“Now go!” A loud, yet soft voice yelled....I’d woken up from a bad dream I cannot seem to remember. I found myself lying in the grass of a field not too far from my home around 8:30pm. I remembered I was collecting sticks for the fireplace back home. I recollected myself and my bags and walked back home. I returned to an argument between my mother and father.
“He is not joining those fools in the military!” My mother screamed towards him. “The boy is 15! He’s old enough to make his own decisions and follow through with them,” He told her. They finally noticed me standing in the doorway as tears started to form in my eyes. Looking at me speechless, my mother came towards me and leaned in to hug me. “Get away from me!” I yelled, as the tears began to flow down my face. I threw down the bags and sticks and ran outside towards the town streets. Unintentionally, I ran into a childhood friend, Nick. He was sitting on the ground reading a peculiar book I’d never seen. To read more of The Comet, click here.
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Mardi Gras has always been my favorite holiday. I have always loved coming together every year with family to look at the parades, and I have always especially loved the Moon Pies. As a kid, I used to watch the band go by, playing the trumpets and beating on the drums. I grew up loving that scene.
Entering high school, I knew I wanted to join the band to become part of that parade. I tried out all different sorts of instruments– the flute, the clarinet. But none of them really fit me. I figured that I didn't want to be held down to just one instrument, so I joined percussion. I didn't expect to be playing the bass drum–especially the 3rd heaviest bass drum. Out of all the parades, I can most clearly recall my first high school Mardi Gras Parade. I remember getting off of the band bus and unloading my drum. So many other bands–including our rival band–were there with us. I walked up to join the rest of the drum line, set my drum down, and started walking towards the rest of my friends. I look over towards the other bands to scoop out the competition, and I actually see some of my friends talking to the “rival” members. I especially noticed a tall, fluffy-haired guy, so of course, I had to see what they were talking about. To read more of The Parade, click here. The worst part about growing up is realizing how cruel people can be. Children in particular can be especially ruthless. There is a certain brutality when a child says something hateful. They hold no reservations and speak whatever venom their parents hide behind closed doors. All thought is learned, and children observe and repeat without understanding—until they believe what they unknowingly speak. When you experience this as a child yourself, it often does not occur to you until years down the line how wicked those words were.
For when you ask, “Can I play with you?” On a playground of your kindergarten class, joyful shouts and laughter ringing through the air. You can feel the warm sun on your skin and the fresh breeze kissing your round, sweaty face. You hardly know what game is being played, all you understand is that they are smiling so they must be having fun. You smile in return, making to show all of your gap-toothed grin. You are oblivious to the smiles of your playmates slipping off their faces and melting into pouts, much like ice cream on a too hot day. “No!” is the first thing said. To read more of Can I Play With You? click here. HE CHECKS HIS WATCH ONE MORE TIME.
It's seven-forty-five, she should be here by now, right? Maybe she's just running a little late, or maybe traffic was bad? Sebastian frowns to himself. He looks down at his lap as his heart drops all the way to the ground. Or maybe, she stood him up. He sighs, hanging his head for a moment, a hole growing in his heart. For a second, he thought that they had something. That maybe something was there. That the feeling in his chest was more than just his heart beating erratically; that the churning in his stomach was more than just butterflies. Looks like it was unrequited. To read more of Zero To Infinity, click here. |
Fiction And Nonfiction Editor:Molly Malone ArchivesCategories |