That stare he uses.

That stare they all use.

Who?

They. The boys.

What boys?

All boys. The boys I know. The boys I’ve seen. Why do they do this?

Do what?

Stare. Stare at me with those daunting eyes. Those eyes that linger for just a second too long. Those eyes that tell me so much more than what their mouths are saying. Those eyes that…

What’s wrong with that?

Everything, Ignorance. Everything is wrong with that. Don’t you see?

No.

Then come look. Open your eyes for once. See them taunting you, craving you, telling you the secrets you’ve wanted to know, whether you’ve asked to hear them or not. See, my friend, the eyes are the gateway to the heart for these creatures. They are relied on to express what has been held back, what the lips will not permit to speak. And the longer the lips hold back, the stronger the eyes grow.

Do you understand now?

No.

See, the stronger the eyes become, the harder it is to resist.

Resist what?

You truly are your given name, I see. As once said, open your eyes! Can you see them pulling you into the pit of temptation? Confusion lingering in the question, “Is it love?” Only to bring you to a fork that splits down two paths, one of heavenly well-fed desires and one of deep despair? It usually coursing you down the second path?

Excuse my frustration, but do you see now?

No. For I apologize, Suspicion, but no. And never will I. Although Ignorance has been a given name to me, I often go by another. One that often means much more to the falling, to the hurting, to the calling, to the caring. I prefer to go by that name, if you will. And, whether you know this or not, you are my enemy. I can only doubt your ways, Suspicion. Those stabbing eyes are only welcoming in my perspective. Those eyes help me understand the aching, the hurting, the falling. Nothing else could explain the depth of these beautiful creatures as well as those stabbing eyes. Those stabbing eyes that express what the lips will not permit to speak. Those taunting and craving and secret telling eyes. Those gateways into the heart.

So, if you will, refer to me not by my given name, but by my chosen name.

Call me Love, Suspicion.

Call me Love.

—

Desiree Brown has been writing ever since she was able to. She enjoys writing song lyrics, poetry, scripts, and has started writing several romantic novels. Homeschooled for grades K-12, Desiree is now attending as a junior at Central Piedmont Community College in Charlotte, NC at age seventeen. She continues to work toward her major in Journalism and minor in Creative Writing as she attends English and American Literature classes at Central Piedmont and will be attending the University of North Carolina in the fall of 2015. Desiree has also attended the Young Writer’s Institute at Hagerstown Community College and has been working toward her poetry book, “Roses Are Read,” that will be published in the spring of 2015.

“GIVE HER BACK,” the girl shouted. “Give her back to me!”

The waves continued to lap against the shoreline, oblivious to her pleas. The girl screamed against the consistent pounding noise. It made no difference. The current does not give back what it washes away. The sea does not care if you live or die. It has endured since the beginning–ancient creatures lurking in its endless depths of night. There is greater mystery in the abyss than the whole of the universe. And one pale, bloated corpse beating against a coral reef is the least of the horrors lurking under its surface.

–

Alexandra Helms is currently pursuing a Bachelor of Arts in Literature at UNC-Asheville, and is training to teach English at the high school level. Her poetry has appeared in UNCA’s literary magazine, Headwaters. She is interested in writing literary fiction, fantasy, and horror. She has also attended the Nora Roberts Young Writers Institute in Maryland.

–

I wake to the sound of sirens and the smell of smoke. When did I black out? How long was I gone? I cough and sit up as best I can, looking around me. Everything is burning. Suddenly I remember my child. I have to find my kid. I’m on the floor next to the over that burns, a blinding light. Crawling across the ground, hands and knees barely support me as I slowly make my way to the living room where his crib sits. I cannot find my kid.

Frantic now, heart pounding with urgency, I crawl to the bathroom in hopes I’ll find him there. Crispy soap, melted shampoo bottles, and foul-smelling towels surround me. My kid is not here. He is not hiding in the cupboard or behind the mirror. I cannot find my kid.

My lungs are clogged from smoke and my breathing is labored as I search around the rest of the lower floor, wondering why no firemen, no ambulances have arrived to save us. Slowly, I gather up my breath enough to shout, “Enola! Enola!” No response. No faint giggle. No panicked wail. I cannot find my kid.

I manage to reach the furthest back room without too much difficulty, though the fire is growing higher around me. He got away, I tell myself over and over, until I believe it to be true. If that’s true, though, why haven’t they come back for me? I brush the thought aside. I’ve been moving around too much. Maybe they can’t find me. It’s worth it for Enola. I will do anything for him. The couch has nothing under it. The shelves hold nothing but the remains of shattered pots. I cannot find my kid.

Finally, I collapse and decide it’s time to drag myself to the front door. The firemen and doctors are here now, so I can ask them where he is. Trembling, in pain, fear, and smoke inhalation I manage to pull myself up to the door. All the men in white jackets rush over to me. “Where is my son?” I croak, barely breathing. Barely awake. Barely alive. Before the can answer, the world goes black again. I finally found my kid.

–

Elizabeth Robson is currently a student at Waynesboro Area Senior High School. She has attended several classes for her writing, including the Nora Roberts Young Writers Institute program at Hagerstown Community College. She attends high-level classes and has received awards for her academic success, including the Presidential Award of Academic Excellency.

Burning was the pleasure I was given at the start. The burning of this…this sadness was needed for the world I live in. Honestly people need to learn that family and friends are needed, but they never do so, they end up in the furnace. Sometimes when I kill and burn, nothing happens, no happiness, but when it’s a young child a tear rolls down my cheek.

My name is Clarence Cannister, my occupation is a Firefly. Basically a Firefly is a murderous pyromaniac. Why? For so long widowers, loners, homeless, and the sick have plagued our glorious country like a viral disease. And we, the Fireflies, were created to cure it but for some reason this job has gotten harder and harder to do. Days pass before I ever close my eyes to fall asleep. Honestly sleep isn’t the only thing that’s been messed with.

Nights seem endless when looking for “firewood” for the furnace. Sometimes when I try to pick up victims my shoulders feel like rubber, my feet are weaker than a newborn baby, and my stomach is filled with butterflies. Sometimes I tell myself I’m too old for this job and don’t turn in anything. Joseph, my manager, just sometimes gives me a cold hard glare on those nights. Who is Joseph the manager and why do I need one? Every Firefly is given a manager who gives them money for the bodies they turn in. They’re only there so we don’t burn the whole city down.

See there’s more to this job than killing and burning. The other way this job is important is because our furnace’s fuel the heat for all the houses in the city. Quite ironic isn’t it? We take dead people to feed the furnaces to warm the homes of the living. Sorry but death just doesn’t concern me anymore. I mean the big guys upstairs could get rid of me right now. Death is inevitable, never will there ever be a change. Heck I had to fry my predecessor in order to secure my place in this job.

“Clarence report to Officer Johnson’s office immediately” the overhead speaker said.

“Great” I said knowing this was another lecture on how I wasn’t doing well enough and that the city needs me to do my job right.

Honestly I couldn’t think right now even if I wanted to, I am tired and lonely, oh so lonely. You’d think a 45 year old man who’s been lonely all his life could withstand the solitude, but I just can’t. Nothing can or could probably help this but I just have to move on…I have to.

“Sit down Clarence I have something to tell you” my boss started, trying to sound comforting to ease my suspicions that I was about to lose my job. “Now Joseph has been telling me that you have been bringing nothing for the furnace to burn,” Johnson paused for a moment looking at the desk that sat between us as though he would rather pick it up and throw it at me than talk to me right now. “And so for the final time you are fired” Johnson concluded then looked me directly in the eyes for a half second before looking back down at the desk with the set and determined scowl.

“You’re joking aren’t you Johnson, now come on really can I get back to work” I knew he had to be joking.

“No Clarence, you know that this is over. You had a good run. I congratulate you on how long you made it, most Firefly’s don’t make it this long.”

“Johnson don’t do this, I can do it! I can keep going, please don’t fire me, I’m just tired.”

“No Clarence I can’t. You’ve messed up too many times, and honestly in your condition it would seem in your best interest to leave or get burned.”

“Oh…ok please I want to live. I’ll leave, go to a different city so I won’t bother you guys anymore.”

“Ok Clarence I’ll give you one day to get to wherever you are going. That’s all you get, but if they find you…” he finished his sentence with the flick of his lighter.

Johnson was just touching the flame to the tip of his fresh cigar as I quickly turned and left his office. My mind was racing, insane with fear and simply so much shit I can’t understand. Why am I surprised at any of this, I knew this was happening, I knew I would get fired, which really means killed and put in the furnace like all of the other Fireflies before me that couldn’t do their job anymore. I didn’t have much time, maybe 5 hours before I get caught and sentenced to the fate that I have carried out on so many others. I have no place to live, no place to go.

In the morning two collectors picked up a body that wasn’t recognized but was found in a puddle of sweat, rain, or maybe even…tears. But for whatever reason no one could figure out why he was out in the open, no one even knew the man’s name, occupation, or age nothing but the mark of a lightning bug on his right shoulder was the only thing that was different…the bug was called the Firefly.

–

BIO:

Neil Thomas was/has attending Nora Young Roberts Writers Institute. Neil has honors for some of his stories. Neil goes to Boiling Springs High School in Carlisle, PA. Neil has also attended other writing panels/conferences. Neil has tried on many attempts to create and share video games.