"Hogwarts* (Midnight Writing)" by Percival Brendan Noble the Third

*Note: The name of the university in this essay has been changed. The writer didn't actually apply to Hogwarts.

Writing is a very time-specific thing, isn't it? If I wrote this 6 hours ago, it would've probably sounded different. Not that I am ever going to know because this is another subject that will be discussed on another day. I avoided that tangent very smoothly. Kudos to me.

I didn't get accepted to Hogwarts.

It hasn't gotten to me. With its acceptance rates in the single digits, I wasn't surprised. I don't know if I'm ready to completely push the school from my mind though. There's always going to be a Hogwarts t-shirt hanging in my closet that I'm never going to be able to wear ever again. I haven’t worn it since some inexplicit time in June. I've steered clear of all college t-shirts in general. It just seemed too presumptuous and jinxing.

The Dean of Admissions was very kind in the wording. They weren't able to offer me admission. It seemed to take the responsibility away from me. And I really appreciate that, especially given the extra load of responsibility life has decided to dump on me. The Dean attached an article that he wrote for the Los Angeles Times. He had three main points. I honestly do believe that the article squashed any notions of self-pity before they even emerged.

First, I didn't not get in because I wasn't good enough. I might have been among the applicants who met the demands of a Hogwarts education. But, it was just a matter of how many people Hogwarts could actually accept. Hogwarts's graduating class size is 1700, but they have about 40000 applicants every year. According to my calculations, that's an acceptance rate of about 4.25%. That doesn't even round to 10. Second, transitioning from high school to college is a monumental turning point. Instead of focusing on where that happens, everyone, including myself, needs to focus on how it happens. If I spend the next four years lamenting on how I’m not at Hogwarts, I’ve wasted them. And third, "Education is what the student makes of it." [Insert proper citation that I simply cannot do at this late hour of 1 AM somewhere in this vicinity]. I may not have been granted admission, but that doesn't mean my chances of ever joining the Hogwarts family are over. I might just end up there someday doing who knows what. Or I might never go there. But, regardless of where I end up, my life will still be fulfilling.

I am disappointed that I won't be able to go there for my undergraduate years. I've always been able to see myself flourishing there. But, I'm not bothered by it, and I'm not going to let me be bothered by it. I'm not going to be broadcasting this news over social media, but I am definitely going to tell some of my close(r) friends. One could say that I am much more terrified of upcoming Christmas gatherings. And please no hugs. Hugs are reserved for extremely happy moments or bawling-my-eyes-out-in-sadness moments. This moment is neither of those two.

As you can probably tell, this post was just my progression of thought at 1 AM, as are all my other writings that are personal and about me. I seemed to have taken this first college letter quite well, and I hope my reactions stay this way.

Good night.

"The Little Inventor" by E. Marie

This piece was inspired by a photograph on the website "Humans of New York". You can find the original image, published on October 7, here: www.humansofnewyork.com The caption reads: "I'm going to be an inventor. I already have some good ideas." "Oh yeah? What are they?" "I had an idea for an electronic cigarette with a whatchamacallit in it that makes mist so you feel like you're smoking but you really aren't. And also, a toothbrush where you put the toothpaste in the bottom and it comes out the top when you're brushing." "Those are some solid ideas. Anything else?" "A fart gun."

Nothing is more inspiring than a young child passionate about helping others. One young child in particular, we’ll call him Sam, wants to be an inventor. In fact, he already has ideas of what it is that he was going to invent; the first thing he mentions is an “electronic cigarette” which would create a “mist”, causing an illusion, the feeling of smoke. The smoker will believe that he’s smoking and getting the relaxing satisfaction that he craves without the downfalls or the feeling of being addicted. We can gather from this that he more than likely has seen the unfortunate results that smoking brings. He has probably seen it through loved ones and it bothers him; each time he sees a cigarette he gets this anxious feeling, it drives him to the point of insanity. He wants nothing more than to make it stop. For this reason, I’m confident saying that the most inspiring ideas come from children. Sam is so innocent and naive, he doesn’t fully have an understanding of the causes and effects of smoking (ie., why people smoke, what it does to the body) but he does know that the end result is not good. His true desire is to help others, not himself. Sam’s innocence truly shines through when he goes on to say that his next idea is a fart gun. This shows that, although he understands the seriousness of smoking, he still thinks like a child would, allowing himself to take a break from reality by fantasizing about a way to torture his older sister on command. For this exact reason, I think that everyone should do themselves a favor by holding onto their inner child. People would be so much happier that way.

"Senior Year in Comparison" by Lola Lane

Senior year is such a strange time. It’s prefaced by every other student who has experienced it as “the best year of your life”, or, more accurately stated, the best year of high school. Although I have yet to experience the totality of the famous senior year, I think I have already picked out a strong contending metaphor for it. Senior year is like Disney World. I think everyone who has been to Disney World cannot deny that Disney World is awesome. There’s this magic to it that’s pretty much unparalleled by any other place in the world. It’s the place where dreams come true- well at least that’s what they tell me. So, just like senior year, Disney world is hyped up like no other. You’re so excited to go to Disney World because it’s so great, and all, but once you get there your energy goes from a 500 hundred on the excited scale to about a 50. There are lines everywhere. Turns out that everyone loves Disney world, too, and they all decided to come on the same hot day you’re here. But you aren’t going to let that stop you because Disney World is awesome, and you don’t want to be that guy who hates Disney World. So here you are, it’s you’re Senior year, and you have tons of stuff to do- keeping up the grades, writing the prize-winning essays, studying for the final SAT, finding time to play a sport, and lastly  scrounging up time to hang out with your friends. Senior year is waiting in the line at Disney World to go on the great ride that everyone who has ever been there knows about and went on at least ten times. It’s hot, it gets frustrating, you wind up yelling at your parents, and asking how much more time until you’ll be at the front, or when you’ll finally be accepted into college. The line does funny things to you. The crowds create unpleasantness. It’s inevitable. You get in line and your face automatically becomes a shade of disdain and extreme discomfort.  The same is true of senior year. Everyone is bogged down with early applications, stressful, higher-level AP courses, and the endless amounts of wondering about the future and how it’s going to turn out for you. The line drags on, as this weird part of senior year seems never-ending. Finally, it’s January 1^st and applications are due. A huge weight is lifted from your shoulders. You are about ten people away from being on the ride. Then it hits, an acceptance or a denial, but you’ve made it to the end nonetheless. Whether the ride was good or bad, at least it’s over. Graduation, and the next ride eagerly calls your name. Of course, this is only how I assume senior year plays out. I haven’t completed the year yet, but I’m fairly certain it would one thousand times better if senior year took place at Disney World. 

"Open Roads" by Naomi Jean Lewis

The road stretches before us with no end in sight.

Trucks rumble behind me, and other families with other stories drive on far ahead.

The speed limits are higher than I’m used to seeing

But I don’t drive the speed limit at home anyway.

I fall in love with golden fields and open skies as my sister falls asleep.

Her cowboy hat hangs behind her and her snowboard slides on the backseat.

She’s still asleep when I drive past the first few wind turbines.

            Hey, Kristen, I say, shoving at her shoulder

            Look at this.

            That’s cool, she says back, and closes her eyes again.

I keep driving, and the turbines keep coming.

The engine growls louder as I coax Ellie

(My sister’s name for the black Honda Element, not mine)

Up a hill and over a crest

            Kristen.

Displayed before me is a sea unlike any I’ve seen.

Giant white monsters rear their heads.

Thousands and thousands of wind turbines dot the golden fields.

They’re not packed tightly but everywhere I look they stand tall.

            Kristen. I don’t know why I need her to see this,

But there’s something about powerful entities

Resting like remnants of another world in the middle of America.

            Kristen, please.

Kristen is awake now, watching the army of turbines stand at attention.

She doesn’t say anything, but I know she feels the same way I do.

We pay tribute to the newly created gods of the earth in silence.

We soar down the road at a speed that makes me feel invincible.

We pray for something we can’t put a name to.

 I drive with one hand wrapped around the wheel and the other on the gearshift.

The turbines don’t stop coming- there are more on the other side of the road.

The sun setting behind them blinds me as the light sets the world aflame.

(They look like angry deities, standing in the midst of Armageddon)

As the sun dips behind the plains, the turbines become barely visible.

(People have forgotten the old myths they used to fear)

The monolithic, man-made creations vanish as fast as they appeared.

My sister goes back to sleep.

We have four more hours before we can stop.

(Although the turbines still exist, miles away, they are gone from our minds.

They were never an army. There was only a cemetery the an empty field.)

(We forget that we have always created our own gods.)

The HWC is on the Map!

The HWC was recently added to a map of Secondary Schools Writing Centers by the International Writing Center Association! You can view the map of all of the Secondary Schools Writing Centers here.

When looking at the map, you'll notice a dense cluster of Writing Centers in Northern Virginia. We're proud to be part of such a strong network of  High School Writing Centers!

HWC November 2013 Statistics Report

We had our busiest month EVER!

"Pushed" by Bear Force One

This piece was inspired by a photograph on the website "Humans of New York". You can find the original image, published on October 7, here: www.humansofnewyork.com  The caption reads: "I just got out of prison. I was there 37 years." "What'd you do?" "Something I shouldn't have done." "What was that?" "Someone pushed me. So I killed him." 

His unapologetic expression burns into my retina. The wrinkles on his leathery skin seem to be the product of extraordinary stress or bad habits dying hard rather than natural aging. A murderer is gazing right at me with his cold, piercing eyes, yet in them I can still see decency, a sense of humanity. I am feeling pity and sympathy for someone that took away another person’s life simply for “pushing him”. What if the person he killed had a family? What if that person had someone in his life that only he could support? What about his aspirations? Goals? Beliefs? Just what in the hell did he mean by “pushing”? Was the old, weary man in the picture really capable of snuffing the light out of someone for something as trivial as being moved a couple inches towards a certain direction in a semi-forceful manner? I mean, he didn’t say “shoved”, “thrown”, or “pummeled”, so when he said someone pushed him he meant it literally. Goodness, take a second and think how ridiculous that notion is for a second. Just think about how many times you run into someone by accident or walk by someone and nudge them a bit too forcefully in a crowded hallway or room. Well that’s how many times you deserve to die using that man’s logic, and I’m not even considering how meaningless that death would be in the first place. A person’s death can be so powerful and represent so much in such a brief moment. It could indicate the ushering of a new era, a new king. It could lead to hundreds of lives being saved and being able to go on and make families of their own/reunite with their current ones. It could represent the socioeconomic, personal, and mental struggles of a person struggling to find themselves in a world that can seem impossible to make heads or tails of. Instead, what a death like that would mean is that someone needs some anger management.

"Battle of the Brains" by Justin Turner

Prompt: What does your sleeping dreaming mid think in the moments before you wake up? What are its last hopes, fears, or promises to itself as the alarm goes up and it feels itself vanishing?

            Ugh. 5:56. Four more minutes before I have to deal with him.  I don’t have time for his utterly happy thoughts or his complete laziness. There is work to be done, thinking to do!

            5:59. Here we go. 6:00. “Beep! Beep! Beep!”  I can feel Justin begin to move. Come on shut it off. Just a few steps to your alarm.  I try my best to keep him in a groggy state of mind as he slowly inches toward the alarm clock.  Just a few more steps!  I can feel my power over him slowly slip away as my pesky neighbor begins his day.  No. I’m not done yet.  Justin slams the alarm clock and as per usual I coax him back to bed. “Come on just more minutes,” I think to him.  After studying for chemistry the night before, he can’t resist and is soon back on his bed dreaming.  Phew.  He hadn’t finished solving his problem yet. Now he has a few extra minutes before he really has to go.  However I now have my own problem to deal with. 

            “Good morning!” I roll Justin’s eyes in his sleep as my arch nemesis comes for his turn. “How are you today?”

“I was fine until you came along,” I said expressionless.

He lets out a staged laugh, “Looks like you’ve taken some extra time again. You do realize it’s my turn.  There are things for Justin to do and learn you know.”

“No. You say that every morning, yet you still manage to make him procrastinate and watch TV instead of doing something truly productive; as a result of that you cut into my time at night when he’s trying to vigorously catch up because you just had to enjoy every little thing but what he needs to do. I’m the only one actually doing anything productive around here.  Just listen to what he’s dreaming about. He’s problem solving, without your distractions I might add.”

He smiles, and says, “He’s not learning anything! I supply those problems you so desperately want him to fix.  Listen to yourself; you need me!  I’ll give you until 6:15 today, but I expect an awake boy tomorrow at 6.”

“Fine,” I say full well knowing that tomorrow was Saturday and not even he wanted to work that early in the morning.  He disappears for a little while at least and I peacefully sit back and watch the beauty of sleep at work.

Writing Center Bros

HWC Tutor Danny V. (Junior) worked with his brother Patrick V. (Freshman) today in the HWC after school. 

HWC October 2013 Statistics Report

Now that November is nearly over, we decided it was time for us to finally share our October data! ;)

October 2013 was the busiest opening month we have ever had. We opened on October 7, and by October 31, we had conducted over 120 tutoring sessions!

Thanks for helping us to kick off the year, Herndon!

"Content" by Percival Brendan Noble the Third

Outside, it is raining and cold and gloomy. Parents are dragging their whimpering, half-asleep toddlers to dim sum with the grandparents. People jam themselves into the bus shelter, waiting impatiently for the bus to arrive. An unsuspecting pedestrian shouts indignantly as a car drives over a puddle and splashes him.

There is a cramped, hole-in-the-wall bookstore on the corner of 6th Avenue and Clement Street in San Francisco. The bookstore is quiet except for the shuffling of boxes being unpacked, the creaking of the wood floors, and the plitter-platter of the rain against the roof. The only voice is the polite greeting at the door, or the hushed but excited whispers from one friend to another. The air smells of aging, dusty books. The cookbook area downstairs is a bit too warm, but the psychology section upstairs a bit too drafty. The shelves are packed, books pushed into the shelves every which way.

Despite all its flaws and imperfections, this is my environment; this is my home. The flaws make it real. Without the overly pristine feel of regular chain bookstores, I can truly relax and enjoy the store. Walking into the bookstore, I hop into a bubble. I walk around, sipping my tea, and reading book reviews by the employees. The stresses of life evaporate, and nothing by the stories and I exist. My mind is blank as I meander around, ready to jump into the worlds contained in the pages of the old leather-bound novels. Pulling a book from the shelf and settling into a lumpy sofa, I enter completely different world.

The bookstore sells used books. Used books have withstood the test of time. It's warming to know that I am about to connect with the thousands of other people who have read and learned from the same books. If generations after generations of people have read the books, it's still going to have relevance in years after mine. I can picture myself speaking to the people of the future about books we've both read. The best thing this bookstore does with some of its used books is placing them in a cart outside the store. People can stop by and leave books or choose new ones to read for free. The casual system is different from a library's strict schedules and fines. It lets me feel like I'm holding a glimpse of someone's life in my hands.

This bookstore is a gift, an opening to endless opportunities. I have control. There is so much I can absorb. I can read whatever I want, whatever my curiosity pushes me to read. I can read more into Pavlov's experiments with his dogs, or a priest's life in pre-apartheid South Africa. I can learn how to take an mp3 player apart and put it back together so that it still works. The bookstore provides a break from normal, everyday life. The books change me from a first generation daughter of Asian immigrants living in the 21st century to a knight of the Round Table, a Death Eater, a teacher in one of Brazil's favellas, a kite runner in Afghanistan, a scientist dealing with moral controversies, or a parent living in a dystopian future.

The books force me to keep an open mind, to walk into a book without expectations or assumptions. Stories that are based in alternate universes that have different social norms invite me to see the world in which I live in a different light. The bookstore introduces novels that challenge my beliefs. I can read from the viewpoint of a male character with heavily misogynistic thoughts. Reading novels that challenge my beliefs either strengthen them or offer a different side that I didn't see before.

The bookstore on Clement Street is an odd place to find contentment. But, given the chance, it can be better than any tropical paradise.

"Seventeen" by Bartholomew Stewart

The red and green digital clock had seventeen seconds left on it. Anyone who knew anything about wrestling would know that the red man and the green man were tied four to four. I was the red man. It was a cold January evening in the Herndon High School Gym, and two schools were present: Herndon and Wakefield. The atmosphere in the gym was similar to that of all high school wrestling matches: Very intimidating, serious, and in your face. There were only about twenty people spectating in the stands tonight, we had a crowd. There was one large red mat with a big H in the middle of the gymnasium. Two rows of chairs facing each other were filled with my teammates, and the Wakefield wrestlers. I was standing off to the side, with Mrs. Petruzzi stuffing my nose with gauze to keep it from bleeding, and Ms. Bishop was wiping the blood off of my leg. For some reason, I was very cold, even though others would say that the gym felt hot and sweaty. Coach Gonzales was nearby, and he looked at me, and said, “You know what you need to do.” I nodded. Mrs. Petruzzi and Ms. Bishop finished, and the referee walked over to examine me. “You’re good.” He said blankly. I begin to walk back to the center of the mat, and I got into referee’s position, and my opponent got on top. “Bottom man ready?” My mouthpiece was in, I nodded.

The whistle blew. I exploded upward with all of my strength, in an effort to get my one point that I needed to win the match. The clock was ticking. Fifteen. I was now up, but the Wakefield kid still had control. Ten. As I continued to struggle to break his hands, I recalled something in which Joey Riley taught me earlier in the winter. Five. I began to rapidly grind my knuckles against the back of his hands. Four. All of my body weight was stacked against his. Three. He began to grunt out of pain. Two. His left hand came free, I threw it up, reversed, and took him down. One. “Red man, two points, reversal!” Zero. The buzzer rang loudly. I got up, and went to the middle of the mat. I quickly shook hands with the Wakefield kid, and the referee took my hand, and threw it up towards the ceiling. I can’t help smiling after a win a match, because it is simply the best feeling imaginable. Maybe it’s something about having your hand raised up high, or maybe it’s looking into the stands, and seeing your loved ones cheer for you. That was the last match of the duel. As I go back to my chair to put on my warm-ups, and my sweat shirt, I look over at the clock. The red and green digital clock displayed this: 10-8

"Adit" by Hiram McDaniels

The house is empty,

only you breathing

life into its still rooms

here, high in Appalachia, the setting sun

casting long shadows

down in the valleys.

Dinner by seven, a long night ahead.

By candlelight you twirl in time,

feet sweeping constellations across the kitchen floor,

the radio a conspiratory whisper of song

murmured to an audience of one.

Choral ranks of spring peepers

rise and fall, stay constant.

the daylight hum of grasshoppers

is hushed silent in the blackness.

It is a waiting game.

You listen for the door.

He is a flame you keep putting your hand in,

pushing the envelope, waiting to see how long

you can hold on before you burn.
The clock on the wall ticks toward two.

Imagine: a night where he makes it home

before the birds start.

Elsewhere,

the walls are damp, the mine winds

through miles of rock.

A single headlamp beam pierces gloom

and glints off great crevasses in the earth.

He dreams of dinners together,

He dreams of dinners with you.

(He dreams of dinners for three, for four,

small plates and smaller hands.

But he knows his lungs will be black by forty.)

He treads

unstable ground, smells only

coal dust, shale-stone, the drip

of groundwater over the seams.

Pitch here, differing still

from darkness above. The overseer

orders ten cuts by sunrise,

sweating in the heavy air.

He would rather be anywhere else,

your arm in hand, the dance floor,

a Co-cola, your girlish dress.

He will coax the machinery, listen

for the tremble of pine supports,

forecasting danger ahead.

Slurry pools around his ankles.

The radio goes silent, beams and bolts

gritted in the mountain’s teeth,

a great rumble from the gullet of an angry planet.

You will get the notice at five. The locusts

have not started their buzz, keeping mum

in a dawn vigil.

The creek will not run clear that day.

The creek will not run

but for a trickle of mud, the way ahead

blocked off by rockslides on the mountain.

Three knocks

come at the door frame,

your little country house he bought you

with what little country money he had saved.

The radio has been playing static for hours.

You stumble, knee-deep in arbutus, sinking

your palms into dry earth.

Imagine: a life lived with no sunrise.

You are a moth, spiraling dizzily

about an extinguished candle.

You fall

from orbit, singed

and stricken numb with grief.

A crushing weight.

Dinners for one, now and always for one.

The day dawns gray:

His eyes, never again to open,

you, never again to dance.

"Heart" by Ann Onimous

            I love hearts. Human hearts in particular. They hold a vast amount of purpose and meaning. The heart, as anyone can tell you, is vital for life. It’s what pumps blood throughout your body. It’s the very heart (pardon the pun) of the circulatory system. It allows blood to receive oxygen from the lungs before sending it off to the rest of your body. It’s highly important to keep your heart healthy enough to do this through diet and exercise. Are you aware that heart problems are the leading cause of death of Americans? I recently learned that. Quite interesting, in my opinion.

            The heart represents mortality. What’s the first thing one checks for upon discovering a body in one piece? A pulse. A flat line on a heart monitor has become a much used, even cliché, symbol of death. When the heart stops, everything stops. It’s like the power cord of a computer. Pull it out, and all operations cease. It’s done. Finished. Over. Goodbye.

            I think it’s funny how love is so closely associated with a symbol of a heart. In this day and age, “heart” is sometimes seen as an informal synonym for “love”; “I <3 you” and “I heart you” are rather popular phrases among teenagers these days. In fact, I’ve heard that our symbol for a heart is supposed to be two human hearts sewn together. The heart has nothing to do with love. All the feeling comes from your brain. Even when people describe their hearts racing from passion, it’s just a response to chemicals that their brains are releasing. Some might call it improper crediting. But if you think about it, we humans are connecting our life lines with love. “I love you from the bottom of my heart” could be taken as “I love you with my life force, my very essence of being.” And I think that’s beautiful.

            In short, human hearts are wonderful. They are vital for life and recognized as such. They symbolize love, one of the strongest feelings a human can possess. Human hearts are powerful. Human hearts are important. Human hearts are beautiful.

            And that, Your Honor, is why I collect them.

We've Been Busy!

This month, the HWC has been busy working with Mr. Cupolo's and Mrs. Mentis' ESOL 4 students on their Integrity essays. The English 9HN students have also begun trickling in with their Ishmael essays. We've been delightfully busy!

"Last Tuesday Night (Bananas)" by Phil

Well, where do I begin? Her name was Helen, not actually but it’s the name I gave her. And me? I’m the man with the answers, the individual that is about to impart my world of incriminating knowledge upon your very being.

                About a fortnight or so ago, I found myself at the restaurant known as “Un Papion”; it’s French, don’t ask me what it means because I don’t know. As usual, I went there to get a drink and not to eat. Yes, it was one of those nights again. Not the cheapest place to snag a drink or two, but it had become a mere habit in my ever-busy daily routine. It was more or less of my escape at the end of the day. I never ate there because I prefer filling food to five-star cuisine. Besides, the night was far from over and I was in no mood for eating.

                People-watching had recently become a practiced hobby of mine; almost an unspoken addiction if you will. She was shockingly large in size considering her dainty eating habits, which I had observed for the past few weeks. Her end-of-day routine was more or less like mine, for we both sought refuge in the same place. Yet, that night was different from the others because this time, she brought someone with her. The second woman, who I have chosen not to give a name for reasons you will find out in a moment, was one of the most mysterious women I had ever seen. Her greasy jet-black hair fell only to the tip of her bony chin and gave her an almost ghostly appearance. She looked like a character straight out of A Nightmare Before Christmas, which gave me an eerie and uncomfortable feeling.  But I guess it was nice to have a new person to observe. Suspicious, as well as deeply intrigued at what the two were so avidly discussing, I casually passed by their table, pretending to be uninterested in their seemingly secretive discussion.

                It was particularly one statement that stopped me in my tracks and made me turn on my heels. “If I don’t get them the check for $13,612, it’ll be my neck,” Helen hurriedly said to the other woman as she pushed around her small portion of salad she had just ordered. Knowing that they would eventually realize my eavesdropping, I resided to a nearby empty table where I ordered a dish of Ahi Tuna in order to keep up my cover. I felt like an undercover government agent spying on wanted criminals. Little did I know I was not so far off point.

                I am not going to bore you with specific dialogue between the two, mainly because at that point I had no idea what their situation was, but I will tell you what I learned. Basically what I learned was that the gaunt woman was Helen’s trusted friend whom she was dealing some pretty heavy information on. Helen was in neck-deep in trouble. She had been taken to the hospital three times just the week before for potassium deprivation, and had accidentally gotten herself into the harsh black market for bananas in attempt to cure her illness. Desperate to be healthy once again, especially due to her weight issue, she had bought fifteen thousand bananas so that she would never run into her predicament again. Little did she know that a week later, she would be in debt for over $13,000 to the Black Market Banana Company, or the BMBC.

                I’m assuming her friend was very wealthy, for she wore lavish clothing and had bought a $140 bottle of wine for the two women to share. Helen obviously went to her friend for money, considering her almost fake friendly tone towards her friend before she dropped the bomb about her obscene debt. So there I was, sitting an eating my tuna even though I was not hungry, coming to the realization that Helen was both a wanted woman, and criminal. I knew I had to do something, I just didn’t know exactly what.

                Not even knowing what I was doing, I stood up and began walking towards the table. I was ready to alert authorities when all of a sudden; three gorillas dressed in old school gangster attire busted in and immediately approached Helen. The gorillas had clearly dressed to the occasion. They had everything from the stylish fedoras to the suede shoes to the black and white pin-striped suits with a banana patch sown over the breast pocket. Only now do I realize how truly silly they actually looked. But I guess it was no sillier than the idea of mobster gorillas.

“Ooooo oo ahhh…money…banana…where…now,” said the largest of the three gorillas as the other two grabbed Helen and shook her around. The gorillas made it obvious they weren’t leaving without their money. Almost as soon as Helen exclaimed, “I don’t have your money”, she was swept out of the restaurant, leaving her friend, myself, and the whole restaurant in utter awe.

                I never did see that Helen again, and her name never appeared in the newspaper (hence the pseudonym given by myself). I assume she never did pay back that debt and spent the rest of her life peeling bananas for her hungry gorilla bosses. So the moral of the story? If you mess with the gorilla, you get the banana peel. At least she won’t have to worry about her potassium levels depleting again. 

National Day on Writing Submissions: "Person of the Year", "My Long-Time Imaginary Friend", and "When I was 11"

"Person of the Year" by Katherine K.

Every year, Time magazine names a person of the year. Finally it was my year! Why? Why of course I'm amazing and who wouldn't want me as person of the year? I save people everyday from villains and evil people. One day- February 17th, to be exact- I was walking down Main Street in Downtown Maui, known for their amazing volcanoes, bored out of my mind. Most people wonder how you can get bored in such an amazing place, but, yes, you can. It started to feel outrageously warm throughout the town. Yes, i know its Hawaii, but this was different. I looked up at Ambazingabaus, the biggest volcano on the island. On the top of the volcano there was a young child sitting on it. His name was Tyler and he lived on my street. I ran to the top of the volcano and saved him right before it exploded and ruined our whole town. Soon after, Time magazine approached me asking if I would like to be person of the year. Well of course, because I'm amazing!

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"My Long-Time Imaginary Friend" by Rachel H.

When you think of an imaginary friend, what do you think of? Probably a person, right? Well...my imaginary friend is a little different. My imaginary friend is a cloud. She's pink and blue and kind of looks like cotton candy. I know it sounds weird, but she is literally my best friend. I tell her everything from boys to asking her opinions on what I should wear. I also talk to her when I walk down the street and people think I'm crazy. I'm not though. I promise.

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 "When I was 11" by Mrs. Carey Williams, Administrative Intern

When I was about 11 years old, my older brother was at practice and my dad needed help carrying something down to the basement from my Pap's truck, which he had borrowed. I said "Sure!" and went out into the driveway to see what it was. The item that needed to be move was a steel bender. It was at least ten feet long and had to weigh over 300 pounds. As soon as I realized how much it weighed, I couldn't believe that he asked me to lift something so heavy! I used every ounce of energy I had, and by the time we got into the basement, I was in tears. When my dad asked what was wrong, I tried to explain that I wasn't my older brother and I couldn't do everything that he could. The reason I would never erase this memory is because in that moment, I learned that if I never did "heavy lifting" in life, that I would forever limit my potential. On that day, my dad looked past all pre-conceived stereotypes and asked me to do something difficult because he didn't for a second think that I would fail. This one memory is a driving force in my personal and professional life today.

"Waiting for You" by Midnight Oil

You find the pocket watch at an antique shop.  It is buried underneath many other things in a box on the second floor.  It seems out of place, as if someone were trying to hide it.  Perhaps a child had found it and stored it away there when their parents wouldn’t purchase it.  Or maybe the store owner wanted to hold on to it for a while, and so they tried to hide it away.  In either case it’s a beautiful pocket watch.

It looks like it’s from about the civil war era, or just after.  It’s of English make, and slightly damaged.  The metal is bent a bit, and the watch won’t open.  But when the sunlight hits it, light scatters all around the room.  The details on the watch are ornate, and cast beautiful patterns all over the walls.  You can see why someone would treasure this, the light show from it’s reflection is spectacular.  It would make a perfect addition to your collection of antique watches and clocks.  You have to have it.

The girl working at the register smiles and asks if that will be all, to which you respond yes.  She writes up the purchase, $70.  (Undervalued in your opinion.)

The store owner comes up to you just as you get ready to leave and says,

“Are you sure you want to buy that?  We’ve got plenty of other watches that aren’t… damaged.”

So it must have been the store owner who hid it away.  He clearly thought the watch was valuable, otherwise he wouldn’t turn you away from it.  You tell him you would like the watch you purchased, and no other.

The shopkeeper hesitates for a moment before saying,

“Well, don’t tamper with it too much, or try to get it open.  You might break it.”

He looks at you as if he’d given you a severe warning, almost life or death.  Which you find to be a bit unusual.  You tell him you’ll take care of it and won’t mess with it.  Before making your way out of the shop.  

“What a strange man,” you think.  “But to be fair he spends most of his life around junk and antiques.  He could be stranger.”

You make your way home with the watch in passenger seat.  Quite proud of your purchase, it immediately goes on display when you get home.  You put it on a bookshelf where light hits most of the day, and the watch gives off its brilliant light display.

You go to read for a bit, but can’t stop thinking about the watch.  Pocket watches like that usually have a display on the inside.  You want to know what the broken latch was hiding from you.  You have to get it open.  You have to know.  Something, some voice is telling you:

“Open it. Open it. Don’t you want to know?”

You get a screwdriver, a small flathead.  The watch would certainly open if you wedge the screwdriver in the latch slightly.  You take the watch from its spot, and put the screwdriver to it.  You fiddle with it for about a half hour when suddenly you hit the right spot.  The watch door swings open.

You are a bit disappointed.  The clock is stuck at 1:26, and the display only has a picture of a young woman and a little note:

“I’ll be waiting for you.”

So the man this watch belonged to clearly had a lover, and he must have gone off.  She left him a note that he kept in his pocket watch while he traveled.  An interesting look into the past, but there is really nothing special about it.

Later in the evening you think about the note again:

“I’ll be waiting for you. I’ll be waiting for you.”

For a moment you can almost hear a young woman’s voice saying those words.  So tragic, it is likely that the owner of the watch never got to return to her.

You get into bed.  You need an extra blanket, even with the heat turned up the house is unusually cold.  You have a dream that night, you are in an argument with a young woman.  It seems you have wronged her in some way.  She is screaming and comes charging towards you.  Right then, you wake, startled.  Cold nights like this always gave you nightmares.  You look at the clock: 1:22.  It’s going to be a long night if things keep on like this.

But just as you lay your head back down, you hear sobbing.

Someone is crying, yet you’re alone in the house.  Is there an intruder?  Why would a robber be crying?

You pick up the baseball bat that you keep in the bedroom and go into the hallway.

As you slowly make your way toward the stairs the sobs get louder.  And louder still as you creep down the stairs.  The sound is coming from your study, and as you approached, you see a young woman on her knees, holding the pocket watch.  She notices you and her sobbing stops.  She looks at you with a piercing gaze.  She is the same woman from your dream, and the photograph inside the watch.

“You.  I waited for you.  You broke my heart.”

Your chest begins to burn.

“I waited for you.”

You try to move, to speak even, but you’re completely frozen.  The woman stands up, she walks closer and with every step your chest burns more and more.  She glares at you, her face rapidly changing from distraught to angry, her head twitching unnaturally.

“We were going to be married.  I waited for you.”

You are in so much pain you can hardly take it.  Your heart is beating so fast it felt as if it might burst.  Your chest feels on fire now, and it feels as if the muscles in your torso are being ripped apart.  Your ribs are cracking and your consciousness is fading.

“You broke my heart.  So now I need a new one.”

The woman slowly reaches toward you.  Her hand extends to right over your heart.  Her hand plunges into your chest.

The police find the body 3 days later.  There are no cuts, no blood, no external injuries to report.  The victim is entirely normal, with one exception, there is no heart.  Their only pieces of possible evidence:

A pocket watch that won’t open.

And the fact that every clock in the house is stuck at 1:26 am.