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November/December 2005 Special Issue: Teen Writing Contest Winners!!! Poetry A Black Heart A black heart Short Story Jason's Story Once upon a time I loved a horse. Not that uncommon, right? Plenty of teenage girls love horses. But I really loved this horse. And I mean really loved him. He was a buckskin; a small, stocky one, with a beautiful build and a sweet, unique personality. I dreamed about him every night. And not just every night. All day, too. He lived at a horseback riding ranch where I worked, and every chance I could I spent time with this horse. His name was Hawk. Not that I called him that. I just called him "my horse." In my mind, he was mine. He was all I thought about. He was all I talked about. He was the most important thing in my life. I'd never ridden Hawk. Only one person rode him: Jason. Jason was one of the hands at the ranch. If it was any one else riding Hawk, I think I might have hated them. It was kind of hard to hate Jason. Let me explain. Jason was a tall, skinny guy about twenty-five, with laughing blue eyes, crew cut blonde hair and a goofy grim that you couldn't help but giggle at. He'd do crazy things just for the fun of it. One day I found him measuring his head with a broken piece of leather. I didn't bother to ask why. I just laughed. So you know what he did? He threw the leather at me! That's just Jason for you. But he could be serious, too. My first week working at the ranch, I ran into a lot of problems. Every once in a while I would just break down crying. I tried not to let anyone notice and for the most part, no one did. Except for Jason. I used to think he could read my mind. Somehow, he always knew just what was wrong, and just how to cheer me up. There was no way I could hate him. Why, he was like my brother! Even so, I found myself feeling a bit jealous. Every time he'd ride by on Hawk, I'd turn away. And every time I saw him stroking "my horse," I'd feel this little prick of anger that I couldn't stop. I knew it wasn't Jason's fault. Still, my desire for Hawk blurred everything else. It had been nearly a month since school had begun and my summer job at the horse ranch had ended. My mom, an old friend of many of the cowboys on the ranch, had called the manager up to talk about some horse he wanted to sell. They talked for a long time, and when she hung up, she had a sad look on her face, and I could tell it wasn't the horse she was thinking about. "Jason's got cancer, Lacy," she said. The words didn't come like a blow to the chest, like the stories always say about bad news. They were more like a numbness that turned to an aching pain that wouldn't leave. At first I was in shock. I'd never really lost a loved one, not while I was old enough to know what was going on. The closest I'd come was when old Mrs. Elwell, who was like everybody's grandmother, passed away last year. But that was different. She was in her eighties, I think, with grandkids and even great-grandkids. Her case was nothing like Jason's. When the news really began to sink in, I couldn't stop the flow of questions tumbling around in my brain. Why Jason, why now? Why would God do this to a man in his twenties, with a wife and a little son? Why couldn't it have been someone else, anybody else? For the next few days, all I could think about was the whys. Then I began to think about me. Before, when I thought of my job at the horse ranch, all I could think of was Hawk. I remembered guiltily those twinges of jealousy I'd had when I'd seen Jason riding "my horse." And I began to think. I was bombarded with more whys, but this time of a different nature: Why hadn't I been able to see past that little buckskin horse, to things so much more important? Why had I given in to that jealous bone that persisted inside me? Why hadn't I realized all the blessings I already had, instead of wishing for what I didn't possess? I don't want this to be a sad
story. Yes, Jason is still sick with cancer. I don't know what will happen,
but I know God knows what he's doing. All I can do is pray, and leave
it in His capable hands. But, by His grace, I won't have to learn the
same lesson twice. I won't get my priorities in the wrong order again.
Yes, I still love Hawk. I'd still love to own him. But he's nowhere near
as important as my family and friends. If I was told right now that Hawk
had been sold to Jason or any of the other ranch hands who love him, I
know one thing for sure: I wouldn't give in to that jealous streak. And,
to remind me of this, I've made that silly strip of leather that Jason
threw at me into a bracelet, and I wear it around my wrist. This isn't
a sad story; it's a story of hope. Next time, I'll take a good look at
what's important to me-before it's too late.
Poetry No
One Can Tell I'm screaming but
Short Story Dear Diary: Mother's
Nervous Breakdown (and other family secrets)
Dear Diary, Mother had another nervous breakdown today, but nobody noticed it. Except me. Only reason I noticed is that she has them all the time. Boring, but still slightly more interesting than those reality shows. Mother doesn't realize that she's having nervous breakdowns, but Diary - you and I know better. Dear Diary, Dear Diary, Dear Diary, Dear Diary, Dear Diary, Dear Diary,
Dear Diary, Dear Diary, Dear Diary, Dear Diary, Dear Diary, Poetry
Why does the world spin 'round? Why do people hurt each other? Being older I still ponder How does the world survive?
Short Story Loud
Life, Silent Death A wealthy elderly woman walked through a rundown neighborhood. The party was the best the old woman had ever thrown. The only thing that was missing was all of her friends, long gone. The dim, metal street lights illuminated the small amethyst sequins on her long, lavender gown. Her tiny black purse held only the necessary items, but no money. She didn't need money to host a prepaid party. Her loose, light brown hair was held back in the same relaxed bun she wore when she was a child. Her medium beige skin was lined with age and pain. She had just finished celebrating her 65th birthday and what would have been her 22nd anniversary had her husband not died of cancer four years ago. The streets were dirtier than usual. The lights were dimmed by hundreds of insects swarming over them. Two of the street lights were knocked out by bricks children had thrown at them. Glass lay in the street, menacingly waiting for an unprotected limb to pierce. Garbage lay quietly on stoops and sidewalks, smelling horribly. A small dirty man smoked an old wooden pipe in the opening to a grimy, narrow alley. He wondered if he could make his tiresome plan succeed as he watched the rich woman stroll down the road. Only the slim man was uncertain and enthusiastic to begin. He sauntered slowly down the darkened street towards the helpless old woman. She never screamed. She didn't have a chance to. The slender blade took her life without a word. The man eagerly raided the corpse's purse in search of the only thing that he desired: money. When the realization that the woman was broke hit him, he panicked. Damn, I just killed a woman for nothing and I still don't know where to hide the body. What am I going to do? I'm doomed. His mind raced, forsaking all sane thoughts. Shaking with a combination of feeling terror and slick, cold blood drying all over him, he carefully lifted the frail corpse. His wife had always told him he was dumb, but this was the first time he might actually agree. He found an abandoned warehouse in which to place the remains of what was once a radiant woman with a steadfast, loving heart. She was scared when she passed away, but now so was he. His watch ticked on as he sat by the newly departed, unsure of what to do next. The insignia above the broad doorway stated that they were in Dark Throne Industries. He'd never heard of the place before. Dust fell off the shaky rope catwalk above him, below rusted metal. Hours went by as the man sat staring; silently mourning the empty body he had created. Warmth and light as if the
sun blazed inches from his horrific face appeared as a warning. As it
dimmed, the ghostly figure of the old woman formed in the air holding
a small flaming candle. She smiled delicately, melting his fears as if
they had never existed. Her lovely form moved closer to him every second
as did the flame. Bending easily, she picked up the knife that took her
life and touched the tip to the flame. The knife was no more. Then she
touched the beautiful flame to her body and it disappeared. She looked
into her murderer's eyes, mouthed "thank you" and touched the
flame to her soul. She was no more. The dirty man returned to his house
half an hour later and flicked on his lights. On his coffee table, sitting
as though it were ordinary, was a billion dollars and the promise of a
new and better life.
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