Tag: Nora Roberts Young Writers Institute

   Alone.

It was the one word that perfectly described Jessica in that moment. Her eyes darted around the busy school corridor as hundreds of students chattered amongst themselves while they hurried down the crowded hallway. In the midst of the chaos, she appeared to be anything but alone. Jessica, however, felt differently.

I can’t let any of them know.

She kept repeating those words in her mind as she brushed past her fellow students as quickly as she could. She hadn’t expected her first week of college to turn out like this.

It had all started in biology class. The words her new teacher had spoken kept echoing through her mind. “Big Bang Theory…things just came into being…There’s no such thing as God…”

     Jessica squeezed her eyes shut to block out the memory of that class. Her heart ached to think of those words that had been spoken.

But, although she firmly believed in God and that He is the Creator of the universe, Jessica had regretted speaking up to her teacher the moment the words had left her lips. After being criticized by Ms. Benson, she had quickly learned to keep quiet and not speak out. In that moment she had decided that no one else would ever know of her convictions and beliefs. To the public, she would appear to accept her teacher’s statement and not question it.

Jessica sighed deeply. The truth was, not only did she question the statements of her science teacher, she highly disagreed with them! But that will just have to be my secret. No one else needs to know.

As the weeks continued, Jessica did manage to keep her beliefs a secret from the other

students and teachers. When the public saw her no one would ever guess that her beliefs were any different. However, her biology class was becoming increasingly offensive to her faith every day.

“What are you doing about the situation, Jess?” her mother asked her one day as they were talking on the telephone.

“Nothing,” Jessica admitted ashamedly, “I tried to speak up, but my teacher wouldn’t listen to me. So I’ve learned to just keep quiet in class. However, now I have to write and deliver a speech in favor of the evolutionary theory. Mom, I just can’t do that, but I could fail this class if I don’t!”

“Only you can make this decision on what to do, Jessica,” her mom answered her lovingly.

Jessica went about her day barely concentrating on her classes. When lunchtime came, she found a quiet place outside under an oak tree where she could be alone and think. Shortly after she had sat down in the grass another student came and sat down beside her.

Jessica looked up and gave a distracted smile. She recognized the girl from her biology class and she remembered her name as Emma.

“Hello, Jessica,” Emma smiled shyly.

“Hi, Emma,” Jessica replied, “How are you?”

Emma shrugged. “I’m okay. I’m just confused about something that I thought you could help me with.”

Jessica hesitated. “Okay, I’ll try.”

“I overheard your conversation with Ms. Benson our first week here.”

Jessica nearly choked on her sandwich. Someone knew of her secret?

“What I heard you say made me start to question the theories we’re being taught in class. Could such an intelligently designed world really come from just a random coincidence such as a big bang?” Emma sighed, “Anyway, I was just wondering, could you share with me some of your beliefs and maybe help me sort some of this out?”

Jessica drew in a shaky breath. Should she really do this? Suddenly, a feeling of guilt seeped into Jessica’s soul. Why were her beliefs a secret anyway? Was she that ashamed of the God of the universe that she wasn’t willing to risk being laughed at? She thought of how her God had held nothing back and had even died for her. How could she have disappointed Him by keeping Him the best kept secret of her college life simply because she was afraid of being laughed at? She knew she couldn’t do that any longer. It was time to stop pretending.

So, after pausing for just a moment, Jessica smiled at Emma and took her hand. “I’d love to help you.”

__________________

Worry grabbed at Jessica’s heart as she wrote the last sentence of her biology speech that was due today. She hadn’t written in favor of the evolutionary theory at all. Her speech was instead constructed of evidence to support a Creation worldview. She knew writing this kind of speech could land her a failing grade.

Jessica reflected back on how she had shared her faith with Emma the previous week. But sharing her long kept secret in a private setting was completely different than putting it out there for the rest of the public to know.

However, she was not content to stay quiet any longer. She had the chance to make a difference and she wasn’t going to let the opportunity pass her by. So with trembling fingers,

she picked up her written speech and sent up a silent prayer to God, the Creator of the universe.

Determined not to keep her faith a secret any longer, she followed the flow of college students headed towards her biology class. With confidence in her step and a smile on her lips, she prepared herself to share openly what she believed in her heart. Because the truth is, the key to faith is not supposed to be about locking it up and keeping it a secret. It is about unlocking it and letting it show.

Gwen was nearly vibrating with excitement. Her head twitched on the pillow with barely restrained energy. In a mere thirty blinks, her alarm would whine, opening the gate for her to morning, to breakfast, to people! She blinked, one, two…skip a few…thirty! Gwen catapulted out of bed and frantically showered, finishing before the water was hot. She kicked her brothers’ doors open and slid down the stairs banister, whooping with early morning delight. In less than a thousand clicks of her eyelids, she would be at school.

Blink.

“But when accusative pronouns are used to modify a person, they…” the professor hummed along at the edge of Gwen’s understanding, a bumblebee just out of swatting range. Her mind was swimming with consuls and conjugates, and her eyes started to darken, to droop. No! She couldn’t afford to fall asleep, to waste time. A wink of sleep threatened imperfect grades, unwatched spectacles; a life not lived to the fullest. She bent over her desk and copied. She could not afford to miss anything.

Blink.

Catherine leaned back on a bean bag, moaning.

“You have no idea how exhausted I am, girls,” she whimpered. Gwen nodded compassionately, but Bella snorted.

“Try Theoretical Astrophysics first thing in the morning, Cat. Then you can pretend at exhaustion,” Bella needled. Cat jerked up. Maybe she was pretending, Gwen thought, as Cat snarled,

“It’s hard enough functioning after homework, but I can hardly fall asleep some nights, what with seeing the Dream Stalker on the news and all.” Bella instantly swallowed her rancor, and Gwen leaned in. Cat was trembling. “I just keep watching all the pics of his victims, and hearing how their bodies were all found in their beds, and just keep envisioning waking up to that, that horrid…pale…mask…” Cat dissolved into tears. Gwen and Bella awkwardly held her while she sniffled.

“Don’t worry, dear, the cops will catch him. He will make a mistake and they will catch him. They always do,” Bella consoled her. The killer always makes mistakes? Gwen wondered. Or the police always capture them? Something that Catherine had said was niggling at her.

“How do you know what color his mask is? How do you know he even wears a mask?” Gwen probed gently. Cat hiccupped, and then laughed.

“Poor, poor, Gwendolyn. Always behind the times,” Cat tittered through her tears, “look.” She pulled out her fancy new phone and showed her friends the screen. Gwen’s eyes quickly flitted around the frame of the picture, homing in on details. It was on “castorcitypolice.gov”, so the photo was no internet prank. It was a BOLO, which meant the cops were so desperate they had resorted to crowdsourcing. The picture itself was from a steep angle, probably a security camera. In the grainy darkness of the screen, a white-masked shadow was captured in profile. The mask was cold and featureless save for the black-rimmed eyeholes and aquiline nose; malevolence, fleeing the scene. Ice settled in her stomach.

“Oh, dearie! You’ve gone so pale,” Catherine cried. “I’m sorry. Now you won’t be able to sleep tonight,” she apologized.

“Or ever again, by the looks of her,” Bella teased, and the two of them burst into laughter, banishing their fear. Gwen swatted them away irritably. They had made her lose the count! Was she on eleven thousand five hundred sixty nine blinks today, or eleven thousand five hundred sixty seven? She had to keep the count. She could not…

Blink.

Blink.

Blink.

The Dream Stalker seized Gwen’s wrist. His ancient, arthritic hand held her more firmly than fear. His face looked so naked without the mask, wrinkled and ugly, like a baby. His mouth writhed, and spat out,

“Hot.” Gwen nodded gently and dabbed the murderer’s forehead with a damp cloth. The old man eased his grip and snuggled deeper into his blankets. Gwen stood up and left him where he lay on the floor of the barn. She cleaned up the plates and cups, and hid his food and medication stores under a hay bale. With any luck, no one would find this lonely place; if they did, then all they would see was a homeless man, swaddled in woolen dreams. As she was laying out his breakfast for tomorrow, the legend turned and gazed at her with failing eyes. “The boys in blue will not find me, will they, girl? You did not tell them?” he pleaded. His voice quivered with fear. She patted his hand.

“I told no one,” she whispered, “no one. You are safe here,” she reassured. He nodded dimly, and shriveled into his bedding.

“Yes,” he rasped, “safe.” Gwen leaned over and kissed his brow. She was too late; he was already dreaming. Such a poor, wretched old man, she marveled. He had been great once; he had torn all up and down the East Coast, killing women in their sleep and leaving traces only to tease the “boys in blue”. That had been thirty years ago. He was old now, forgotten, his murders pinned on his younger brother—case closed. She was glad the man was so old-fashioned—he would be hurt that someone actually was killing under his name. She turned to go.

Gwen looked on the wall where the Dream Stalker hung his reminders; the straight killing knife, as sharp and cold as memory; the curved blades for ripping; the mask. Through unblinking black sockets the white mask watched. It was cold and impassive, sleek and sleepless. She fastened it to her face, and it fit as lightly and naturally as a dream that one returns to, after a long banal day.

The Dream Stalker ran on through the night, each footfall claiming the earth as her own. Her breath was calm and measured. Her hands were steady and full of steel. Her path was unwavering and sure. And in her head, the count.

Blink.

Blink.

Blink.

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.