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Scuba of Death

20 Feb

By Sammi Stern
8th Grade

I jump into the crisp ocean, ready for the swim of a lifetime. My wetsuit and oxygen tank are connected to my body as if another organ. I tug on the rope once to let them know I’m okay. I see the brightest colors in the world scattered on fish and coral. I glide alongside an octopus. I slowly crash onto the ocean floor and let the sand settle. I take a while just to appreciate where I am. I let the sunbeams dance on my hands.

My serene surrounding soon turns into a crime scene as water begins to flood my mask. I gasp for my last breath of air. I try to tug the rope but I’m already turning blue. So I stop struggling and let the tide take me.


No Second Chances

20 Feb

By Marhina RT
8th Grade 

My momma raised me to believe that everyone deserved a second chance. O’course, her beliefs never really carried over to me. I had met too many people who got somethin’ they didn’t deserve, to believe that trust was a human right and not somethin’ they had to slave over to regain.

That’s why my momma never made it far in life; she never shared my outlooks. She was too trustin’, believing that Daddy deserved a second chance, that Gran’pa would get better, that no harm would come her way if she kept spreadin’ around the good. I knew better. Gone was the naïve little kid who thought all grownups knew everything, and in their place was a person who knew how to read others.

So never did it cross my mind that I might get a second chance.

I never really wanted redemption. I wasn’t one for absolution. In my eyes it was overrated.

So I didn’t think twice when I pulled that trigger.

I was raised in the belief that people were inherently good; but life ain’t a fairy tale. No matter the contents of your heart, good guys don’t make history books. I certainly aim to. You gotta play dirty for a ticket to a clean life.

I deal in secrets; the cliché that works. Dig around enough and you can find something that even those CEO scoundrels would be ashamed of. If not, you could always go with the old-fashioned method of eliminating your competition. Worked for me.

The Pen

20 Feb

By Ella Bartt
8th Grade

The man sat at the bus stop, on his way to work. His bag was in one hand and his coffee was in the other. While he waited, he was sipping coffee and thinking. He then decided it would be better to write something down. The notebook was flipped open, words being written on its pages.

The bus pulled up right on time, screeching to a stop. The man got up, grabbed his things, and left. His pen sat on the bench still, left behind. Its ink had been used to write important words. Would he notice its absence right away? Or later? What had it written? He may wonder where it went and never find it. Maybe it was his favorite pen. But there it sat, abandoned at the bus stop.

A Day Off

20 Feb

By Gabriel Urban-Green
8th Grade

Once there was a little girl named Sadie. Like, Sadie with a heart on top of the “i.” She was an egg-sucking apple-polisher. Everyone hated her. Whenever the teacher forgot to give homework she would politely remind her to still assign it. At recess, whenever she wasn’t tattling on people for “eating on the blacktop,” and “swearing,” she would wipe off chalkboards and read.

Then there was a wonderful day. Sadie was walking home, a trucker hit her so hard that her head came flying off. Her guts came cannoning out and blood dumped all over the sidewalk.

When the students and teachers found out, they took the day off. They played soccer with her head, tug of war with her guts.


20 Feb

By Kayla Ro
8th Grade

Snow drifted down, making the awful landscape a beauty. I drifted closer to the fire, my eyes scanning the room. It was simple: a table with some chairs, a fireplace, a chest, a sofa, and two doors. One out, one to my bed. And then three was that trapdoor, below the false bottom of the chest.

“That thing we must not think about,” I whispered, locking up those memories.

Scritch, the noise came from the chest, but I was imagining it. There it was again, louder, more demanding. I must be making it up, but my body was inching backwards. A third time it came and my memory was opening the chest.

It was a few years ago and I couldn’t find my parents. As I looked through the chest, my fingers lifted the fake bottom. Excitement coursed through my veins. After pulling up the fake bottom, I discovered and opened the trapdoor.

It was pitch black, but my curiosity pushed me down the steps. I stumbled down the steps, running into a door. Opening it a sliver, a horrifying scene met my eyes, but I was so terrified I couldn’t scream. A monster tearing apart their bodies. I slammed the door, ran up the stairs and locked the chest.

The next week I went back down, seeing a few bloodstains, but I couldn’t see the monster.

The next day, the scene was the same, but with that scratching noise. It penetrates my nightmare and that spot in my memory I want to forget. Lost in memory. I didn’t notice until the chest was halfway open. Why couldn’t I scream? The last thing I saw was my mother’s broken body.

And the snow drifted down, a beauty mere inches from horrors.

The Race

20 Feb

By Charles Gamble
8th Grade

I always thought I’d get another chance, sprinting, seeing people pass me. Nothing good could come from this. And only halfway. Looking back, I don’t know why I came here. What could I possibly gain? Then I fell over and threw up.


20 Feb

By Lyara Phillips
8th Grade

I always thought I would get another chance to stop those voices in my head, but they had control of my hands. They would pick up a knife and just stab something. Sometimes they would stab public property, but most times it was other people. As my hands would be thrusting the blade back and forth, there would be nothing I could do but cry and beg the voices to stop. One day when I had the control back in my hands, I picked up the blade and got to exact the revenge of those taken souls.