Teen Talk The Young Adult Literary Newsletter Back issues from 1998-1999 November/December 1999 Issue Life Seconds Numbering by Evelyn Duffy Walter Harlen was living on borrowed time. What’s more, that time was being borrowed from a clock. He sat in a chair that had stopped being comfortable a long time ago and glared at the timepiece.Large and ornate, the grandfather clock was made entirely of walnut and had been in the Harlen family for generations. It was the tradition in his family to leave the clock to the eldest son, and so it had been left to Walter in his father’s will. He’d never really liked the clock but had kept it because it was one of the last things he had that reminded him of his father. Now, he regretted it more than anything he had ever done before. With a shudder, he recalled the dream that had started this whole dilemma: Walter stared wide-eyed at the desolate place where he had suddenly appeared. He seemed to be standing in the middle of some sort of desert, with nothing but flat plains of dirt as far as the eye could see. He looked up and got the strange impression of hundreds of ominous, multi-colored clouds sweeping away from the spot where he stood. Walter was apprehensive; the clouds looked intimidating and evil, yet they fled so rapidly they reminded him of scared rabbits. Before he could determine what had alarmed them, he was distracted by a high-pitched whine. Walter listened intently as the whine changed to a deafening thunderstorm. His knees weakened, and his teeth chattered against each other as the sound then coalesced into a rotten, can-of-worms, nails-on-a-blackboard voice. It shrieked his name, sounding as if a hurricane had done so. A sudden wind picked up the words and blew them in circles until they collided with others. Walter had to struggle to decipher what the voice was saying to him among the terrible mass of sound that the hurricane voice emitted. It told him that from that day forward, Walter’s very life would be dependent on the clock standing in his main hallway. He was told that he should never allow the clock to run down, because no matter where he was, he would die if he let it do so. As the voice concluded with its deadly message, it faded. The only thing that Walter could hear was a crackling roar as the angry blue, purple, and red clouds rushed back, smothering him… Walter emerged screaming from the dream, his arms flailing as if to fight off that last terrifying vision of the clouds overtaking him. When he realized that there was nothing there, he slumped back onto his pillows, panting and shivering. He pulled himself from his bed and stumbled into the bathroom. He splashed his face with cool water, and, having calmed himself enough so that he could convince his terrified mind that it had only been a dream, he dressed.Walter was in his dining room eating breakfast when the clock in the hall chimed the hour. His hand, still holding his spoon, froze halfway to his mouth. He dropped the spoon onto the floor and ran into the main hallway. He saw that the pendulum was slowing and the hands on the clock face were moving weakly. He knelt in front of the clock and yanked on the tall glass door. He pulled down on the leaden weights that controlled the hour and minute hands so that they could continue their endless trek around the clock face for another week without running down. Walter didn’t think he would forget to wind the clock on a weekly basis, but his mind did slip occasionally… Two months later, Walter sat in his favorite restaurant, nibbling on a dinner roll and reading the evening paper, when he noticed the clock on the wall. "A clock," he thought almost without realizing he had done so. "What is it I’m supposed to remember about a clock?" As the restaurant clock chimed, he stood up, clutching at his throat. Gasping, he twisted around and collapsed on the floor, as other startled customers stood by and watched, not knowing what to do… Two hours later, Dr. Steiner walked slowly down the hospital corridor with John Shads, the manager of the restaurant. "Did he have any family?" inquired the doctor. "No," John said, "none that I ever heard about, anyway. He told me everything, so I guess I would know better than most. You know, it’s a real shame he had to go like that. Nice man, always polite. Still, though, he could be a pretty strange fellow. Never stopped talking about that ol’ grandfather clock his daddy gave him. It musta meant the world to him. He was such a lonely man, I guess it was his best friend." They had come to the end of the passage, and the doctor held open the door, letting in a soft, summer breeze. The restaurant owner nodded and continued down the stairs, shaking his head with regret. Top of PageHiroshima by Frank CarozzaChoking on the wrath of splitting Atoms. And the blackening of your lungs, thanks to the ash. Your flesh burns and now, you’re nothing. Thank you Science. Thank you Atom bomb, And most of all, thank you Oppenheimer. May God bear witness to this destruction, For only He didn’t shield his eyes. Top of Page Conversion Attempt by Rose Confalone We sit here You talk I’m supposed to listen "God is here And he loves all" But I’m cut off "He will accept you If you accept him." I start to stare My beliefs are different But I’ll listen to yours "So now you see right You have to change You must believe my God Because he is right." What! Oh no I don’t need this now I’ve told you before I will not change This is my faith! If your god loves all Then he already loves me. So leave me alone Just let me be So what if I worship Not one god But two or three. Top of PageThe Lover - The Friend by Anonymous, age 17 It’s inexplicable thatsomeone young and handsome could even steal your heart. Is it him or the person Him was a friend. The person is your lover. But both are tied in one It’s like when you go for looks over personality (10 to 1). Why. Looks are only skin deep. Would you rather have a cute guy beat you or a gentleman take you out on a midnight stroll. Be sane for once and don’t you ever fall for the person who looks good, unless his personality perseveres. Him by Jenn Confalone Lying there He looks so frail He barely talks anymore No interest in friends or mail. Tubes everywhere Monitors and nurses It’s funny, when he first got there He called everyone bastards. Now, no energy For those things He lies there Not saying anything At first he yelled and complained Not wanting to be there He ripped his I.V. out His flesh started to tear. Restrained to the bed He looked broken Flowers on the table Symbol of care, a loving token. Not restrained anymore There is no need He has no strength. Not enough to pull a weed. I hate coming here He almost died I hate that thought. I just cried and cried. I feel guilty admitting I’m glad it’s not me But one more thing Pop-Pop don’t leave. (I love you always, Pop-Pop)
Never Again by Jenn Confalone We have lost so much In the death of innocent lives Our friends, brothers and sisters For them we cry We cannot replace What they would have been But we can make sure It doesn’t happen again. They are happy In whatever world they’re in But I’m sure they know We miss them The hope for the future is Many did not die And while we mourn those who did, We must hold our chins high The legacy of the violence Should never reign again! No other person Should go through this pain. Dedicated to the survivors of the Columbine High School shooting.
To You... by Donald Witt dedicated to the girl I never met To you. The one that brings a smile to this face. Why is there happiness when you walk through my heart? I cannot explain. I wonder, but answers - oh answers I have none. You are and were always, meant for this boy. A boy so mercilessly hounded by a love void. That emptiness groaned from within me; billows of echoey sadness seem to jerk my heart and dash it upon the stones. That prodigious cannon, formed with storms lacking in love, was stuffed into this boy. That feeling: love - an emotion surpassed by none other - was all that was needed, and through that temporal stretch, I never once tasted as much as a dew drop of it. Oh you - that most perfect girl - seemed to play with my patience. "Unloved" was never more of a feeling than before we became friends. Plummeting from the top of depression through to the very bottom, I knew I was a boy without a person's heart. Gray clouds of condensing horror flooded me. And then, that quaint and quiescent color struck the monotonal misery; and that color was you. To death - that old life is worthless. Never has a feeling worthy of the name "Love" ever being found in me. Now, but now, those eyes that look deep into mine warm a soul in snow, melting such torpidity that has been living for near eternity.
The Secret By Debbie Maron I'm lying on my bed, reading my magazine, and my friend is rummaging through my CD rack. "Sam?" I say. "Yeah?" "How was the party yesterday? I really wanted to go, but I had to clean my room. My mom was yelling and-" "Oh," Sam interrupts with a smile, running her fingers around the edge of my Natalie Imbruglia CD. "Oh, it was really fun." Then, slyly, she adds, "Really fun." I jump down to the floor and sit cross-legged next to her. "Do tell." "Well," she starts, "it was, at first, moving kinda slow, but then, Carrie Thompson arrived." "Carrie Thompson?" I repeat. (Carrie has a tendency to be a real party person and that sometimes gets her into trouble). "Yeah..." I say, "continue." "Well, me, her and a bunch of people started talking. You know, about how boring our boring summers were so far, who was with who, you know, the usual." I nod, and she continues. "Anyways, like, this was an outdoor party, and it was getting dark and stuff. So Carrie and this other person kinda led me and a bunch of others to where there were more trees and bushes. A very well-hidden place." I nod again, and worry begins to hurt my stomach. "She reached into the back pocket of her jeans and pulled out this plastic bag. It had-" she stops abruptly. "Sam..." I say. "It had joints in it." For a moment, I stare blankly at her and then she continues. "Me and a bunch of other people, well, we shared 'em." The look of shock takes over my face once more and my mouth drops open. I start twisting a lock of my hair in my fingers. "Um, uh, what was it like?" I ask softly. "Well," Sam says, her eyes glistening, "at first I got kinda headachy, you know? But then I got kinda lightheaded. I had to lie down on the hammock, but it was just the strangest, coolest sensation." O...kay, I think. I never knew headaches to be fun, but... "She called me this morning," Sam continues. "I'm gonna meet her and some of her friends by that little convenience store a few blocks from here. Hey, maybe you can come along." "O," is the only thing that comes from my mouth. I'm scared for her, really scared. My best friend, a druggie? The girl who I have so many pictures with in my photo album? At the circus, eating mint chocolate chip ice cream, and us as five year-olds, putting on dress-up clothes. No, this cannot be happening. And no, I would not be a part of it. No. "It's dangerous, Sam." She just looks at me in a twisted manner, closes her eyes, then opens them again. "You just don't know enough about it," she says coldly. Then she says, her tone softening, "I only plan to do this on special occasions. I'm not, like, a druggie or something," she says, flipping her straight sandy hair over her shoulders. "I know you don't plan to, Sam," I say, trying to keep my voice under control. "But the more you do it, the more your body will crave. Then-" Sam's eyes slit and her voice becomes cross again. "Like I said, you know nothing about it. You can't speak." For about a minute, neither one of us speaks, and we avoid looking at one another. Then, Sam speaks. "Really, you are getting worked up over nothing. Just don't tell anyone, like my Mom, she'll definitely get majorly worked up." She looks at her watch. "Ooh, I gotta go, time for dinner." She walks softly toward the door of my room. "And remember..." she murmurs, putting her finger to her lips. Then, she is gone. All kinds of thoughts flood my head. What should I do? Should I break her trust? Or should I tell someone so there's a chance she stops? There are many options, none of them easy. I have always known Sam to make responsible decisions, so this was way out of character for her. What to do? Oh, Lord, what to do? I worry for about an hour, as if I were her mother, which gets me to thinking, how would all this make her mother feel? It would break her poor heart, no doubt. Oh... Just then, I hear the doorbell. I jump up from the floor and run toward the door. "Who is it?" I say. It was my mother. "My hands are full with groceries, so can you please open the door? Thanks." I open the door and watch her walk through. Her eyes look tired from a hard day, and I feel guilty about the argument the night before. I think, my mom, she worries about me. If I had a drug problem, she'd be crushed. She would definitely like to know if anything was wrong with me. "Mom," I say slowly, "I have something to say." She looks up at me with her weary eyes. "Yes?" I tell her all, barely stopping for a breath and include all my fears. My mom pulls into a seat, "I am so grateful you told me before further harm is done," she gives me a hug, and I cry. "What's the matter?" she says softly, with me still in her arms. After controlling my tears, I say, "She's going to hate me." "No, no," my mom says. "Trust me, she'll be forever grateful that it straightened her out. It may take time for her to forgive you for telling, but trust me, you did the right thing." I smile.
Lost from Love and Crying Eye
by Mark J. DeSantis
Lost from love and crying eye. Lost from body and Lost from mind. Lost on a road of eternal bliss Lost from a world you will never miss.
To smell the dew of a Heavenflower A tickling scent, sweet yet sour. To you they sing a greeting song. For you they've waited oh so long.
There once was time you remembered well A time you often loved to dwell. A time forgotten and lost with death. But never you knew you lost a breath.
Thy mind is taken by Heaven's Light That eternal light consumes your sight. And now we look upon the dead And now for you are the tears we shed. Dedicated to Larry Robinson
Teen Writing Contest Winners 1999 1st place Poetry winner Andrew Wolf, 13, Elmer Ode to a Potato Chip
Oh, you crispy, crunchy chip I eat you with or without dip. Your salty surface I adore, Your crumbs I sweep onto the floor. A handful makes a lovely munch A bagfull makes a better lunch. Wavy or flat, spicy or plain, even soggy from the rain. In the car, on a plane, moving slowly in a train. Chips can come in any size, Some even offer you a prize. Chips make such a scrunchy noise, Especially under the wheels of your toys. Mother hates them in the bed – So hide them in your drawers instead. Any way you like your chip – Be sure to wipe them off your lip! 1st Place Short Story Winner Raquel Gonzalez, 14, Vineland Irony The voice on the other end of the line sounded both sad and excited all at once. As Arthur listened in disbelief, the officer reported of the mysterious disappearance of an escaped convict. "He’s coming for you, Art, he said so before he left. Now we’re gonna have patrols running. I’ve got the whole force on this one. But you be careful, you hear?" Then the dial tone hummed in the receiver tightly cradled next to his ear. He slowly hung up the phone, walked out of the booth, and headed to his apartment. Still dazed by the words of Lt. Brisco, Art wandered the dark streets of Manhattan reminiscing about his first encounter with the convict. His name was Seth Adams. He was only 19, still a baby, one might say, although you couldn’t tell by his broad physique and dark features. They’d met in October of 1974 when Art was practicing as a psychiatrist in San Francisco. Seth had walked in one day, without an appointment, and asked to be seen by one of the doctors. In spite of being scheduled to see someone else, Art, taking one look at the man and realizing he needed professional help as soon as possible cleared his agenda. Arthur observed the wretched man’s pitiful condition as he propped himself on the couch in the center of the room. He took a deep breath, almost forcing out the words and began, "My best friend married the woman I loved. He didn’t deserve her. She finally got tired of it one day, and asked me to driver her up to Dead Man’s Drop. I figured once I got her up there and we started talking, I could convince her to leave the punk; then she’d be mine. But it turns out she was determined to end it right there and then. I tried to stop her, but she got away. She ran to the edge of the cliff and threw herself off. Just like that. Without a second thought for how it’d affected me! "I ran right after her, and when I looked at the bottom of the gorge, I saw her laying there, staring up at me with these glassy eyes like the ones on those little stuffed animals you win at carnival games." Adam’s voice trembled in a high shrill, like a child’s voice. "She was lying in a pool of blood. Her blood!" He paused to wipe away the tears streaming down his face. "Take your time Mr. Adams, we’re in no rush," Art said reassuringly. Silence from Adams as he sat up on the couch and eyed the dozens of plaques and framed diplomas on the plain white composition walls. From the aged high school diploma, and bachelor degree, to the fresh, radiant doctorate degree inscribed with bold lettering, "Dr. Arthur W. Thurgood." Adams seemed to have lost his thread of thought as stared morbidly at the ceiling, his eyes red, raw, wounded. Arthur allowed him to bask in the silence for a little while before interrupting, "You were saying that your friend’s wife committed suicide. How did that make you feel?" Seth’s voice clicked back to adult range as he replied, "At first all I could do was feel sorry for myself. But I got over it." He grunted noncommittally. "All I needed was a little support, from someone dear to her. Someone who knew her, someone who hurt her!" A look of complete hatred came over his face, as Adams was overwhelmed with painful memories of the woman he once loved. "I killed him for it. Chopped him up in little pieces, I did!" Beginning to feel a bit uneasy, Arthur said carefully, "Then what did you do, Mr. Adams?" Seth faced the shrink and offered a twisted, rubbery, frightening grin that sent chills down the doctor’s spine. "I fed him to my dog," Adams added in a cool, dead voice, "then I buried the bones in my backyard." That was the last time Arthur saw the man, after he called the police and informed them of this monstrous butcher plodding the streets. With the safety of his 16-year old daughter, Cindy, being his number one priority, Art testified to help give Adams a life sentence in the San Quentin Penitentiary. Heeding the advice of Lt. Brisco, to the East Coast to "put distance" between them. Ten years later, now a worn out, run-down child psychiatrist confronted by his past, Arthur stood outside his residence contemplating how to tell Cindy that a crazed killer escaped from prison and is after her father. She’d taken it so hard when they’d moved to New York during her junior year of high school, but she slowly accepted it and started over. She was now 26, fresh out of college, so beautiful and innocent. Arthur smiled at nothing. She had her mother’s eyes, and her smile … so beautiful. A piercing scream from inside jolted the daydreaming Arthur up the stairs into his apartment, which was vandalized and ransacked. Art ran instinctively, putting no thought to what could be causing such horrible, ear-splitting shrieks, following the cries to his daughter’s room on the third floor. The door flung open as Art darted in to find Cindy chained to her bed screaming at the top of her lungs, staring balefully at the ceiling, her complexion sallow. Seth Adams was crouched beside her with a gun to her head. Seth twisted around to face his adversary, and bared his teeth in a beaming, savage grin. "Look who came to join the party, Cindy … daddy! Think he’ll save you? I doubt it. You can’t trust him. I trusted him 10 years ago, and look what happened." Adam’s eyes narrowed to black slots and he smiled dark sweetness as he pointed the gun at Art and fired two shots at his torso, causing him to collapse. Cindy began weeping, but suddenly broke off when Seth placed the revolver to her head and pulled the trigger. When he turned around again, Art was struggling to his feet, holding his left side and wincing in pain as blood seeped through his clothes. As Adams approached Art, he quietly asked, "whose fault is this, Dr. Thurgood?" Arthur’s eyes began seeking escape routes as his attacker closed in. "Is it my fault, Dr. Thurgood? No, it’s yours!" Seth spat out violently and raised the gun. "Are you afraid to die, Dr. Thurgood?" Arthur managed to grab the pistol and tried to pry it away. As the two wrestled with the gun, it went off prematurely and Seth’s face twitched as he hunched his back and toppled over. Arthur’s mouth shot open in awe and his eyes glinted with sweet revenge as he bent over his assailant. Mockingly, Art asked the pallid and trembling Adams, "Are you afraid to die?" A nervous laugh and Seth replied in an uneasy arrogance, "No." Then his eyes closed and he fell unconscious. Art turned his attention back to Cindy who was still confined to her bed. Attempting to stand again, he took one staggered step toward the bed, and swayed as the room began to spin and he fainted. When he awoke, Arthur was in a hospital bed, surrounded by dozens of machines. To Art’s surprise, Lt. Brisco was sitting in a chair beside the bed. Brisco helped Art into a wheelchair and took him to see his daughter on the other side of the hospital, while explaining that she was in a coma and not expected to live much longer. Once in the room, Brisco wheeled Arthur beside Cindy’s bed and left them to be alone. Cindy was lying there, resting peacefully. Her head was bandaged in a lopsided figure from where the blast of the gun had obscured it. Hesitant to touch her, Arthur carefully clutched her feeble hand. Simultaneously, the heart monitor that had been the only noise in the thunderous silence began to quicken its once steady beeping. Beep, beep, beep. Arthur watched as her heart rate climbed and the beeping got faster. Faster, faster, faster, until finally, it became one continuous hum. Beeeeeeep.
2nd Place Short Story Winner Shana Sirawatka, 16, Vineland Dark Sky She stood in the red puddle, looking up at the sky. She couldn’t bear to look down again. She’d already seen it. Looking at it again would be just like screaming it out to the world. It was hard enough for her to tell herself it was true. She couldn’t help it; she looked down. The dark red blotch seemed out of place against the white virgin snow. Then she looked at him. She looked straight into his eyes and realized it was a mistake. "Matthew," she gasped, unable to raise her voice any louder. "Oh my God, Matthew," she said again. She looked down at her hands. They were red with blood. The cold wind hit her wet skirt, and looking down at her clothes, she realized that they were also soaked in blood. She couldn’t take it anymore. Falling, she hit the snow on her hands and knees. Red snow splashed up onto her face. Afraid to wipe it off, she let it slide down her cheek and off of her chin. Crawling on hands and knees toward his body, she chanted, "No Matthew, no. Not my Matthew," over and over again. Reaching the body, she kneeled next to it and took it up in her arms. Looking at it lovingly, she noticed two teeth marks in his neck, her teeth marks. She knew that there was no lying to herself anymore… it was true. "NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!" she screamed, crescendoing from beginning to end. The word became an incomprehensible, primal scream. She lifted her face to the sky and let the pure, gentle snow fall upon her. Lightning struck the snow off in the distance, and she wept. Wept for the damned, for she was among them now. THE END
3rd Place Winner Ashley Barnes, 16, Vineland Dinner Theater Mystery I was most excited to receive an invitation in the mail for a real dinner theater. I’m sure you know what I am talking about. A group of unsuspecting victims enter a house for a leisurely dinner. At some point during the dinner, a French maid in a tight black skirt discovers that someone is dead. All the guests rush to the scene of the crime. After seeing the body, the guests decide to leave. Suddenly, they find that the road has been flooded and they have to stay. The first one who solves the mystery wins a large sum of money and goes home happy. I had always been rather good at solving the mysteries on TV. I had seen every episode of Murder She Wrote and Diagnosis Murder, so I figured that it would not be very difficult to solve the mystery. I arrived at home where the dinner theater would be held around 7 p.m. on Friday. I was convinced that the plot would be something that I had seen before, so I was sure to win the prize money. I eagerly climbed the steps of the large house and rang the doorbell. The door was answered by a tall man with a dark mustache. I, of course, recognized him as the butler. "Right this way, Madam," he said in a low, Addams family-type voice. He let me into a rather large parlor where I was to wait until all the guests arrived. After everyone had entered the house, the guests began to introduce themselves. I made sure I paid careful attention to everyone. The first ones were an elderly couple, Mr. and Mrs. VanLeur. Mr. VanLeur was a rather short man in a large wool sweater and khaki pants. Mrs. VanLeur was wearing a light pink dress and a large strand of pearls. They looked quite benign, but I wouldn’t count them out. Most mysteries always involve the characters who are the least suspicious. The next man to introduce himself was Sir Marcus DeSanti. He was a rather stocky fellow with hair that was slightly grayed at the temples. He seemed harmless enough, so I moved to the next person, a lady named Victoria Stanhope. I was quite impressed by this individual in particular. She was wearing a floor-length blue evening gown. In one hand, she held a long decorative holder complete with a lit cigarette, her other hand lay on her hip. The next man to present himself was Dr. Edwin William Thomas. He was quite the traditional Englishman, wearing a black suit and a top hat. He had a pair of small silver spectacles and a red rose in his lapel. I made sure I noted the red rose. Red was a typical color involved in murders. I introduced myself next. I supposed that if I were not me, I could be thought rather suspicious with my usual pensive look. I wore a long black dress and had my hair piled atop my head. The last guests to present themselves were some college age students like myself. There were three of them, two boys and a girl. The girl introduced herself as Stacy Lee. She wore a little navy dress with a flower print and butterflies in her hair. The first of her companions was a boy named Joshua Paulie. He was good-looking, even flashing a cocky smirk. If he praised himself too highly, that could be a sure sign of ill intentions. A large ego is always a tool in a motive for murder. I would have to listen very carefully to what he said that evening. Her second companion was Michael Bates. I was sure to note the last name. Bates was the character who committed the shower murder in Hitchcock’s Psycho. Movies are often instrumental in promoting copycat murders. Afterwards, we all went into the dining room for dinner. When we had finished, dinner, we all headed to the parlor for a game of poker. As we were approaching the parlor, we heard a piercing scream. We followed the shriek into the kitchen. We found the room in terrible disarray. Pots, pans, plates, a flower, silverware, an overturned chair and cooking utensils lay scattered across the floor. It looked as though someone had tripped and knocked everything off the kitchen counters. The French maid in a tight black skirt stood over the body. I was stunned to see the college guest, Stacy Lee, with a knife protruding from her back. "I just came in to put down the dinner dishes, and there she was… on the floor," the maid cried hysterically. "Oh, do shut up. You’re certainly not helping us think," Sir Marcus said quickly. I looked at him suspiciously. Why was he so edgy? I then focused on the two boys who had come with her. The one boy, Michael, looked rather worried. The other boy, Joshua, was staring into space. "Strange reactions," I thought to myself. As we all stood gathered around the body in the kitchen, the butler came running into the room. "Something has gone dreadfully wrong," he said quickly. My eyebrows rose in question. This was not a typical reaction to a murder! "She was not supposed to die," he said. "What do you mean she was not supposed to die?" Joshua asked hurriedly. "Before we came her two of you were chosen. One was to be the murderer and one the victim," the butler answered. Everyone in the room began looking at one another with suspicion. "We were," Mr. and Mrs. VanLeur spoke up. "I was supposed to kill him with the poison," Mrs. VanLeur said with a scared voice. Everyone gasped. I had hoped for a good mystery, but this was not at all what I had in mind. "I think I had better call the police," Dr. Thomas said as he rushed towards the phone. "What will I tell her mother?" Michael said, shaking his head mournfully. "You know," Miss Stanhope said as she approached the two boys. "For two boys whose friend just died, you don’t seem very upset." I nodded in agreement at her excellent observation. Suddenly, Dr. Thomas ran back into the room. "The phone lines have been cut," he said breathlessly. "Of course they have," I thought to myself. Well, to make the long story short, there was indeed a murder that night. It seems that a man had entered into the kitchen to spy on the maid. Supposedly, she had been indifferent when they were in high school together, but he had loved her insufferably. He had been unaccepted in her circle of friends and it made his life miserable. After high school he changed. He changed his appearance and he even changed his name. When he saw her that fateful night, he thought that he would tell her who he really was and she would love him because he was so different. After dinner, when everyone headed to the parlor, he entered the kitchen. The lights were off, but there were two people in there. One was clearly a man; the other was the woman that he assumed was the maid. He was immediately overcome with jealousy, so he grabbed the knife and lunged, stabbing the girl right in the back. After he had realized what he had done, he disappeared into the darkness. The man who was with the victim ran out of the room in a panic. Eventually the man who was with Stacy confessed; it was Joshua. That explained his spaced look. Realizing that he would never get a chance to ingratiate himself with the maid, the murderer confessed. As to "who done it?" You can solve the mystery, I did. |