Writers’ Enthusiasts

Literary Magazine

2013-2014

Cary Academy

WE Magazine

2013-2014 Editorial Staff

Trimester One: Caroline, Brett,

Gracie, Miriam, Sasha, Oonagh

Trimester Three: Gracie, Kristin, Mohala, Lindsey L., Leksi,

Mackenzie, Maria, Alex, Lucy, Oonagh, Marie

(Not pictured: Sasha)

Trimester Two: Sasha, Emery,

Meredith, Adena (Other tri-

mester/yearlong editors: Oonagh,

Mohala, Lucy, Gracie, Emily W.,

Kristin)

Title

Ashes, Ashes

Time Ticking On, The Day’s

Almost Gone

Frozen In Time

A Controller

Homemade Sweet Tea

Innocence

The Playground

Picture Perfect

The Smallest Cat in the

Shelter

Contempt

The Lost Balloon

Forgiveness

The Grading System

Night

The Island

The Flame

The Dentist

Author

Oonagh Stevans

Margaret Velto

Sasha Kostenko

Alex Bandong

Alexandra Ellison

Anonymous

Mohala Kaliebe

Ceren Iz

Madi Prentice

Kristin Draper

Cedric Tucker

Rohit Jain

Abby Geigerman

Anonymous

Mohala Kaliebe

Adena Ajike

Madi Prentice

Cover design & photography by Lucy Daley

Table of Contents

She walked down the desolate street, the dark clouds gathering above

her, casting everything in a deep, unwavering shadow. Her bare feet

scraped the ground, the pieces of scattered glass scraping at her heels

and nipping at her toes like the evil that now lurked here. She could not

believe this was where she grew up, singing nursery rhymes and run-

ning through the once lively, now dismal, streets. As she glanced at the

charred remains, she choked through the smoke still lingering in the air,

so thick that it reminded her of the sense of hopelessness and loss that

had settles over this place. She remembered a little song that some of

the Western children used to sing when she was young.

Ring a ring of roses! Pocket full of posies!

There were no longer any roses, nor any posies, only the blackened

weeds that were so fragile, they nearly blew away in the slightest wind.

Ashes,

That’s all that was left now, the thick ashes that fell around her and

clouded the air.

Ashes!

The ashes that turned everything monotone shades of gray

We all fall down!

Yes, that was what happened here. Not even the children were allowed to

keep on singing.

Hush! Hush! Hush! Hush!

Maybe that was what their innocent ears heard in the end.

We’ve all tumbled down.

Ashes, Ashes By Oonagh Stevans

Time Ticking On,

The Day’s Almost Gone By Margaret Velto

Shock overcomes me and I step back. “You must be joking. How did I get here?” I won-

der aloud.

“I don’t know, but since you’re here, you can follow me around,” she grabs my hand

and starts to pull me out of the freezing home.

“Wait,” I drag my feet along the slippery floor, trying to get her to stop.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

I point to the mirror on the wall, making her look into it. Studying her features, I real-

ize we have substantial similarities. Her hair is curly and a darker brown than mine, but

very close to when I was younger. Her eyes, piercing, sparkling and bright, are hazel, not

blue. Her skin was fair, but with a slight tan. Freckles dotted her small nose, her cheeks a

rosy pink. She was slender, but seemed well-built and strong.

“You done looking?” she turned to me.

“Yeah, I’m done. You wanted to show me around?” I shift my attention from the mirror

to Evelyn.

“Yes. I can introduce you as my cousin. My mom has a sister who lives in Pennsylvania

territory, and I’ve got more cousins than I can count,” she tells me.

“What do you mean by territory?” I ask. In my time, they were states.

“There was a war. It’s still going on a bit, mostly in the Massachusetts territory. We

were conquered by the United Kingdom. They let us keep the names of the states, but we

are officially part of the United Kingdom Atlantic Territories. From the west of Minnesota

and south to Louisiana, the territories are the United Kingdom Pacific Territories. We lost

the freedom we had about five years ago. My father died in the war,” she explains sorrow-

ful.

“I’m sorry about your father. But what happened to the Declaration of Independ-

ence?” my voice rises, worried.

“Burned, and the ashes were thrown into the ocean,” she replies glum.

“I want to help you,” I persist.

“Margaret, I know you want to. Trust me, I wanted to as well. But if you die, I will

have never existed. All of your future would be destroyed, including me. We’d fade like a

memory,” she tries to persuade me.

“Alright,” I sigh in defeat.

“Good, come along,” she tugs on my arm again, and this time, I follow.

The city was magical. People floated in mid-air or rode atop metal boards. Instead of

the loud, obnoxious beeping of car horns, and the jam-packed streets that kept people from

arriving to their desired destinations on time, the streets seemed rather empty, consider-

ing people were much smaller than cars.

“How do they do that?” I whisper to Evelyn, hoping to not attract much attention.

“I don’t know. It’s normal for us to travel that way, but a lot of people, like me, prefer

to walk,” she told me.

A sudden shout came from amongst the crowd. “REGIMENTS!” a man screamed.

Evelyn’s face formed to fear, along with many others.

“What’s going on?” I ask Evelyn frantically.

“The regiments. They’re coming into the city now. You have to go, Margaret. It’s not

safe!” she shouts.

We run towards her house. “But how do I get home?” I ask.

“What happened before you came here?” she asks, as we continue running.

“My eyes closed while I was in class,” I remember.

We reached the house and burst through the door. “Close your eyes, Margaret,”

Evelyn said.

Behind her, a man snuck up and began to wrap his arm around Evelyn’s face.

“Evelyn, watch out!” I shout.

“Just go, Margaret. Go!” she pleads, as the man fires a shot into her temple.

I cry out in despair and anguish. The man turns and points the gun to me, and I

squeeze my eyes as tight as can be. A shrill alarm went off, and I awaken back at my desk.

Around me, the other students were packing up, due to the bell that went off, and in the

front of the classroom sat the clock, still ticking away. Tick… Tock… Tick… Tock…

Photography by Gracie Mann

“Reagan, come down for breakfast!” My father yells. “Your oatmeal’s get-

ting cold.”

Oatmeal, always oatmeal. My father needs to learn how to cook. I open

my eyes and moan loudly, hoping my father would think I’m sick and carry my

food up to my room.

“Reagan!” Fine. I’m coming. I kick away the covers and gasp from the

cold air, which makes me shiver. I sit there for a second, trying to orient myself.

When I feel ready, I stand and shakily make my way to the door.

My father is in the kitchen. When I enter he scowls and nods at a bowl of

cold oatmeal sitting at the kitchen table. I frown at him.

“You know I like my oatmeal warm.”

“Sit down!” I plop down in my seat with a huff of annoyance and pick up

the metal spoon.

“Hi daddy,” Lacy mumbles under her breath as she stumbles down the

stairs into the kitchen. My father’s cold eyes soften as he addresses my six-year-

old sister. He favors her. That sets my teeth on edge. Not at Lacy. She is the

most adorable little girl on Earth. It’s not her fault our father is a jerk.

“Hey, hon. Have some oatmeal.” He coos and hands her a bowl like mine.

Except it’s warm. He’s trying to get at me. I turn away and stuff the bland,

mushy pudding into my mouth.

“I had an awesome dream last night,” Lacy tells me as she slides into the

seat next to mine. “You turned into a unicorn and pooped cotton candy. I ate it

and it was really good.”

“Really?” I try to sound upbeat for Lacy’s sake. “That’s nice.” Unicorns

pooping cotton candy…not gonna ask.

By Sasha Kostenko

As I choke down my breakfast, I run through my dream for the thousandth

time. Of course, it was my last day with my mom. It must be the thousandth time I’ve

been running through that day in my sleep. A gardening day. We were digging up

weeds in the garden. Then the bear popped out of the woods and swallowed her

whole.

Except bears don’t usually have horns and snake tails. Or red eyes.

I was not hallucinating.

Dad.

* * *

After breakfast I slip on a thick wool sweater and some sweats, and tie my hair

up in a loose ponytail. At the last second I grab my mother’s old necklace – a crystal

rooster hanging from a thin chain. My father glances at me as I leave the house and I

can’t miss the dread that pours through me as I leave.

Something has been wrong with my father since my mom’s death. He was dark

for a little bit, then a recluse, and then started hating me. I think he expected me to

protect my mom on the day she died. Well, sorry for the let-down, Father.

I think about that and Lacy and Mom as I trudge through the streets. It rained

last night and now everything is not only wet and cloudy, but chilly too. I burrow

down in my sweater and walk faster to warm myself up. It doesn’t work and I swear

under my breath. I should have brought a coat. But I can’t go back and face my father

now. Not Lacy either.

I reach the neighborhood playground – a sad collection of slides and monkey-

bars, sagging with age, paint peeling so the cold metal underneath is exposed. I plop

down on a slide and jump back up with a curse. It was wet.

There are better places to be, I guess, but there’s nowhere for me to go. No

friends at school. I can’t make any, no matter how hard I try. I can’t go home, where

my recluse of a father will be watching my every step and throwing punishments at

me, where Lacy will be sitting alone in her room with nobody to play with because of

me. Not the thrift store a few minutes away, because that’s full of drunkards and is al-

ways freezing cold. I get sick so easily. That leaves the streets.

I breathe out and watch my breath turn to steam in the cold morning

air. Out of boredom, I pull my necklace out from under my shirt and exam-

ine the rooster. The rooster was the only thing I was allowed to keep that

was my mom’s after her death. It’s head is stretched forward, bushy tail

spread behind it, beak open. It is frozen in time, struggling to free itself

from the crystal it is encased in. I slip it back under my shirt.

Photography by Ceren Iz

A Controller Poem & Photography by Alex Bandong

————————————

Some people,

Think of the world as a giant video game.

We are controlled, and things get out of hand, but it never gets

so out of hand,

That the world ends,

Not so out of control that,

We go Mad,

But controlled enough,

Where we can live with kind people,

And evil people,

In one world.

There are times,

That I think the world is a giant video game.

Homemade

Sweet Tea By Alexandra Ellison

I take a sip from my sweet tea,

And consider what it tastes like to me.

There is something about it I cannot beat,

Oh ya, that blissful sip of sweet.

I add some more sugar, sprinkle by sprinkle,

And can almost feel my own eyes twinkle.

I remember I’m adding calories

And decide it doesn't matter to me.

The ice cubes bob and I’m hypnotized,

Now I need to blink my eyes!

My taste buds are struck with awe;

This drink was made without a flaw.

Photography by Gracie Mann

Innocence Anonymous

A stressful day had added even more weight to my tired shoulders. I had driven to the park by my house and was just sitting by the lake and watching. Watching nothing in particular as my mind raced, thinking about all that had to get done, the things I had to do in order to provide for my family and myself. My gaze drifted downward to the water and my feet. My reflection looked back at me unforgivingly.

Unable to meet my eyes any longer, I looked elsewhere. In the center of the water I saw a swan with her children atop her back. The little birds were the whitest shade I had ever seen. I sympathized the elder, and envied her children.

She, whose stress and wariness probably consumed her as she unwillingly dwelled in the adult world. And them, who danced in the

world of naivety and youth. Not recognizing the reality of life because of their innocence that stood in the way. Innocence. The one thing that made me wish time moved backward. Backwards, so we could deal with the stressful adult life in the beginning. In the end, innocence would return, and our lives would stop in the bliss of foolishness.

Photography by Ceren Iz

The children played on the playground. They rode the escalator up to

the top of the slide and strapped on their stimulation helmets. As they rode

down, twisting and turning, dropping and flying, a video played, and they

saw the sky and the treetops race by as if they were truly flying. At the bot-

tom, they fell into an automated wheelchair, which drove them back to the

front of the line, where they turned in their helmets and then rode some-

where else.

They went on the swings, and what swings they were! With the chil-

dren safely strapped in, of course, they not only went back and forth, but

side to side and up and down. They rose and dropped, swooping like ea-

gles, as the children shrieked and screamed with joy, until the ride ended

and they were safely dropped back in their chairs to go on another ride.

And there was never a day when their parents said, “You cannot go

to the playground today, for it is raining.” Oh, no! The place was surround-

ed by an immense, air-conditioned globe, which projected an image of the

cloudless blue sky, so that it appeared to be sunny, warm, and perfect on

the playground whatever the weather was elsewhere.

Gone, also, were the pokey mulch, dusty soil, and bug-filled grass

from years before. All the structures were built on FallSafe, a soft spongy

material that didn’t stain and couldn’t hurt you if you fell on it. Even bet-

ter, it stayed firm unless something fell on it suddenly, so that the wheel-

chairs could roll across it easily but it would cushion the fall of an inse-

curely strapped child. All these things were what made the playground per-

fect, for everything was full of fun, and nothing could go wrong.

The Playground By: Mohala Kaliebe

John pondered this as he sat in the waiting area for the parents. They weren’t

expected to stand around watching their children and doing nothing anymore, of

course. That would waste time. Instead, they stayed in a Wi-Fi equipped room, with

outlets for plugging in computers and every variety of other supplies that could pos-

sibly be needed. That way, parents could take their children to the playground and

work at the same time. There was no need to supervise, as what could go wrong?

John paused in his work and gazed out the window at the children. His eyes hurt

from staring at the computer screen. Perhaps he needed glasses, as he had often

been told, although John personally didn’t think that would help. Glasses, after all,

had the same abilities as computers, and he suspected it was his subjection to so

much screen time that caused his aching eyes.

Squinting, he tried to pick out his children from the rest. It was more difficult

than one might expect, as each child was either inside one of the automatic wheel-

chairs or wearing a stimulation helmet…but wait; there was Molly, her red braids

poking out from under her helmet as she rode, squealing with joy, on the swings.

And on the slide, to the right, was Tommy; his new neon green sneakers were boldly

standing out as he rode on the slide. The children appeared to be having fun, and

yet… there seemed to be something missing, something not quite right.

John rubbed his face with his hands. The playground, the playground…there

was something that was not there, something that was not right; he looked again at

the children, the wheelchairs pushing them from place to place, the stimulation hel-

mets placed on their heads, and the rides carrying them along. And then it hit him.

The children weren’t playing! They weren’t running; they were being wheeled by the

chairs. They weren’t climbing; there were escalators. They were riding the rides,

which were playing for them, and experiencing whatever was on the stimulation

helmets. The full effect of his realization hit him in the face and he gasped out loud,

earning disapproving stares from the other parents in the room, who were trying to

work. Internally scolding himself, he pulled himself together. After all, the play-

ground now wasn’t that much different from when he was a child. And yet it was

still bothering him, nagging in the back of his mind. He turned to Loretta, another

parent who he regularly sat with. As she didn’t look as busy as usual-she was typ-

ing furiously, but was not on her phone-he endeavored to voice his thoughts.

“Loretta?” He inquired nervously. She jumped. Her hands flew off the key-

board and she turned to look at him, blinking impatiently. “Do you think,” John

continued, “that it is good that the machines are doing all of the work for the chil-

dren when they play?” Loretta looked at him incredulously.

“Of course it’s a good thing!” She cried empathetically. “The machines ensure

that no child is left behind! The slow! The stragglers! The disabled! They all get to do

it as the same pace as the other children, AND,” Loretta paused to take a breath, “It

saves time! In the olden days, did you know, children had to walk to rides, and

climb to the top of them? Think of how much time was wasted!” She turned on him

accusingly. “How can you suggest that it might be a bad thing?” John felt idiotic. He

knew, after all, that she was right, but there still was something, something…

“But what about…” He groped through his mind, searching fruitlessly for the

arguments that had been so clear before. “exercise?”

“Exercise, John, really?” Loretta laughed scornfully. “There are exercise ma-

chines for that! And besides, exercise without the machines is completely pointless!

You can’t tell how much you’ve done or how much more you need!”

“Yes, you’re right. Of course.” John was embarrassed. It was clear, now, that

she was right, that the machines were a good thing, and it was better for the chil-

dren not to have to do what machines

could do for them. The feeling that

something was off, something was

wrong was gone. All he had done was

humiliated himself. John sighed and

turned back to his work. It wasn’t un-

til later, after the car had driven them

home, the stove had cooked dinner

and the beds rocked the children to

sleep that the feeling resumed, the

feeling that something was missing,

that something was not quite right.

Picture Perfect

Photography by Ceren Iz

Picture Perfect

Photography by Ceren Iz

The Smallest Cat in the Shelter By Madi Prentice

The first day, She was…. really sick.

Weighed less than a pound. Two months old…

she had an eye infection, She didn’t eat at all.

Traumatic.

Photography by Ceren Iz

Contempt By Kristin Draper

I opened my eyes. The memories from last night came flooding back. I

stifled a sob, thrusting my hand over my mouth. My body began to shake with

silent cries. I had seen it; everything. But I couldn’t tell anyone, for if

I admitted that I had been there in that horrible, dark, damp place, I would

be guilty as well. That place was absolutely forbidden. The punishment of

going was a sentence in prison. Why had I gone there in the first place? If

I hadn’t been so eager for danger I never would have seen…I stopped. No. I

can’t afford to think this way. I have to be strong, I have to look like

nothing happened. I walked over to my mirror and stared at my reflection. I

looked broken- as if I was a doll that had been played with one too many

times. The blue in my eyes seemed dull and lifeless. Although my eyes were

normally fierce, today they are red and blotchy. My black hair was a tangled

heap. I stared for a while until my eyes were no longer red. I clenched my

jaw and glared. There we go. I smiled, satisfied that looked strong. I got

ready and headed downstairs. I walked past the kitchen and cringed, as if I

could eat. I thrust the door open as I grabbed my bag. I walked to school

clutching my bag so hard my knuckles turned white. I pushed open the school

doors and saw the classroom. I walked in apprehensively.

I looked at her. Just looking at her made me want to throw up.

How could she live with herself after what she did? Her eyes flitted around

nervously, but she tried to veil it by smiling. It was pretty convincing,

the nervousness was subtle. I probably wouldn’t have even noticed...if I

hadn't known. It was clear she wasn’t truly paying attention to the con-

versation she was having with her friends. She smiled at all the right times

but she wasn’t truly smiling. I could tell from her eyes. She was glancing

at everyone in the room, I suspect looking for any sign that they knew what

she had donethe previous day. Her eyes finally came to rest on me. I

clenched my jaw. I didn't want her looking at me, I didn’t want her coming

near me. I hated her.

The sad part is I had actually believed her act, the act that she was

a good person. It had truly seemed as if she possessed compassion, but no.

Her eyes widened looking at my expression. Suddenly she did feel an emo-

tion, fear. Fear that I had caused. I didn’t feel bad for her, she de-

served everything that was coming to her. But the emotion I wanted her to

feel, that any respectable person should feel, is guilt. She looked at me

with pleading in her eyes. I knew she wasn’t sorry, I was sure. I was

generally good at reading peoples’ true emotions. I looked at her, not

moving, as if I was made of stone. Now I could feel the terror radiating

off of her but I didn’t care. She was nothing to me now. Not after yes-

terday.

She brushed her friends off and walked towards me. I’m sure her

friends were trying to figure out a logical reason why she would talk to

me. I frowned and took a step backwards. Her eyes seemed deranged. I

thought back. Were they always like this or was I just imagining things?

“You can’t tell.” She whispered fast, her voice full of anger.

“I can’t tell?” I shot back, “You’re evil and you deserve to be

caught.”

“No you don’t understand,” she begged, her eyes seeming suddenly

less deranged ,“It was self-defense.”

“What did she do to you?” I found myself believing her for no log-

ical reason at all.

“She brought me there and I was scared and it was dark,” She ex-

plained, “I feared for my life.”

I looked at her again, entranced, my guard was down. She seemed so

scared, “I won’t tell, but don’t expect me to ever forgive you.”

She smiled a genuine smile and then it melted off her face.

“Why were you there?” I didn’t answer; I tried to mimic the

strong look I had created in the mirror.

“Ha, you can’t tell or you will be in trouble as well. You could be

in even more trouble than me.”

I stopped. “But I thought you said it was self-defense, you didn’t

mean to.”

“That was before I realized you weren’t a threat and you are just a

stupid, gullible and naive child.” She grinned and walked back to her

friends. There was even a spring in her step.

I stood there frozen in time. She had tricked me, convinced me even

for a small amount of time that it was an accident. I knew now that even

if I submitted an anonymous tip that the court case ensuing would be hers

to win. Her alibi was solid and no prosecutor would be able to break it

without a witness, without me. My mind swarmed with hard decisions. I

could sacrifice my life for the justice of my dead friend or I could live

my life and let this nasty criminal go free. I looked at her again just as

I had when I first walked in the room.

This time her blue eyes met mine immediately. Her shiny, soft, flow-

ing hair fell just below her shoulders. She gave me a little wave with her

perfectly manicured hand which she constantly applied vanilla lotion to,

causing them to be extremely soft, but also give off a strong smell of

dessert. She smiled, her perfectly perfect white smile contrasting with

her pink lips. Looking at her made me think of the whispers that always

followed her when she walked down the halls, the compliments that she

seemed to be constantly receiving.

I growled under my breath. Suddenly it didn’t matter what happened

to me. She was counting on me being selfish, but I don’t care what hap-

pens to me anymore, as long as I bring her down with me. All thoughts of

self-preservation were gone replaced with pure white hot anger. She was

not going to get away with what she did.

Floating high above the tallest trees and the

Largest mountain, hovering to who knows where.

Could it be rising to heaven, or to the moon and the

Stars? Could it be going to Jupiter, Saturn, or Neptune?

Where will it go? People watch from below as this strange

Floating balloon-like object rises higher and higher.

What is it? It can’t be a bird, or a plane, and it is definitely

Not Superman. Is there a person in that thing? Where could

They be going in something like that? Come back! Come back!

Getting higher and higher above the sea and the clouds, will it

Ever stop? Will it ever deflate? Who is in that contraption? Are they

Okay? What is- … The never ending questions were cut off by the

Disappearing of the strange object into the mysterious clouds,

With little chance of return.

Th

e Lost B

alloon

B

y C

ed

ric T

uck

er

Forgiveness By Rohit Jain

Your smiling

face

How can I tell

you?

My bad news.

By Abbey Geigerman

There is a serious issue at hand that many people pass by. Grades have been

falling by the minute. Letters drop one by one, until the will have a Z. however,

why is that they can’t have a Z? why does the grading stop at F? So many

questions principles insist on avoiding. Excuses, excuses. “I didn’t create the

system,” and “it’s out of control” are popular answers. Typically, they end the

interview or switch the subject before we can get more in depth about the

subject. Studies have shown that 0 out of 253 principles can help us with our

dilemma.

But letters are used to represent the numbers. Why don’t they just use the

numbers in the first place? or use the letter for words and use all of the

letters, instead of numbers. It would be easy; all they would need would be a

room full of seriously judgmental, and possibly mental people. I’ve already

started, “D” for dumb, “S” for stupid, “Z” for zebra. Then they wouldn’t need the

extra pluses and minuses at the end! And the child could come home saying “I got

an F!” and they would be congratulated instead of scolded. Although these are the

answers to the problem, one solution outshines them all. if they are going to use

letters to represent numbers, why don’t they do it directly? Such as A for 0, B

for 1, C for 2, and so on. Then they could say “I got a BAA!” sounding just like

the small-minded sheep that they are.

To confuse you more, the people who created the system decided to use addition

and subtraction symbols with the letter. Maybe they wanted to tie the numbers to

the letters giving the critics such as myself not so much to rant about. However,

if they use addition and subtraction symbols which are usually associated with

the numbers and letters, how could it be less confusing?

There are many theories on why this plight is occurring. Possibly, the teachers

got tired of doing the math, and one day decided to write letters instead. Or

perhaps there was a very distressed and confused child who couldn't decipher the

meaning of the numbers, and so they created the simpler system to please all of

the struggling children. Its possible that a group of government officials came

together and wanted to look more intelligent to other countries by making up a

system for another system. Although there are do many possibilities, I think one

thing is clear: someone needs to reverse this change. Unless we step forward and

realize what they are doing to us, one day your child will come home and say

“mommy! I got an X-PY*HQ+ on my math quiz!” and you will congratulate them on a

job well done.

The night was ending, as I laid there in my bed. The birds began the song they sang

every morning at dawn. They were my alarm, my indicator of time. I knew that

the night would soon be ending and the darkness that had once spread only

about 10 hours ago would end, and light would burst through my windows.

Then something mysterious happened, something out of the ordinary.

I saw the shadow of a person in the corner of my room. I pretended to be asleep

hoping that I am seeing something in a dream.

Why?

There is not a person in my room. That is ridiculous.

Cannot happen.

But no, it was very real.

A large hand smacked onto my face covering my eyes, nose, and mouth, making my

breaths short and shallow. The rough skin that covered my mouth was warm and

sweaty. The distinct taste of salt came through to me.

The kind of taste you would find in your tears and your sweat.

A rough bag covers my upper body and a string is tied to my ankles making a fierce

grip around them. I can almost feel the imprint he made on my cheeks. The bag I rec-

ognize as a large old potato bag occupied with dirt and dust making my eyes sting.

I thought to myself everything would be okay.

Just like always.

But this was not at all okay. I felt a smooth cold rock like a piece of ice up against my

head that at first didn’t seem so threatening. But then I realized what he was going to

do. Then the crack of my skull shattering woke me. That dream.

Everything happened so fast. But everything is okay now.

Maybe.

Anonymous

Photography by Mackenzie Newnam

The Island

By Mohala Kaliebe

There it was, finally. Our island. Our very island. It looked beautiful above the

waves of fog, but there was still one question to be answered: why had they sold

it to us for only five dollars?

“Maybe it’s haunted!” said Christie, my sister, hopping up and down with glee.

“Maybe there’s a ghost, and it has a dangerous past, and we have to solve a mys-

tery!”

“Don’t be stupid.” I stopped the motor boat we had borrowed from our cous-

ins and tied it up to the little rickety dock as she took off her life-jacket. “Let’s

just see if there’s actually a house on this island. If there is, there’s Mom and

Dad’s anniversary gift right there. And if there isn’t, it’s just five dollars lost.”

Christie, who was only six, looked appalled.

“Five dollars?! Five whole dollars?!” She screeched in disbelief. “That’s one-fourth of all the money I have!” I winced. Christie may be little, but she has a

loud and painfully high-pitched voice.

“Be quiet, okay?” I said. Quietly, to set an example. “If there is actually a ghost

on this island, however preposterous that idea actually is, we don’t want to wake

it up.” I chose not to point out that if ghosts did exist, they probably didn’t need

sleep.

“Okay,” whispered Christie, and we set off across the trail. The air was cool and

damp and smelled of salty fish. It was windy, and the wind was sharp and cold

and cut right through my fleece like a knife. My mother, upon hearing of our

“fishing outing”, had insisted in Christie wearing a wind-breaker, but apparently

the rule didn’t apply to me. I crossed both my arms against my chest and shiv-

ered, while Christie, quietness forgotten, ran ahead on the trail, bellowing out a

song she’d learned in music class. The trail was made up of rocks and roots and

was highly unstable. I began to call out a warning to Christie, but it was too late.

She was flat on her face the moment I opened my mouth. I hurried towards her,

trying to stop the impending wail with preemptive action, but once again I was

too late.

“AAAEEEIIIH!” She screeched. “I’M BLEEDING!”

“Shh!” I hushed her, kneeling to look at the injury. “I highly doubt that it’s

life-threatening.” She considered this for a moment, then pouted.

“Whatever. It still hurts,” she whined. “Can I have a Band-Aid?”

“No, you can’t have a Band-Aid! We are in the middle of the ocean, and there

are currently none present.” Christie screwed up her face, about to scream.

Quickly, wanting to keep my ears, I attempted to redirect. “Hey, how about

this?” I fished around in my jacket pocket and came up with a pack of tissues.

“you hold one of these on your knee and stay right here, and I’ll go look for the

house.” Liking the idea of being unsupervised, she agreed. I handed over the

tissues and continued walking down the trail, with one final warning for Chris-

tie to stay exactly where she was. There were

trees everywhere and it was foggy. If she ran

off, I’d never find her. Not that I’d mind, but

Mom and Dad would kill me. Just kidding.

But you know.

I continued to walk down the trail. The un-

even stones of the path were difficult to walk

on, and it was getting colder and foggier by

the minute. The trees around me were

blanketed in fog, causing them to become

merely ominous shapes all around me. I remember one

time at my neighborhood party, there was a boy named

Timothy who told me one of the trees was a monster on the fog coming closer

and closer. I hadn’t believed him at first, but I every time I’d looked at a tree, it

did seem a little closer. Closer, and closer, but not all the way towards me. I was

really freaked out (I was only Christie’s age) and went inside for the rest of the

party. I’d forgotten about that until now, with the trees in the fog lurking all

around me. I shivered and pulled my fleece tighter around my body. Walking

along the trail as the wind got faster and the fog denser, it seemed forever be-

fore a large shape in the fog indicated a house. Aha, I thought, there is a house! My friend Teresa thought I was crazy for doing this. “Come on, Melanie,

you’re smarter than that! No-one sells a house for five dollars! No-one. It’s a

scam. I though you knew better!”

“Ha!” I told myself. “I was right.” I walked up to the house. Sure, it wasn’t in

great shape, but my parents love old houses.

To be continued...

Photography by Anonymous

“Visiting hours are over.”

The nurse crossed her arms, standing squarely in front of the open

doorway. She had a severe look on her face, as if to say that arguing

would get me nowhere.

“I don’t care.”

The nurse blinked, a sign of surprise at my attitude, which was what I

was hoping for. “Excuse me?” she asked, agitated.

“I said I don’t care,” I repeated. I glared at her. “Please move.”

The nurse scowled. She moved her arms, repositioning them on

her hips. “Who do you think you—?”

“Hey.”

That caught me off guard, because I hadn’t said that, the voice

had come from behind me. I didn’t show any emotion though, I never

did. Plus, I knew who it was.

“Daniel,” I said, the slightest tint of anger coated in my words. “I

don’t want you here.”

“Too bad,” he said. And he stepped into view. Daniel’s appearance

was ragged. His hair was matted with sweat, and he still had blood all

over him. But I probably didn’t look any better. But Daniel hadn’t even

taken off leather armor. He didn’t bother to look at me, instead he

looked at the nurse, who he towered over, naturally. I mean, she was

human, so we both were well over her height anyways.

By Adena Ajike

The Flame

“I’m sorry,” the nurse said, obviously agitated. “I don’t

think you understand the situation you’re in. This is not a pub-

lic hospital, for bloodied up teenagers to come wandering

through. If anything, you need to go change, and get clean—.”

“Yeah,” Daniel interjected. “I don’t think you get the situ-

ation either. Because obviously you don’t know who we are.”

The nurse’s scowl deepened. “Well obviously not! Why would

I—?”

“Amy,” the voice came from behind the nurse. She

turned, in time to see a doctor appear from behind her. “Amy

it’s okay, they’re part of the Flame.”

The nurse, who was now Amy, blinked in surprise.

“What?!” She wheeled around to face whoever had just spo-

ken, then turned back to us, gaping.

“Yes, that’s Daniel Adaeze and Jonathan Aubertine.”

“Oh, oh, I’m so sorry,” the nurse said, her attitude taking

a drastic turn. “Come in, what patient do you want to see?”

“Abigail Aubertine,” I said. “My sister.”

“Oh, her, yes. She’s in bed eleven, to the left.” She looked

back at us, her eyes full of wonder, almost fear, than averted

her away.

I didn’t blame her. I’d just killed hundreds of people.

Well, if you could still classify them as people anyways.

“Leave,” I told Daniel. “Just get out of here.”

“Jonathan I just—”

“Leave.”

I heard him hesitate, then his footsteps echoing down the

hallway. And I was alone.

I walked down the rows of beds. They were all full of the

injured. Some were hemmewarriors, some here humans. All of

them looked horrible.

And then I stopped, because there she was.

I walked over to the side of the bed, and shakily sat down in

the chair next to it, staring at my sister. Her eyes were closed, her

face pale. She might have even been sleeping. But I knew better

than that. I remember them telling

me, when they were listing out the

dead and the injured after the

battle, back at the school.

Abigail Aubertine.

Sixteen years. Coma.

Going to the Dentist By Madison Prentice

Everybody goes to the dentist or the orthodontist. There are a lot of stories about how

people are terrified if the dentist. It’s not that I’m afraid of the dentist; it’s just that I

don’t like it. It’s extremely painful. Because no matter how you put it, sharp weapon-

like metal sticks in your mouth does not sound appealing.

Let’s start with the “Okay sweetie, I’m going to put this little card in your mouth and if

you’d bite down on it that’d be great,” part. First off, it’s not little. The card that the

kind lady that has more makeup than face shoves into your cheek is really sharp,

quite big, and digs into your gums. You have to bite down on that thing forever like

HELLO HOW LONG DOES IT TAKE TO PRESS A BUTTON.

Apparently, quite a long time because when I’m finally allowed to spit it out, I swear I

have one less layer of skin on the side of my mouth.

And when you lay on the chair, those lights are blinding. Yes, you gave me sunglasses.

No, that does not mean the light is not shining into my eyes and causing me to lose

my sense of sight. Like, I can’t even watch the crappy movie your showing on the TV

in front of me.

And the foamy, radioactive-looking substance they rub on your teeth tastes terrible. It

stings my mouth and all I want is a drink of water, but noooo. They have to stick

some kind of hose in your mouth and give you the teensiest amount of water and then

suck it out of your mouth before you can do anything. Could I at least have a drink

please?

And at the very end, when you hear “Almost done, I’m just going to look at your teeth,

okay?” And they pull out the weapons and poke and prod at your teeth, not caring if

your mouth bleeds or not. In fact, I think you could have some kind of stroke and

they would continue scraping at your pearly whites. Because, hello, that does not feel

like looking that feels like you trying to stab out my teeth.

After you’re done, you don’t even get a toy or anything. Because apparently, you’re

too old for that. I think, having to go through all of that, I deserve some kind of prize in

return.

WE Magazine

2013-2014

Cary Academy Middle School

1500 N. Harrison Avenue

Cary, NC 27513