”

“Hey kid, what’s your name?”

Caleb grunted. He could easily remove the tape, but he wanted to make it as hard on his captors as possible.

“Don’t worry. I’ll tell you our names. My name’s Landon, and expert night driver here, he’s Hayden.”

“Idiot,” Hayden said. “The boy can’t talk because you duct taped his mouth shut.”

Landon said nothing as he turned around and ripped off the tape, pulling several hairs along with it.

“Let me go,” Caleb said.

“You have been given the privilege of speech. We can always take that away. You aren’t getting out and we aren’t letting you go, so stop asking. Just tell us what we want to know,” Hayden said.

“Caleb Richards,” he mumbled.

“I told you he’s the right kid,” Hayden said.

“Right kid for what?”

“You’ll find out. I don’t want any more questions about it.”

There was silence for several seconds. Until Caleb saw a sign for a rest stop.

“I need to go to the bathroom.”

Hayden turned the rearview mirror so he could see Caleb’s face. “Promise not to try

anything?”

“Solemnly promise.” As soon as Hayden looked away, Caleb began pulling against the duct tape. He could feel it becoming loose around his wrists.

The car parked at the rest stop. There was only one other vehicle there, a van that had children in nearly every seat. Unfortunately, Caleb couldn’t see any adults. Landon opened Caleb’s door, and he took off running as soon as he was out of the car. Caleb wrestled with the tape as he ran, freeing himself as he reached a chain link fence topped with barbed wire. His hands gripped the wire as he shoved his feet into the holes and began to climb. He didn’t know how far behind Hayden and Landon were, but he didn’t want to chance anything by looking back.

He had carefully gripped the uppermost part of the barbed wire when he felt a hand grab his foot and begin to pull. “No,” Caleb cried. He used all his strength to hold himself up and pull against the hand. He lost the battle when the other man grabbed him.

He felt the barbed wire slide through his hand as he fell. Hayden and Landon did not try to catch him. His leg landed painfully beneath him, with his ankle twisted awkwardly. Hayden pulled him up like he weighed nothing and Caleb quickly realized from the bruising that had already formed and the intense pain that something was seriously wrong with his ankle. The two men each grabbed one of Caleb’s arms and led him, limping, back to the car. The van was nowhere in sight.

Hayden searched in the back of the trunk for a moment before bringing out a large white box. Caleb’s heart pounded. It probably had chloroform or some sort of drug to make sure he didn’t try to run away again. Or maybe a torture device. Hayden slid into the seat next to Caleb a second later. The box had a large red cross on the front. A first aid kit.

“What’s that for?” Caleb asked.

“You’re hurt,” Hayden said. “Sorry about that.”

“Why does it matter to you?”

“You’ll see soon enough. We have another four hours ahead of us and then everything will be cleared up. Let me see your arm.” He opened the first aid kit and brought out a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a roll of gauze.

Caleb pulled his arm closer to his chest. He still didn’t trust this man.

“I promise I’m not going to hurt you. Though this may sting a little.” He poured the peroxide onto a cloth and pulled Caleb’s arm toward him. Caleb’s left hand, which he had been using to cradle the wound, was now covered in blood. “We’ll clean that up, too.” Hayden pressed the cloth against the cut and Caleb immediately tried to pull away, but Hayden held on tight. “Give it a minute.” He did this several more times before wrapping the gauze around the cut. “We’ll have to wait until we arrive before your foot gets looked at.”

“Thanks, I guess,” Caleb said as Hayden closed the box. He put it back in the trunk, returned to the driver’s seat, and sped back onto the freeway.

Minutes later, Landon’s phone was ringing. “Hello? Yes, we got the boy. But you chose a feisty one, May. He nearly escaped. Well, no, the circumstances changed. He doesn’t know what’s going on. We thought it would be better that way. And he’s hurt.” Caleb could hear yelling on the other end of the phone. “Yes, ma’am. We will.” Landon hung up the phone and slid it back into his pocket.

“May says we should have executed differently.”

“I noticed,” Hayden said.

“Who’s May?” Caleb asked. “And where are we going?”

“May is our boss. And we are going to Boiling Springs National Park.”

Title: The Battle's Master

Genre: 12-18

Age Range: Young Adult

Word Count: 2482

Author Name: Sarah Buttars

Why Your Project is a Good Fit: This is a novel that I have been dedicated to for a long time and is a book I am very passionate about. This entry is a wonderful introduction to my writing style. The book also takes place in a very developed and still developing world with a wide array of creativity.

Hook: Caleb tried the car door once again, shaking the handle several times as he shoved his weight against the metal. Nothing. Caleb was an idiot. An idiot who was in huge trouble.

Synopsis: Caleb Richards was a regular 12 year old boy. That is, if most twelve year old boys lose their parents at the age of six, spend half their life in a boys home, somehow manage to make trouble he doesn't go looking for, and manage to find the home they always dreamed of after getting abducted. On second though, Caleb is not the typical young man. After his kidnapping, Caleb finds himself in Boiling Springs National Park. He discovers kids like him have taken up residency there, under the watchful eyes of a plethora of guardians, of course. And his life quickly becomes much stranger than simply living in a forest with eighty other teens. The kids are trained to become PARK RANGERS (Park And Recreational Keepers for Rogue Abnormal Nuisances Grieving Excursionists Rescue Service). Caleb quickly learns that regular animals are not what they seem. They're monsters. When calm, they are the regular bears, and deer park goers see, but they possess the ability to turn into something much worse. It is the job of the PARK RANGERS to keep the public safe from those monsters. Kids in the system are taken to Boiling Springs to learn how to deal with the monsters and keep the business going. While out on his first patrol, Caleb and his newfound friends, Amy and Mitchell, find themselves separated from their group and hopelessly lost. Armed with only swords, bows, and a few meager supplies, the friends have to find their way home. On their way back, they run into monster after monster and they discover something far more sinister. After making a call home from a radio tower, they later discover it was intercepted and the kids are taken by another organization that the PARK RANGERS knew very little about. They manage to make their escape, rescuing another girl, Yasmine, in the process. The four of them manage to make it back to the cabin relatively unscathed. But their battle isn't over yet. They are met with a stampede of monsters, headed by their enemy's leader. When the battle is over, the RANGERS think they're in the clear, however, the war has just begun.

The Battle's Master is book one of a five book series.

Target Audience: Young Adults

Bio: Sarah Buttars is a young author who has been writing stories for as long as she can remember. She is a dedicated writer who has participated in and won NaNoWriMo for five years, as well as won several writing contests within her community. Besides writing, her other passion is animals. She is an advocate for rescue animals. She loves history, especially old machinary and has a collection of typewriters.

Sarah also loves theater and the sense of adventure that comes both from watching a live show and taking part in it.

Platform: magicofthequill.wordpress.com

Education: High School

Experience: Five time winner of NaNoWriMo. Once won a writing contest after writing it the day entries were due.

Hometown: Eagle Mountain, Utah

Age: 19