Category: Nora Roberts Young Writers Institute

To pass my time when I was younger, I used to explore my grandparents’ estate in order to see what treasures could be found. For a long time, there was nothing. I was searching in the wrong places. Treasure isn’t always buried beneath the earth. Sometimes it’s buried above it. On the seventy-fifth day of my search to nowhere, my grandfather brought me into his attic where I instantly knew my unsuccessful days of finding ‘buried treasure’ were over.

He supervised my adventures, making sure nothing was broken in the process of pursuing my fictional life as a hero. An old video game console caught my eye on the eightieth day. My grandfather seemed to have forgotten that he owned it to begin with. How insulting. I’m only twelve years old, therefore video games are my life. I went on one last grand adventure to find a game named Campbell to place in the console.

I soon became obsessed. Passionately obsessed more so than any other game I ever played. My grandfather happily sent me home with his old possessions to keep after a straight week of playing them. From morning until night my stubby fingers frolicked across the controller. You would think school was my escape, but every piece of my brain that held potential to hold any new information the world was offering me was preoccupied by my game. I started failing tests in classes I usually aced. That was the final straw for my mother. She took Campbell away.

I didn’t know what to do with myself. Should I start going back on adventures at my grandparents’ estate? Maybe my mother gave the demon back to the man who dished it out. I could find it again if I wanted. Or should I just try to forget about it? There was the key word: try to forget. I couldn’t forget. On the third night that I was left without my fairy tale friends, I shut my eyes to go to sleep and I had the most vivid dream. It was so clear that it could have been reality. I was talking to the King in his castle. He appeared the same as any other time I saw him.

“My crown has been taken by the creatures who guard the Ice Palace on the other side of the kingdom. I would retrieve my property myself, but I cannot leave. A curse has been placed upon me. If my crown is not returned, all of Campbell will end in total war.”

He offered me the chance to take the quest and become the hero I always dreamed of being. In my most impressive voice, I accepted.

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Chelsea Cahill has participated in the Nora Roberts Young Writers Institute at Hagerstown Community College. She attends Palmyra High School in New Jersey and has been one of the editors of the yearbook at her school for the last two years. She is also a member of the Spanish National Honor Society, Student Council, and the National Honor Society. Cahill has written two young adult novels. She is currently working on her third.

My door has been locked for 3 years, 8 months, and 26 days. I have explored this 25′ x 25′ room over and over again. Waking, pacing, eating, searching, sleeping, and then starting the process again for 3 years, 8 months, and 25 days. It took less than a week for it to become my monotonous routine. Doing it over and over and over again…
Some nights, after a long day of pacing and pacing and pacing, nightmares consume me. I scream, even after I wake, with no one to console me. No mother to hold me close, no father to check under my bed for monsters. But in this room, with its broken toilet in one corner and a too-small blanket and ratty pillow in another, there  is no place for the monsters to hide. Or at least, that’s what I thought.
For 1 year, 6 months, and 19 days, I’ve been thinking about the bare door, locked from the outside. For 1 year, 4 months, and 7 days, I’ve pondered the fact that this eternal darkness I’ve been shrouded in has become comforting. That the unidentified meat that falls through a hole in the ceiling is appealing to me. That I can’t remember a day when there weren’t voices echoing through my mind.
It took me 2 years, 2 months, and 7 days to realize that the bare door was to keep something inside, not keep something out. It took me 2 years, 4 months, and 19 days to realize that the reason why there’s no one to console me, why there’s no mother to hold me close, no father to check under my bed for monsters, why there’s no one to protect me….is because they can’t save me…..from me.

Each breath bites my lungs, the smoke coursing through my battered body. I lay in burning rubble, embers drifting above me, disappearing into the hazy night sky. I gather all my strength and stagger onto my feet, suddenly noticing the presence behind me. Whipping around, I come face to face with an elderly man. His face is smeared with ash, and his eyes are distant and grey.

“You’re a lucky one, you are.” He grunts, coughing in-between words. I nod my head, flashbacks from the scene that had just unfolded flooding back into my mind. Only a few moments earlier, the crackle of flames had jolted me awake. Opening my eyes, I was immediately overwhelmed by the fiery blaze consuming my bedroom. My mind went blank; all focus shifted to getting out. As I began bolting toward the door, not a single thought about turning back crosses my mind. It’s not until now that I think back on the others who had been in the house, sleeping through the dancing flames.                                             “There’s nothin’ ya could’ve done, boy,” He says, glancing up as my face twists in horror, “The riots are gettin’ worse by the day, good luck kid.” He pats my shoulder and trudges away, sending a final sad smile before turning away. If only he knew what I had done. I could’ve saved every person in that house, but no. I hadn’t even given them a second thought. What does that make me, a killer? An orphaned killer at that, alone in the ruins of an empty town.

The streets are littered by survivors. They wander the town, mourning the dead and pitying the living. I silently tread past them, forcing my gaze from their distant expressions. All I want to do is scream; scream until there’s no one left to hear. Everything I ever knew lies in ashes, innocent bodies buried for the sake of the foolish. Nothing matters now, because now I am nothing. There’s nothing left to live for. Walking beyond the wreckage, I find myself among a street that remains untouched. The homes sit peacefully under the smoky stars, unaware how terribly close they are to tragedy. I smile to myself, somewhat calmed by the little piece of town that still remains. In the distance, the darkness begins to slowly fade away. The sky is washed orange overhead, and I patiently wait for the morning sun to appear. It never does. Eyes widening, I run toward the source of the glowing color, instantly recognizing the scene that is laid out before me. The last home on the street is a living inferno, spitting flames in every direction. I listen for an alarm, but hear only the crackle of flame. The family has no warning that this could be the end. Soon they’ll be gone, just another thing lost. Anyone left inside that house has no chance of ever leaving; this is it. Suddenly, I bolt toward the door, holding my shirt collar to my face. This is for every soul lost to the flames, every future burnt by death. I may not have anything left to live for, but at least now I have something worth dying for.

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Alyson Grace Flora is presently a student at Oakdale Middle School. She has honors in Language Arts, and was admitted into the Highly Able Learner program for advanced learning abilities through her reading and writing. She was presented with a young author’s award for poetry, and attended the Nora Roberts Young Writers Institute during the summer of 2014.

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