A grieving child is locked in with his great fear It was frail. Old too. It had hair like twigs rotting in winter’s wrath. Easy to snap. Its body was made of a corpse of something beautiful, something fragrant. It was weak, lying there in the corner of the room, moonlight slowly spilling onto it. There was a child too. Red-cheeked, eyes swollen, he sat at the edge of the room whispering words that wouldn’t be listened to. It had eyes that couldn’t see, but could stab. And stab it did. The child might have cried, but it wouldn’t matter anyway. Nobody would listen except perhaps a guilty moon and a tired door. The door might as well be the child’s enemy, locking him inside a room with It. The child had scolded, begged, and cried to the loyal door who didn’t move from its position. The door didn’t have time for a poor child and its problems. No time at all. Time was a funny thing. It humored the child, making him feel like agonizing hours were weeks, perhaps even months. Time was sadistic. She laughed at the poor child and mocked his cowardice. Time was lonely, for whatever she touched aged and withered away. Far, far away. “Little child,” It whispered with its dry, wrinkled lips. “Come closer, will you?” The child didn’t move; instead, he trembled. “You’re not scared. Are you?” It said, inching closer. Time giggled and whispered something into the child’s ear. “I like children like you. You know that, right? You’re special.” It licked its lips, which now looked like a flooded forest, lifeless and solemn. The child hid his face. “Please don’t sulk in the corner.” The door had opened to his master. Time watched in disgust and slithered away. It fell back into its position, still and silent. The moonlight sighed in relief. The man smelled of wet grass after heavy summer storms. He looked like unwashed laundry that sat for days, waiting for something, for someone. But who could blame him? Not after what happened. “Papa!” the child wailed. He ran to his father’s side and embraced him, emptying rivers. Nothing but this moment mattered to the child. They sat there. Both saying nothing. Papa opened his mouth only to close it again. Slowly, he let his grip ease and dragged his arms off the child. “You need to understand. She won’t come back,” Papa said as calmly as he could. He was like a storm trying to hold back his rain, but frankly he was not doing very well. “Why did she leave?” The child asked with beady, unforgiving eyes. “She didn’t leave . . . it was an accident.” Papa bit his lips. “She still loves me, right?” the child said, holding on to his papa’s leg. The storm rained down. The wall had caught the child. It burst out laughing. “I am sorry. I can’t be around you.” Papa walked out of the room. Light splashed onto the child’s face. He sat in shock. Then, after the world caught up with him, he screamed. It was a loud and long scream. “Mama loved you.” The child stopped screaming and looked up with his tearful eyes. He saw a girl whose beauty had been stripped from her. Her hair was like a thornbush without roses. Face, tear-streaked. Hands, scarred. She might have been close with the child, but right now she was a stranger at the door. She sat next to the child and stroked his hair. “There is no point in screaming. He won’t listen.” She smiled. “Mama will come back. She always does,” the child said. “No. Not this time,” she said, putting her sad arms around the child. “Why, though?” the child said, pushing her arms away. “The heavens took her, and as we all know, the heavens are greedy, so greedy that they wouldn’t give her back in spite of her grieving children and lost husband begging for her return.” The girl stared at a dent in the wall. Fall 2 “Why are the heavens so greedy?” the child said, grasping onto the girl’s hand, staring at her with tear-filled eyes. The girl looked at the child and then stood up. “You’re too little,” she said, beginning to leave. “Don’t go! Not with It here!” the child began to scream again. “It?” the girl pried. “T-the broom,” the child whispered, crawling toward her. “The broom?” the girl said, eyebrows pointed up. “Yes, it was that one, the one that watched us that night when bad news slipped through the door and bore her away from me,” the child whimpered, pointing at the broom, who chuckled softly. “No wonder Papa kept you here.” The girl sadly sighed and left the room, closing the door behind her. Silence sat uneasily with the child. He slowly looked at the broom. It was upon him.

The narrator finds himself in an unfamiliar life I awoke on a dusty attic floor, old boxes surrounding me. The attic was otherwise barren, triangular with one opaque window across from me. I stood and opened the window to let some light in and a musty odor out. Carefully, I stepped down a ladder into what looked like my bedroom. Suddenly, I felt drawn out of my bedroom as I swung open my door and walked downstairs. I entered a giant dining hall festooned with rich silver carpet, tapestries, a piano, china, a table, and a plaque bearing my name—James Richardson. A painting that looked like me lay nearby, complete with my blond hair and blue eyes . . . even my single dimple. A carpet under my feet read “In Alia Vita” and a newspaper on the table noted the date of June 12, 1829. My eyes searched for my parents, but all I found was an envelope on the piano. The envelope read “Last Will and Testament.” I opened it, and all the paper inside read was “I give all my belongings to my dearest son, Reginald “Reggie” Richardson.” Who was this? Scared and confused, I ran outside, only to find my mother holding the hand of some unfamiliar boy. “I love you,” she told the boy. “You’re my favorite and only son.” I felt my heart shatter. I wanted to run to my mother, but the more I tried to move, the farther away she walked, hand in hand with her “son.” Mother and “son” started fading into the distance when, suddenly, the world around me slowed down. The birds were barely gliding in the sky. The falling leaves struggled to make it to the ground. A squirrel’s quick prance became a long motion full of effort. Was the Earth in a trance? Skulle Every movement was in slow motion. The ground caved in. I fell into a deep, black abyss. I awoke drenched with sweat, screaming. Was it all just a dream? Finally I rose and walked to the bathroom, in desperate need of a shower. There, I looked in the mirror. And Reggie looked back at me.

Fid must prove to her clan that she’s focused enough to be a hunter I sniffed the air. The fresh stench of prey filled my nose. I could identify it as a tiny mouse. Suddenly, I heard a little squeak. My eyes shot toward my target. I cautiously aimed my bow and . . . “Fid!” my father said. I sighed. That was my name. In my clan, “fid” means “fight.” I earned my name because I kicked at my mother’s stomach until I came out. Most people would describe me as a brown-haired, brown-eyed twelve- cycles-old who is always getting in trouble. I didn’t fit in with the other village girls. Unlike most of them, I didn’t like gathering berries. I wanted to hunt. “What are you doing with your brother’s bow?!” My brother was Oz—a headstrong thirteen-cycles-old who for some reason got to hunt in the Woods of Sedina. He was my opposite. He was blond haired, blue eyed, and loved the job that was given to him: hunting. “I—uh—I—saw a mouse and had to hunt it!” I yelled. “Okay, okay. Settle down and explain.” “It is not fair!” I was in full anger mode. “You know that we are going through a famine!” I cried. “Why do you think they recruited Oz to hunt!” Tears were now streaming down my face. “You know I am too distracted to gather. Hunting is the only thing I am good at!” Then there was silence. Silence is a funny thing. It is a stabbing pain in your chest. It is when you finally decide to let go and give up. “Fid, come here.” I slowly walked forward. “What is the number one rule in our clan?” “Listen to your elders.” I rolled my eyes. “So listen to me when I say you are not hunting.” He then reached out to take the bow. I stomped back to my hut, tears still stinging my eyes. Only the best of the clan gets to hunt. The elders had said that I was too distracted to hunt. The thing is that hunting is the only thing that I am not too distracted to do. After what seemed like forever gathering berries, I headed back. I heard Kin, the clan leader, calling all the elders to a meeting. Suddenly, a rush of adrenaline came through me as my hunting instincts kicked in. Carefully, I followed them, making sure not to make a sound. My heartbeat raced as I stealthily ran through the woods. Snap! A twig cracked under my feet. I froze like a small child, only four cycles old, who got caught playing with the sharp stones. I looked back and saw my clan in the distance. It was then that I knew that there was no turning back. “What was that?” Kin said. “Shh. Listen,” the chief gatherer, Hib, responded. I hide behind a huge rock. “Come on, we have work to do.” I exhaled a breath. For now, our uninvited guest was safe. I continued my eavesdropping. “We are running out of food,” Kin began. I could tell Kin sounded a bit panicked. Suddenly, a wave of terror washed over me. I wasn’t supposed to be here. “We need to move.” “We can’t! There are too many sick,” Hei, the lead shaman, responded. Dig, the nosy griot, said, “I am going to tell this to the other clans!” It took all I could not to scream Don’t! If the other clans heard about this, they would surely take advantage of our poor situation. “I don’t think that would be the wisest move,” Kin cautioned. Not the wisest move! What was he saying?! A lump formed in my throat. Then, that lump formed into hope. “There is a saber-tooth cat’s den nearby to here,” Hei started. “If someone could hunt it, we would have enough food to last until the sick get better.” That hope suddenly disappeared. The saber-tooth cat is one of the most dangerous animals. Despite my fear, I knew I had to do it. I carefully crept away and headed toward the den. The sky was slowly turning pink. That meant that the sky would soon turn black. I looked back and saw my clan in the distance. It was then that I knew that there was no turning back. First, I had to build a shelter for the night. I took the biggest leaf I could find and attached it to a stick. I then planted the stick into the dirt. I took some moss and covered my tent. I looked for a faint glowing orb just before my eyes closed and the world vanished. The orbs have always given me comfort. Then a miracle happened. Just for one second, I believed that everything would be okay. Soon, everything was gone. I woke up to my name. “Fid!” It was Oz, my brother. I quickly camouflaged myself in moss. “Fid, I know you are there.” I sighed. It was useless trying to hide. My brother could sniff me out from miles away. “What do you want?” I said groggily. “Do the others know?” “I want to come with you,” he said. “It’s too dangerous—wait. How do you know I was going to fight a saber-tooth cat?” He laughed. “Oh,” I said. He always had a way of finding information from me. “Now I definitely want to come with you.” So, that was that. I took a long stick and weaved a leaf through it to make a bow. Oz, who as the firstborn already had a bow, watched my progress. Next, I chipped a small rock to make an arrow point. I then tied the arrow point to a sharp stick. I turned towards my brother. He had already finished his stack of arrows. “How?” I asked, jealousy forming in the pit of my stomach. “Experience.” “You are only older than me by one cycle.” “One-and-a-half cycles to be exact.” I kicked the dirt. My brother always