The Ravenous Bees by Cole Kraus

In Cole Kraus’ original tale, told in the protagonist’s conversational voice, ordinary objects take on hilarious and macabre meanings.

The Ravenous Bees

An Excerpt by Cole Kraus

My family and I are going to Florida to visit my grandparents. Well, there’s really nothing so grand about them, that’s for sure. My mom said I have to look presentable when we see them. Presentable? They’re our family for Pete’s sake! I mean, I’m not going to show up in a ripped shirt and baggy shorts. Anyway, every time we go to visit my grandparents, we have to go to the mall!

    

Personally, I dislike going to malls. I’d rather be doing something more productive, like taking photographs. However, we ended up going, just like we always do. Once my mother and I were inside the dreaded building, I glanced over my shoulder because I saw the automatic doors open. But the strange thing was, I didn’t see anybody pass through.

We kept on going. But it always felt like someone was following me. It was kind of creepy, if you know what I mean. It was really getting to me; I even felt like something was almost touching me!     

     

At this point my mother was off shopping in her favorite stores and I was wandering about in others, just to pass the time.

Everybody in the mall was staring at me as if I had three heads, and I heard a kid whisper to his mother, “Is that a costume?”

The next time I passed a mirror, I stopped to look at myself, and then I screamed because small honeybees covered my entire t-shirt. I ran as fast as I could to the bathroom.

Just then, a woman walked into the restroom.

“Crap. This must be the Ladies Room,” I said to myself.

The woman yelled and ran away, once she noticed me and the bees.

However, I didn’t have any time to locate another bathroom. I just needed to deal with these bees. I immediately started the jet hand dryer. Luckily, the bees started to fly off, so I just stayed there. Once the bees were all off, they began swarming, flying in circles, totally unlike the first time I saw them. It was so chaotic and just overall strange, so I rubbed my eyes, just to make sure it wasn't an awful dream. Unfortunately, it wasn’t.

Just then, a cleaning person came through the bathroom door. As soon as she witnessed the scene, she quickly shut and then locked the door behind her.

“Wait! Help! Don’t leave me here!” I called after her, but she was long gone.

Just then, I saw a bright red box bolted to the wall beside me. Inside rested an emergency axe. I quickly ran to it, leaving the safety of the hand dryer. The case was locked, but I didn’t have time for manners. So, I smashed it open with my foot, and grabbed the axe.

“Six years of soccer finally paid off,” I thought.

Suddenly, a siren sounded right as I removed the axe from its holder. This did not help the situation. It was so loud I felt like my ear drums were going to explode! However, I didn’t slow my pace. Once the axe was in my grasp, I swung it at the door as hard as I could, but the axe just bounced off the wood not even making a dent.

I tried twice more, getting the same results. Then, I swung so hard I missed the door completely and almost landed on my backside. It reminded me of when I was in my town baseball playoffs when I struck out against Brad Marks to end the game. He was the fastest and meanest pitcher in the league, and no one liked him. This time though, there weren’t a hundred people in the stands watching me fail, just a couple of thousand honeybees. It wasn’t until the fifth try that I succeeded in splitting the wooden door of the restroom. It was like hitting a grand slam. I swung again, this time making significant damage, enough for my body to fit through. Then again, I thought, if it’s enough for me, it’s enough for the bees as well.

As soon as I exited the splintered door, I had my eyes peeled for my mom. This was not a simple mission though, because it was a very large mall. Just then, I spotted her shopping in a clothing store. I quickly busted through the glass doors, knocking over a manikin in the process. 

“Oh, hi Joe,” my mom said when she noticed me. Oh, and believe me, I was pretty easy to notice.

“We need to get out of here,” I said, tugging at her arm.

“Just one minute, I need to check out first,” she said.

“No time for that,” I said, urging her on.

“Joe, I know you don’t like the mall, but I just have to pay. We’ll be out in a second,” she said.

I sighed.

After about two minutes of her standing in line I began to sweat, because I saw the pack of honeybees coming from the women’s restroom. Another minute went by, and I couldn’t wait any longer. So, I burst into the check out line and grabbed my mom’s arm, pulling her through the store and out the doors, disrupting multiple shoppers, and somehow I ended up making a baby cry.

Immediately, alarms sounded, because of my mom’s unpaid items.

“Joe, what’s going. . . .

But my mom was interrupted.

“Hey, look, thieves!” an older women said, waving her cane up in the air.

“Citizen’s arrest!” a burly woman screamed, before throwing her bags to the side and effortlessly tackling my mom to the floor, like a rugby player.

Since I was holding my mom’s arm at the time, I stumbled down right with her.

“You don’t understand,” I yelled, once back on my feet. “We’re not thieves!”

“Well, you sure look like thieves to me!” she said. “If you’re not thieves, then how do explain running away with these clothes? And another thing, aren’t you a little young to be robbing a store?” she said, looking at me.

“I’m not robbing anything!” I said, starting to get annoyed.

I mean, the woman had a point. We did appear suspicious. Well, it’s more like I looked suspicious. I was the one who dragged my mom into this mess, and when I say dragged, I literately mean dragged.

“What’s going on Joe?” my mother asked, again.

“I’ll tell you later. Come on!” I blurted out, right before I took off for the car.

It felt as if I was in a bullring, the bees being the bull and I being the helpless picador trying to avoid the killer beast and flee to safety.

Suddenly, a policeman muscled through the crowd that had quickly formed.

“This just keeps getting better and better,” I said aloud.

He didn’t chase us too far, because he soon realized why we were running. We weren’t running from him, we were running from the honeybees. The policeman immediately became the pursuee instead of the pursuer, and so did everyone else. However, the bees were not interested in anyone else. They were like fruit flies at a farmer’s market where there was only one fruit, and I was that fruit.

About the Author

At 13-years-old, Cole Kraus likes to entertain his readers in a realistic way. He enjoys the work of authors Harper Lee, Suzanne Collins, Jonathan Swift, and John Steinbeck. 

Maybe He's Mental by Allison Stillerman

Since Allison Stillerman considers her novel, Maybe He’s Mental, absurdist, maybe it shouldn’t come as a surprise that Jamie in the chapter that follows, doesn’t realize that his best friend Peter is imaginary.

Maybe He’s Mental

An excerpt by Allison Stillerman

“I thought you were gone,” Jamie explained sorrowfully, eyes crinkling and one side of his mouth scrunching up like a drawstring pouch. “You weren't there when I needed you. The only people I had were that weird guy in the scrubs and some teacher with paint on her shoulders.”

“Sweetiecakes, you have more paint, blood, soot, dirt, and chloroform on you than someone who just got dragged through a vat of paint, blood, soot, dirt, and chloroform. I don't really think you're quite in a position to criticize other people's hygiene,” Peter informed him, eyebrows raised.

“Your hair is messy,” Jamie joked, chuckling weakly and trying to smile. Peter put his hands on his hips.

After they had stared at each other for a bit, Peter discreetly smoothing his already-impeccable hair and Jamie wishing he didn't have to try so hard to be cool, asked awkwardly, “So, where did the teacher-lady and the doctor-y guy go?”

“They're dead, Jamie.” Peter's voice was a monotone. “The woman died of blood loss after trauma to the head and feet; the man wandered onto the highway and got hit.”

“What?” Jamie asked in disbelief, trying to sit up and falling back on the lumpy bed with a moan. “Owwwwwwwww.”

“Oh, suck it up, you big baby. That hole is barely big enough to be considered a wound.” Peter snorted, all semblances of respect for the dead gone. “Just because you got hit in the stomach with a flaming piece of a car door doesn't mean you can act like a sissy.”

“Owww...” Jamie continued, oblivious to Peter's snide comments. “Peter, if this is a hospital, shouldn’t there be doctors?”

“You don't need a doctor,” Peter scoffed. “You've got me, and my godlike good looks radiate health and healing.”

Jamie fidgeted uncertainly.

“No, seriously.” Peter nodded his head, laughter dropping off of his face like a teardrop made of cement. “You don't need any of this namby-pamby medical nonsense. We're going to get you out of here; all of these chemicals are probably bad for you.”

“Peter, I can't walk.” Jamie didn't understand why Peter didn't realize this; there was a hole in his stomach. Where skin used to be. And it hurt.

“Yes, you can,” Peter insisted. “Your brain is just telling you that you can't, but really you're perfectly fine. You can take a five minute rest, because you’re a sissy, but then we’re leaving.”

“Peter, I'm really not sure--”

“Shut up!” Peter yelled, stomping his foot and wincing when he stubbed his toe on the padded plastic chair. “Just take your damned break, and then we're out of here.” A nurse was pushing a cart past Jamie's open door, and he was surprised that she hadn't noticed Peter's outlined plans for Jamie's escape.

Wincing, Jamie cringed and obeyed, lying patiently in the hospital bed and wishing that the sheets weren't so damn scratchy and that the hospital gown didn't have Velcro in the back, as the sharpish edges were digging into his spine.

Five minutes of tapping his foot and pacing later, Peter decided that is was time to leave, and yanked all of the needles out of Jamie's arm with a flourish, seven tiny new holes leaking blood from Jamie's arm appearing as he yelped.

“Enough dilly-dallying!” Peter announced grandly, scattering the clear tubes on the floor and letting their contents leak onto the tiling. “It's time to go!”

“Peter, I really don't think—” Jamie began, but was cut off when he found himself sliding out from under the flimsy bed-covers that the hospital had provided and over the clearly too low bedrail, letting his upper body dangle over the edge. “Peter!” Jamie wailed, floundering for a few seconds before realizing that floundering was causing him to slide towards the floor at an alarming rate. After a moment's struggle, he freed his arm from underneath him and stuck it out towards the floor, the heel of his hand connecting painfully with the tiles, since his depth perception had been slightly off in his panic. “Peter, help me up!”

Peter, who really should have been assisting Jamie, just stood next to the bed with his arms crossed, and laughed at Jamie's predicament. “Jamie, get your ass up; we have to go before the nurse comes around to check on you.”

“Peter, in case you haven't noticed, I don't have a ton of choice where my ass is at this particular moment,” Jamie wheezed. The bar of the bed was pressing into his wound, and even though the doctors had him doped up, and he was heavily padded and bandaged and whatnot, there was an ache that cut through the haze of pharmaceuticals, a sharp pain that was preventing him from thinking particularly rationally. It was because of this block to his judgment that he decided that releasing his grip on the bed and allowing himself to slide over the rail and onto the floor tiles might be a good idea.

Two minutes, a lot of pain, and an obscene amount of swearing later, Jamie was sprawled uncomfortably on the floor of his hospital room, his hospital gown hitched up to his upper thighs, which left him extremely thankful that he didn't have a roommate.

“Okay, now what?” he asked Peter, voice strained as if someone were sitting on his windpipe. “Seriously Peter, I don't think I can walk.”

“Yes, you can,” Peter insisted. “You're lying to yourself. Now get up off the floor, pull down your nightie, and let's go!”

Grunting, Jamie pushed himself up onto his elbows so that he was in the position his gym teacher kept telling him was the “yoga seal” even though Jamie personally thought it was more like a beached porpoise. Drawing his knees up underneath him, he scooted into a sitting position, using the side of the bed (its first useful application since he had arrived at the hospital) as a handle so that he could heave himself upright more easily.

“See, you're standing!” Peter said happily. “Walking will be no problem at all!”

“Will you hold my hand?” Jamie asked hopefully, wobbling back and forth like a jack-in-the-box on a particularly loose spring. “For support?”

Peter's good mood sprouted wings and flew away, probably to find someone who was in general happier, leaving Jamie with a cold, stern, and uptight best friend. “No. Let's get walking.”

Jamie tentatively extended his left foot forward about six inches, carefully shifting his weight onto it and nearly falling forward onto his face. “This doesn't seem like a fantastic idea,” he started again, but Peter just rolled his eyes and began to walk out of the room.

About the Author

Allison Stiller is a 15-year-old student at The Commonwealth School in Boston. She enjoys her English and Bible-as-History classes. She has participated in the strenuous writing challenge, NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month), four times.

Among Allison’s favorite authors are John Green and Neil Gaiman.

Untitled by Isaac Wilde

Here’s how Isaac Wilde describes his imaginative, as-yet-untitled novel.

Two teenagers, a half wolf called Seff and a boy named Salmon, escape an orphanage, eluding capture by a police force called the Legion.

Along the way, they are unknowingly helped by a mystical creature called The Watcher, who finally captures them. Salmon manages to escape, and rallies a ragtag army to rescue Seff.

The action takes place on a foreign world in a time similar to Earth’s Middle Ages.

Untitled

An excerpt by Isaac Wilde

Chapter One

The Watcher, so dark that the midnight sky was pale in comparison, looked down upon the empty cityscape below. The scene was quiet, and the roads far below were lit only by the silver wands of moonlight. Even the puddles of murky water that littered the streets were strung in stasis.

Then two youngsters, a half wolf and an athletic but frightened teenager, burst from one of the main alleyways and crossed the frozen nighttime road, their feet splashing through puddles and clattering on the cracked cobblestones. From behind them came a tremendous clatter, and the thunderous shouting of the Legion’s soldiers. The Watcher looked on, an evil smile contorting its way around his face.

Down below, on the damp street, the half wolf turned to his partner. “Can’t you hurry, Salmon? The Legion is getting closer.”

“Bugger the Legion,” muttered Salmon. “My feet are all wet. You do realize that this is your fault, Seff.”

“My fault?” cried Seff. “I rescued you from life in that orphanage, eating that abhorred gruel!”

“I don’t see what’s so wrong with the orphanage oatmeal,” Salmon muttered sullenly, but resigned himself to follow Seff.  They broke out of a narrow side street and onto a dockyard next to the main canal that ran through the city of Asgard.

Salmon looked around, and with a cry of dismay said, “This is hopeless Seff, we’re trapped. The Legion will get us for certain!”

Seff grinned mischievously, revealing his massive canines. Salmon recoiled at the sight, not yet used to having a half wolf for a friend. “We ain’t doomed yet, Fishy-boy. There’s always the canal.”

           

Salmon looked appalled. “You want me to jump into that thing? I’ve seen with my own two eyes people crapping in it. It’s practically a solid with all the pollution dumped into it!”

           

“What choice do you have, Salmon? It’s that or jail,” Seff said with cruel logic.

Salmon sighed. “You’re always pushing me around. This is the last time, you hear me?”

Seff grew tired of his friend’s rambling lamentations and, urged on by the clatter of the Legion, grabbed Salmon and jumped. As they crashed into the water, Salmon panicked. Struggling against Seff, he frantically tried to get to the surface, but instead sank like a stone into untold depths.

The Watcher silently growled. The boy was supposed to swim. He raised a long black arm and began an incantation. He would not disappoint his master.

Seff, his heart pounding and head dizzy from lack of air, strained to find his friend in the murky water. Behind him, he could hear a splash as the first of the Legion troops hit the water. Seff swam deeper, delving into a predatory strength to keep him moving.

The Watcher snapped his fingers and neatly closed the incantation with a word of power. Salmon was filled with sudden buoyancy that floated him into Seff’s arms. Together they pushed up into the night sky.

The Legion had filed into the water. Kar fighters with grappling hooks swinging over their heads were positioned on the banks, poised to throw. They were caught, with no way out.

The Watcher was exhausted from his expenditure of magic, but he needed to save his master’s sacrifices. He snapped his fingers.

Sewage poured out from pipes imbedded in the nearest houses in a humungous rush, sweeping away Seff and Salmon on a dirty wave. There was a clatter of shutters as tired citizens closed their windows and sealed their house off from the ruckus. The Legion, shocked for a second, quickly sprang into action. It was too late to catch their quarry, however. They had been swept away by a tide of rubbish.

The Watcher smiled with the satisfaction of a job well done, and disappeared in a flash of smoke.

Away from the borders of Asgard, a dirty rivulet of sewage water sliced neatly through the clear waters of the crater lake that surrounded the city. It coughed up two groaning runaways, covered in filth and unmentionables.
           

Salmon jumped away from the mountain of muck that had deposited them on the grassy lakeside plain, and began jumping as if possessed, swiping at his body to purge himself of grime. Gagging and hacking in an exaggerated and unnecessary manner, he glowered at Seff.

Seff was looking around, however, utterly awestruck at the scene surrounding the dirty duo. Far in the distance, Asgard stood like a proud sentinel. Surrounding it was the Great Lake, a volcanic crater that was filled with the purest of waters. The lake nurtured countless plants into fruition, spawning a luscious countryside that sprawled down the sides of the goliath mountain for miles. The small swath of dirty sewage freshly deposited there only slightly marred the magnificent view.

Salmon wasn’t going to be kept content for long by looking at scenery. He stormed on Seff, swiping his arms back and shouting angrily, “Sewage, Seff. Sewage! You planned for that, didn’t you? I would have thought even a foolish daredevil like you wouldn’t be brash enough to pull a stunt like that! But boy! I was so wrong!”

Seff lost his tough look and broke down under the onslaught. “Salmon, please. That wasn’t me. All I wanted was freedom, for once in my life. I don’t get that privilege often. I’m so sorry I made you come, I thought you would appreciate being free from the tediousness of everyday life.”

Salmon quieted, holding his hands sheepishly behind his back. “Sorry, Seff, I didn’t mean to shout.” Seff snorted at this, but didn’t interrupt Salmon in his apology. “I want to come with you, to freedom. Really I do.”

“Alright then. To freedom,” Seff said, holding his hand out for Salmon to shake. Salmon took it and shook it vigorously.

“Where is freedom, exactly?” Salmon asked after a brief pause, a confused expression on his tilted face.

“Dunmafest, the wild lands,” Seff replied in a reverent tone.

Salmon paled. Dunmafest was an island nation so harsh that even the Legion couldn’t conquer it. The island was riddled with as many jungles as cheese has holes, and filled with unimaginable horrors and deadly terrors. Salmon couldn’t help but picture their gruesome end at the jaws of some gargantuan beast. But, the expedition in the sewage had changed him, just slightly.

“All right, Seff. If I’m going to get dragged someplace, I’d rather you did the dragging. But this is the last time, you hear me? The last time.”

About the Author

Isaac Wilde plans to continue writing stories, in which he wants to develop interesting plots that reveal fantasy worlds and eras of his own creation.

Isaac is 13-years-old (12 when he wrote the above chapter), and his favorite authors are Ray Bradbury and J.R.R. Tolkien.

Two Poems by Olivia Ferreira

In the poems below, Olivia Ferreira uses meticulous wording to convey her keen impressions of the natural world.

Two Poems

by Olivia Ferreira

The Taste Of Dinosaur Bones

Swollen marrow

And fractured bones

Crack to trail among jaw lines etched in fog.

Shattered glass stuck between layers of tissue and muscle;

Shaken from walls of hollow plaster.

Windows left open with creamy light to filter through shaded branches paved through entryways.

Skeletal fingers elongate and stretch for a meaning,

Only to grasp at an idea floundering away.

Navy skies to lie beneath;

Sheltered from temperate events.

Color drains within moments.

While cheeks fade from rose to ink

With wounded bones to show.

Lips creased ever so slightly,

Frayed at the seams

Ripped and torn from ever-biting winds.

A frame

That no longer contains anything,

But nothing at all

As it collapsed from the center.

Her chest still rises and falls

In momentum to her beating heart.

Red burns through paper skin;

Only evident to the taste of life still dusting inside of her.

Severance of cells leads to skeletons breaking in two.

With all her contoured bones to drown as if the weight of the world on her shoulders wasn’t enough.

Wrists melt to nothing,

Tissues to evaporate entirely.

Her eyes have long glazed over

From wear and tear.

Eye sockets to bulge from her fatal face.

And here she lies;

Broken and shattered among.

Fossils of Fractured Bones

Eyes enthrall;

Pupils dilating to capture the ocean in view.


Losing herself in the irretrievable horizons.

I saw the rocks as they sat helplessly;


Being clashed upon by serrated waves.


No longer were grains of oceans being tossed as paper in a storm.

Salt stung at open wounds,

Frayed at the seams with patches to contain her poor body to one.

Clouds shattered along famished shores etched in glass from seas to be caught within the soles of her feet.

The ocean engulfed the girl entirely.


No longer were her foot prints paved,


Nor the war between the sea and rocky terrain. 


For,

In the end, 


Sea won as it always does.

About the Author

Emily Dickenson, Louisa May Alcott, E.E. Cummings, and Sylvia Plath are Olivia Ferreira’s favorite poets. Olivia draws her inspiration from music, nature, quotations, and “just about anything.”

Untitled by Ian Bernardin

Excerpts from Ian Bernardin’s story below showcase Ian’s characteristic detail, character portrayals, and humor.

Untitled

Excerpts by Ian Bernardin

Prologue

Three pairs of footsteps produced soft crackling noises on the rocky terrain of a path.

“What an outstanding sunset!” cried a man, his leather shoes scattering the trail's rubble. “Sometimes, Chief, it sure is nice to just get a break from your duties and spend the day with your two best childhood friends. I'm glad you said yes to this.”

“Remember, Sander, I'm not the chief today,” spoke a man with a bald spot on his head. “Millston is in charge at the moment. I hope he's managing well, as the chief for the day.”

“He's probably doing fine,” said the first man. “You just need to let your mind be at ease, my good friend. You're Quillpith today, not the chief.”

“I'm still not quite used to this feeling,” said Quillpith. “I can't believe that I'll have to go back to wearing my chiefly uniform again tomorrow; it makes me feel so weighed down.”

“Enjoy this moment while you can, Quillpith,” advised his other companion. “It's not too often that you get to wear your animal hide shirt and your straw pants.”

“The thing is, Nordson,” said Quillpith, “I wish I could wear this every day. I mean, I love what I do for a living, but I want to show the tribe that I'm...there for them. It makes me feel good to dress like everyone else, to let them know that I'm not a stranger, that I'm one of them, and I'll advocate for them.”

“Hey, guys,” said Sander, “I think I heard a bear or something down by the water. Let me go ahead and investigate.”

“I don't think we have to worry about bears here,” said Quillpith, “but if you really insist on it, you can take a look ahead.”

With that being said, Sander hurried forward, returning a few moments later.

“Wow,” he exclaimed, “the view by the riverside is absolutely tremendous! You guys have to go down and see it!”

“I'll race you there!” said Quillpith.

“Now that's the spirit!” cried Nordson.

At that, the trio zipped down a grassy hill to the water. Quillpith was the first to finish, and just as he reached the waterfront, he lost his footing and fell into the river!

“Help!” he shouted, splashing and struggling to tread water. “I can't swim!”

“Oh, no,” said Sander. “I can't swim myself! Only fishermen and other such people learn to swim! I only wax floors for a living!”

“I'm sorry, Quillpith,” said Nordson, who was a short way back and had just finished his run. “I can't swim, either. Oh, what can we do for you, Quillpith?”

“Grab that stick! Haul me up with it!” Quillpith cried out.

“Grab that what?” said Sander.

“A stick!” screamed Nordson. “He told us to grab him a stick!”

Nordson hurriedly grabbed a long branch, but Sander stopped him.

“You can't use that! The branch is covered with thorns!”

“There are almost no thorns on it!” snapped Nordson. “Besides, as long as we rescue Quillpith, that's all that matters!”

The two stumbled down to the drowning Quillpith just in time to see him become submerged. It was no use; he had drowned.

“Oh, no,” said Sander. “This is terrible! We can't stay here! I'm afraid! Let's go!”

Sander immediately took off, with Nordson following ...

Chapter 1

During a typical evening in the woodlands of the tribe, few candles remained lit after dark. Today, however, the lines of cottages glowed like fireflies. It was as if a certain uneasiness had swept across the land, a frightening monster.

Inside one dwelling, a young woman peacefully slept on a wooden cot. But, her rest was abruptly disrupted by a frantic knock on her front door.

“Who could possibly want anything to do with me at such a late hour?” she asked herself with a yawn, groping around in the dark. After she successfully struck a match and her candle gleamed, she changed into a skirt and blouse. When she opened her door, she was greeted by a lanky gentleman dressed in a court jester costume.

“Long story, Ellen,” he said, panting. “I stubbed my toe on the way here, and had to hop on one foot.”

“Gerald!” she exclaimed. “What a pleasant surprise! Please, come right in. Make yourself comfortable.”

Ellen's guest, his breath still coming quickly, stumbled into her cottage like a drunkard.

“I come with terrible news,” he said, catching his breath.

“Here,” said Ellen, “let's sit down.”

Ellen, placing her candle on the center of her kitchen table, took a seat; Gerald settled into a wooden chair directly across from her.

“So,” said Ellen, “what do you think of my strawberry-scented candle? It smells good, doesn't it?”

“Yeah,” said Gerald, “but I have something else on my mind right now.”

“What is it about?” she asked, gently setting the candle aside.

“The chief,” Gerald replied. “I hate to tell you this, but...he's dead.”

“Dead?” Ellen asked disbelievingly. “Gerald, you have played one too many pranks on me. Do you seriously think I'm going to trust you, especially in your court jester costume?”

“Ellen,” Gerald said gravely, “this isn't a joke.”

“Really?” she asked, rolling her eyes and smiling. “Please, Gerald, just say you're kidding.”

At that moment, a man darted down Ellen's street, ringing a bell.

“Citizens!” he cried out, “hang your heads in despair! The chief is dead!”

“Gerald,” Ellen said with a quavering voice, “that was the tribe messenger. He never lies about anything....oh my god. I can't believe this.”

“Ellen,” Gerald whispered delicately, “please don't cry.”

“That's impossible,” she said, her blue eyes moist. “The chief was one of the best men I ever met. I can't help but remember one time, back when I was only a little girl, and I asked him if he ever thought that I could lead the tribe some day. He didn't give me the cold hard truth and say, ‘Forget it, kid; females aren't allowed to hold any political position in the tribe government.’ Instead, he wanted to see a smile on my face, so he said, ‘You know, little girl...it's always a possibility.’ ”

“Of course, I faced the truth later on and pursued different goals, but I never forgot what he told me and how kind of him it was.”

“That was an amazing story,” said Gerald, “Now I'm going to miss him even more.”

“At least he died a good man,” said Ellen. “Sometimes, when people obtain power, they use it to their advantage; they can get away with doing anything to their followers. But, the chief chose to reach out to his people and do even more for them than he had to.”

“The chief is dead,” said Gerald. “But the tribe will survive if future chiefs follow his example.”

“Well,” said Ellen, “if you don't want to walk home tonight, you can spend the evening here.”

“I think I'm okay,” Gerald replied. “But, thank you so much for your hospitality. I'll see you tomorrow.”

“See you then, Gerald.”

About the Author

Ian Bernardin is a student at Arlington High School. He reads and speaks French, and takes Latin for its usefulness in helping him “better understand English words.”

He loves to read and write, and enjoys the work of J.R.R. Tolkien and Trenton Lee Stewart.

When Arrows Fly by Emma Kraus

In this polished excerpt, Emma Kraus’ main character, Riley, and her family find themselves being chased by creatures from the past. For their own safety, Riley and her twin brother, Logan, have to understand the minds of their pre-historic pursuers. The only way to stop the chase is to let the arrows fly.

When Arrows Fly

An Excerpt by Emma Kraus

“Ready to go?” my dad asked, as he checked his watch.

That watch had belonged to my great uncle, the one we no longer talk to, nor talk about. He was the one who was making us leave our home. The fear of thinking he is the only family we have left creates nightmares that even adults can’t sleep through.

“Yeah,” I said. “I'm ready.”

I climbed into the old VW bus next to my brother as my dad locked the door to our house.

“You know,” my brother said, “we will never walk into that house again.”

“We might if this ends soon,” I said with hope.

“We won’t,” he said, sharply looking me in the eyes.

We have the same blue eyes, same brown hair, and the same face for that matter. I guess that’s what happens when you share the same womb.

I turned and looked out the window at the woods.

“Yeah,” I said. “I know.”

“Hey,” my dad yelled from the front. “Can one of you be in change of the GPS until your mother has a free hand?” She was braiding her hair.

“I’ll take it,” I said.

“No, I’m older. I’ll take it,” Logan said grabbing it from my dad.

I just smiled and looked out the window. He always liked to play the “I’m The Older Twin Game.”

I put my ear buds in and hit “Shuffle.” I ended up skipping a bunch of songs until I found the one I was looking for. We pulled out of the driveway onto the small gravel road we had been down countless times.

My song started to fade as we turned onto Main Street. No one said a word. At least, I don’t think so. I couldn’t hear much over the upbeat song that had started playing. As we passed the fields of northern New York I saw the farmers bringing their cows in for the night. I leaned my head on the rough headrest and closed my eyes.

I woke to something sharp grazing my leg.

“Owwww. Oh, my God,” I cried. I grabbed my leg as my blood started to make an exit.

“Dad!” Logan yelled. “Pull over. An arrow got Riley!”

I winced in pain, and looked over to see a flint head sticking into the side of the bus across from me. My mother was now at my side. She rolled up my pants. 

“You all right?” asked my dad from the driver’s seat.

“I guess so,” I said in a whimper.

“Are you sure?” my mom asked while she wiped away the small streams that had trickled down my face.

I nodded and put a fake smile on for her.

I have a high pain tolerance, but this did make me accept the tissue my mother extended to me.

“Come on, Lisa,” said my dad. “We need to get out of here. Logan can bandage Riley up.”

My mother climbed back into the front, and we were moving again.

“Tell me if it’s too tight, and I’ll rewrap it,” Logan said giving me some pain medicine.

I grabbed the canteen next to me and washed it down. I hated taking pills. I almost gagged.

“Thanks,” I said after swallowing.

Logan nodded and buckled himself in.

“They’re definitely here,” said my dad. “They’re definitely here.”

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I must have dozed off for a while because the next time I looked out the window the clouds were deep red. It looked like someone had shot the sky with an arrow, like they had done to me. I moaned in pain and shifted my body to face Logan. He was asleep and so was my mother. She was passed out on the pull out bed in the bus. Her hair swirled around her pale face from the wind that came from the broken window. It looked like seaweed flowing in the ocean as the waves crashed over and over.

“Hey, Kid,” a voice said, from the front. “How’s the leg holding up?”

“Really sore,” I replied to my father. “It’s starting to bruise around the bandage.”

“It will hurt for a while, Riley,” he said.

“I can’t believe that arrow got through the window,” he said turning onto a highway marked 29 West. We passed a strip mall.

“They weren’t able to break through the glass last week,” I said looking at all the hit marks on the windows around me.

“So, what does that mean?” he asked. I could tell by his tone he already knew the answer.

It was silent besides the infrequent sounds of the motor.

“They’re evolving,” I said in a whisper.

“Yes,” he said running a hand through his hair. “Yes, they are.”

Every time we thought we were in control of them something new happened. The more sense my father had tried to talk into my uncle, the more out of control things got.

The feud started about three years ago. My father had been researching an archeological dig for work. He studies Neanderthals and Homo Sapiens. The scientific name is too long for me to remember, so I just tell people that he studies really old dead people. Logan always reminded me that they weren’t “people” but neither of us really knew what they were.

My dad and uncle worked on the digs together. Their arrangement was perfect. My dad liked to be outdoors digging up the bones, whereas my uncle wanted to be working with the DNA in the dirt free environment of the laboratory. He and my dad spent a lot of time together.

Well, until that day my dad came home three hours late for dinner. He walked in the house silently.

My mom looked up from washing the dishes.

“Lisa,” my father said. “A moment in the other room, please.”

She wiped her hands dry.

“What’s wrong?” she asked in a concerned tone.

He didn’t answer.

She followed him into the living room and shut the door behind her. Logan stood up next to me and closed his math book.

“Come on,” he said pulling on my arm.

“Stop it, Logan. I have homework to do,” I said, annoyed.

“Don’t you wanna know what’s wrong with Dad?” he asked.

We made eye contact, and I knew we were thinking the same thing. I jumped to my feet. We walked over and stood with our ears pressed against the door.

The conversation went like this:

“You know how Parker was trying to figure out how to make the solution and DNA work together?” said my dad.

“Yeah, I remember,” my mom replied.

“Well, he did,” my father said breathlessly. “There’s no way of stopping him. If I knew he was taking it this far, I would have tried to talk him out of it. I thought he was just doing an experiment.” My dad sounded helpless.

“He is modifying their brains.”

“Why?” my mother asked.

“Because Neanderthals have a more intellectual brain than humans do. They went extinct not because of being less skilled than the Homo-Sapiens, but from other causes. It just happened that the Homo-Sapiens evolved into humans and the Neanderthals died out. If they were still alive today they would outsmart any human.” my father spilled the words out.

Logan and I looked at each other, wide eyed.

It was silent after that.

That was the moment we found out what our uncle was really doing in the laboratory. He was trying to make a more intelligent human, trying to see what would have happened if the Neanderthals had survived instead of the Homo-Sapiens. That’s why we were here in the bus and not at home in our beds. It had gotten so far out of control that the only thing standing in the way of his evil plan was our lives.

We turned off of an exit and pulled into a abandoned gas station. The light from the moon shone on the broken windows of the store. Trees overlooked us instead of buildings. My dad cut the engine. We were still the only two awake in the bus.

“Can you make sure the windows are bolted down?” my dad asked.

I checked the back windows as he checked the front. They were all secure, except for the one the arrow had gotten through earlier. I set one of our moving boxes on the ledge to cover the hole.

“All set, dad.”

“Thanks,” he said as he set the car alarm.

The bus had a special sensor that would set off a beeping sound whenever something human sized or larger entered a thirty-foot radius around us. This gave us enough time to react to our unwanted visitors.

“Get some sleep, Riley. You need to be rested for tomorrow,” he said.

“Okay, ‘night, Dad,” I said and pulled a blanket over me. I closed my eyes.

I heard the squeak of the driver’s seat as he put it down to sleep.

“Goodnight, Riley.”

In spite of the possible threats around us, I fell asleep. The sounds of a nearby creek added harmony to my dreams.

About the Author

Sixteen-year-old Emma Kraus is in her tenth year of publishing the monthly “The Dog paper. Each month of the paper is represented by a different dog, and each issue contains fiction or travel pieces that Emma writes herself.

Though still in high school, Emma is taking some college courses and has definite plans to continue her writing.