Dancing Disaster by Kayla L.

One night I was in my New York apartment trying to go to sleep but all I could hear was soft slow music and feet moving upstairs. This was annoying me so much. It was 11 o’clock at night; couldn’t this person have some consideration to not do this at night? It kept going on until 1 in the morning. That’s when I was fed up with the noise.

I got up, put on my robe and slippers and walked through the hallway, into the elevator. I went one floor above me and I walked right to the same number apartment as mine because I could hear everything above me from my apartment. I started to bang on the door but no one answered so I hit harder; finally the music stopped. So I just walked away but only a few seconds later the music started back up. I was so angry I just wanted to scream. I tried hitting the door even harder but nothing happened. So I just gave up and went back downstairs and covered my ears with pillows. I finally fell asleep at 2 o’clock in the morning. I went to college that morning and could barely keep my eyes open.

As I was walking in the apartment building I could see a moving truck in the parking lot. This tiny woman was trying to carry a chair out from it. She almost fell over so I went over and helped her bring it up to her apartment.

When we got to her apartment I got so mad. She was living in the same apartment as the one with the music and footsteps. She invited me in and I went. We started talking about where she was from and what she does. She ended up telling me that last night she was dancing all night because it’s what she likes to do when she needs to express herself. She told me she had to move into that crummy apartment because her boyfriend broke up with her and this is the only place she could afford right now.

I didn’t like her at all for a while but then one night my friends and I decided to go watch this dumb dance show at our town theater. We were laughing at all the people going up there and making a fool of themselves.

Then all of a sudden she came out. She was in this long baby blue dress. And the same music came on as the night before. She started dancing and it was like she was pouring her emotions right there on the stage. Right then and there I realized she was right. Dancing was a great way to express you. By the time she was done the whole audience was in shock. Her performance was amazing. It took the audience a few seconds after she was done to start clapping.

I tried to go backstage and see her and tell her she did awesome, but I wasn’t allowed in. that night I kept going up to her apartment and knocking on the door to see if she was home. But she never was. Finally she came home 2 days later. I went up to her apartment and told her how amazing she was. She had me come in and turn on some music and started teaching me how to turn, kick, and leap. As I started to learn how to dance I fell in love. I’ve been dancing ever since that day.

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Spirited Dancing by Katie D.

I hear my alarm clock ringing in my ear, and I jumped out of bed. The day had finally come. I had worked toward this day for what felt like my entire life. In the kitchen I found my mother smiling a smile as bright as the sun. She cheerfully handed me a plate of scrambled eggs like they were her prized masterpiece. I ate them slowly, knowing I would need my energy for the upcoming hours.

After breakfast, I headed upstairs to get dressed. I pulled on my leotard and tights and threw my new dance shoes into my bag. Although I had never had a proper dance lesson, my mother insisted that I have the proper attire for today. I was venturing where no one from my neighborhood had ever been before. I knew it was risky, but I was going to audition for Baltimore’s junior dance team. It was my big chance.

As I headed out the door, my mother grabbed my hands and looked me in the eye. “Honey, all I ask is that you try your best,” she said. I rolled my eyes, muttering a “thanks” and started down the street. It seemed impossible, but my mom seemed even more into this than I was. Soon I arrived at the dance studio, and realized that most dancing hopefuls were arriving in expensive cars. I also noticed something else. I was the only African American there. But that wouldn’t stop me. I knew I wanted this more than anything.

Walking down the tiled floor, the pounding of my sneakers seemed to echo off each wall louder than any voice in the room. I could feel the eyes of every person standing in the hallway watching me. I could hear the whisper, and although I couldn’t make out words, I was sure they doubted I would make it on the team.

“Name?” the woman asked at the front desk. I could tell she was the mother of one of the dancers, trying desperately to get her daughter on the team. Her hair was piled up a mile high on her head, and she wore a fake, forced smile.

“Amanda Hillard,” I replied.

“Date of Birth?” she asked, bored.

“July 16, 1943.”

“Age?”

“15”

She handed me a card, telling me I could proceed into the waiting room. Before long my name was called and I stepped into a large room. We learned a combination, and then we danced in small groups. This was much simpler than the audition I’d imagined, and I mastered it. Every single step was perfect, and I remembered to wear a bright, dazzling smile. There was no question that I had, as my mother told me to, done the best that I could do.

At the door back into the waiting room, some dancers were already being told they had a call back. Others were being told that they would be notified in a matter of days. I stopped at the door, clutching my dance bag. “I’m sorry,” the woman said, “But you’re not really what we’re looking for.”

I looked back into the room and noticed that almost everyone was staring. I’m not an impulsive person, but something inside of me took over. My love for music and dance pulsed through my body, and I ran to the center of the dance floor, and did what I do best. I danced to the music, feeling the beat everywhere. I could see the blurred faces around the room, and for once I didn’t care what they were thinking. The music was a part of me, and I felt like a free spirit. When the song stopped, I walked out the nearest door and started home, not looking back.

Days later, I received a call from the Baltimore junior dance team. One of their dancers had dropped out, and they were wondering if I would like a position as an understudy. “No Thanks,” I said, hanging up the phone. I wasn’t sure what the dance team was looking for, but I was pretty sure I didn’t want to be a part of it. I knew I had something no one on the dance team had. Because when I dance, I can feel it in my soul.

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Alaskan Dream By Kristin P.

“One large pizza light on sauce!” Charlotte hollered over the large crowd that had formed in Antonio’s pizzeria. It was the beginning of a hectic summer, Charlotte could tell. Many families swarmed to the little town of Ketchikan in the summertime to experience Alaskan culture at its finest. The quaint fisherman’s village had an appearance all its own. Having the tourist shops built on stilts you always felt one with the ocean. The vibrant evergreen mountains frosted with sparkling snow were in every direction, and the strong aroma of fish always diverted your attention. On the downside being the rainy capital of America makes days of warm, glistening sun a rarity.

“A diet coke would be excellent,” a customer blurted impatiently as Charlotte was pulled from her thoughts. Waitressing at a family bistro was not a task Charlotte fanaticized, but it was her job, and she would strive to do the very best at it. She dreamed of going to college and having a real career, but she was not supported by her financial position. Her parents were employees at the local convenient store and could not afford to send her to school.

As she ran home from an exhausting day at work, hoping to avoid the storm brewing overhead, she came across an intriguing flyer that was whipping violently in the wind. On it was a couple dancing. The woman was dressed in elegant white gown that glistened and shimmered. The man was tall and handsome wearing a sharp black tuxedo. Charlotte could clearly remember the day she had done a brief ballet piece for a dance recital in high school. She had loved the rush of being on-stage. All eyes were on her as she went through each motion. She had gotten a standing ovation at the end of her performance along with a bouquet of flowers from her parents so proud. She bowed and curtsied brightly as she relived the memories.

“What are you doing?” questioned a familiar voice. Startled, Charlotte gasped; it was Jason, the chef at Antonio’s and Charlotte’s only friend around her age.

“I was just thinking about the dance I did last year,” she explained.

“What is that paper?” Jason question when he saw the flyer Charlotte clutched in her hand.

“Oh its nothing,” Charlotte replied shyly.

He confiscated the advertisement and read it carefully. “Look! It says there is going to be a dance competition in New York. Participants will train with certified dance instructors for 3 weeks at the New York City ballet. The winner of the competition will win $5,000 and an extraordinary bonus. Applicants must be 19 to 29 years of age. If you graduated high school with honors, your entire trip is complementary.” Excitedly he turned to Charlotte and begged her to try it.

“I’m not sure.” Charlotte was skeptical, but it was an incredible, free opportunity. She looked to her friend for guidance.

“I think it would be a memorable experience for you. Such a busy person needs to take time for herself,” Jason pleaded and finally Charlotte gave in. The two friends, huddled beneath Charlotte’s umbrella, paced home to announce the good news.

Just two short weeks after, Charlotte was on her plane agonizing over what her venture to New York would bring. She had never been far from her parents or traveled on a plane, this was a completely new experience.

A taxi was awaiting her arrival so that she could be escorted to The Plaza hotel. The extravagant structure sheltered Charlotte’s indulgent suite. She gazed outside her balcony window, bewildered that in 12 short hours her training would begin.

Her dance instructor was a slim, petite woman named Felicity. She moved with grace and elegance. As Charlotte’s eyes scanned the studio she found an entire room of talented dancers. For three strenuous weeks Charlotte and her opponents vigorously trained with Felicity to prepare for their big day. Charlotte repeated each step over and over until they became a natural occurrence. She knew all her efforts were going to pay off.

The competition day had finally arisen and a mass of people flowed into the theater. Each audience member was eager to watch the day’s festivities. After many magnificent performances it was Charlottes turn, the moment of truth. Although her competitors had skills, what Charlotte didn’t realize was so did she. Her sophistication and composer were compelling; and she moved with delicate grace. Charlotte had a captivating style all her own that hooked everyone’s attention until her final bow. An overpowering array of cheers and claps made Charlotte brightly gleam as the music ended. She ambled off the stage, filled with pride and excitement.

She wiped the sweat from her forehead as she anxiously awaited the judge’s final results. She told herself not to expect too much for she was an amateur among professionals. Just then she heard her name over the loud speaker, “Charlotte Baker, first prize!!!!”

She could not believe what she had just heard. She walked back to the stage with charisma and enthusiasm.

“Congratulations!” began one of the judges. “For your brilliant performance and motivation you will be rewarded with $5,000 and an exceptional offer!” At that moment Felicity came up to the stage and handed Charlotte the check with a mysterious envelope. She timidly opened it to reveal its contents. A dance scholarship to NYU!!!!!
So grateful and thrilled, Charlotte began to cry. “Thank you for this incredible opportunity,” she announced. “This has been a dream come true.”

She stepped off the stage to thank the judges and Felicity when three familiar faces came up behind her. Her mother, her father, and Jason awarded her with a much needed hug and a bouquet of flowers. They had worked extra hours to come out and support her. Together, they all went home.

“Can I have that pizza now!” an impatient costumer complained. Yeah, Charlotte thought, it will be one long summer’s end at Antonio’s, but just think of the adventures and possibilities that lie ahead this fall.

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A Few Simple Words by Stacy C.

Swoo-ish goes the waves as they move back and forth along the beach while the breeze invisibly swirls towards the Atlantic. It is cool, and the sand looses its heat from basking in the sun all day. The sole observer of this daily phenomenon is me, Flora Allen. I am stretched out on my beach. I can see the lights from my house reflecting on the water like glass as the sun’s light fades into the caramel tinted nocturnal horizon.

I get up from my spot in the sand to return some circulation. I scrutinize my reflection. My oversized green eyes make my long red hair pop out against my pale and hollow face. My short, but thin build, is a total contrast to my boyfriend John Clark. He has brown hair, blue eyes, a dark complexion, and a tall muscular build.

"Dinner’s ready!" John hollers from my deck right on cue.

"Be right there." I yell back, not really caring about the neighbors.

Now that I have been ripped from my tranquil state of mind, I reflect on my problem of the day. I just don’t know whether or not I want to give the eulogy for my Grams at her funeral in 3 days. My mom thinks I should. However, she’s overworked and tired so she could have mixed me up with some other relative.

Except, my Grams never really liked me that much, or so it seemed. Now as I walk in the screen door into my kitchen, I try to let it go for the night. But John knows me too well, and notices I’m a little distracted.

"Flora", he says as he bustles around the kitchen setting the table and putting food on both our plates, "Have you decided if you’re going to give your Grams’ eulogy?"

"I don’t think I’m going to." I say as I sit down at the table. I’m glad he doesn’t ask me to elaborate.

"Then you should call your mother before bed and let her know. With the time difference and all, it’s better to call when it’s later for us since it’s early for her." John said with a look of understanding. True to his psychiatrist ways, John knows what to do.

That night when I was about to call my mother with the phone in my hand after John went upstairs, I notice there’s a faint white light growing stronger by the second a few feet in front of me. I’m fixated by it, but not apprehensive or scared. Then it takes a peculiarly familiar outline of a woman. In a split second it becomes a translucent imitation of my Grams. I am immobilized still holding my phone. Her face looks so sad and worn. Then her hands covered her heart.

"I’m sorry". She says, and disappears.


Then all the emotions I felt at that second were too much, and everything went black. I woke to find John shaking me and asking me what happened. I bolted up and grabbed the phone. Before I realized what was happening, I heard myself telling my mother that I was doing the eulogy for Grams, now in 2 days. As soon as I hung up the phone, I go to my desk in the den and begin to write frantically. The task I thought that would be so strenuous is actually not. I just needed to remember all the good Grams had done, and remember what a good person she was.

Now, as I walk up to the podium next to the closed casket surrounded by red and yellow roses, I take a deep breath to keep from succumbing to tears. I take my speech and I begin to read to all of the people that came to pay their respects:

"Grams was cruel and bitter, but that was part of her charm as I have just realized. Now I kick myself for not getting a chance to know her better. Be weary of people, but give them a chance. Don’t deny yourself a good relationship just because you judge a book by its cover, old or young alike. I know everyone here is going to miss her. Goodbye."

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Cold Blood by Jack M.

Whenever I look back, my mind panics. Whenever I close my eyes, I see the shadows. Whenever I am in silence, I hear the screams. Whenever I am alone, it feels so fresh in my weary thoughts.

The howl pierced the evening air as the skies began to bleed a dark crimson and a cold chill fell upon a serene Earth. I sat up immediately from resting in the tent, my nerves on overdrive throughout my body. The only thing eerier than the howl was the deathly silence of the forest after its echo. It arose again and turned into a slow whining as it slowly faded away.

“What was that?” My friend Mark almost whispered outside of the tent. I stood on uncertain feet and got outside where the other three paused, wary.
“That wasn’t any wolf.” Alex put down the firewood in his hand. Josh beside him was breathing heavily.
We shared a nervous glance as Mark began to walk north. “Come on, let’s go see.” Josh and myself, leaving behind a reluctant Alex, followed him.

We made our way through the forest; thick trunks and dense ferns could not hold back a thriving curiosity. The sun had almost set when we found the rocks. An intricate pattern in which a great number of boulders stood.

“My Lord…” Mark’s eyes grew wide, navigating through the formation. He bent down and grasped what looked to be a rock, but it was far from. My veins grew cold. He brought the object closer: a pale skull, wide eyes, sharp teeth, and long horns.
“Put it back, man, it has nothing to do with the noise we heard.” Josh’s voice was not the same.
“How do you know?” I inserted, but we all knew the howl didn’t matter at all now.
“Come on, let’s look at it in the firelight,” Mark’s words made apparent the dim light we stood in. We nodded and sullenly trudged back to the camp.

The fire danced to the sky, leaping joyously in a tangerine dream. I tried to keep it in my focus, but my eyes were drawn to our finding. The skull sat on the rock as we discussed our opinions on the matter. Only one thing was agreed upon, it was not human or animal. Three of us decided to abandon our wilderness trip and take it to the town the next day. Alex was adamant in disposing of it.

It was late when we all retired to our tents, and I don’t know now if I even fell asleep. Nighttime surrounded me and loosened my mind. I was half awake when my heartbeat began to slow, my breaths short. In a slow slur, deep, distorted sounds surrounded the tent, shaken by the wind. My thoughts were tainted with sights my mind still refuses to bear. A dark shadow of a figure I could not describe stood within its own malice. I couldn’t see it, but it was somehow in my thoughts. The slur turned into a low moan. “Filius du Insuadibilis quisnam havi inficio torin du meus hadie per vestri gelu cruor. Pitiful parvulus quisnam teneo nusquam du immortalis. Me vos sino in vestri to vamor. Je sum Messor.” I sat up, my heartbeat heavy in my ears. The sound grew louder and louder as I rushed out of the tent. Immediately, my eyes caught sight of the skull, and a deep sounding drum filled my mind. I was snapped from the trance as I saw Mark and Josh outside as well, looking around in fear.

“You hear that too?” Mark’s words were quick.
I nodded. “Where’s Alex?”

I stood alone in the midst of the trees, faint calls of Alex’s name around me. The forest was cold, unusual, and different. The summer moon’s glow heavy enough to break the canopy. I was about to return to the camp when I heard a scream to my right. Racing through the trees, I found myself in a clearing, Mark and Josh staring in the distance. As I stood next to them, I could see a figure, on the cliff before us, silhouetted against the full moon. The figure was Alex. Just barely in the light, he turned to us and I could see a tear stream down his face. “ALEX!”

“He’s coming…The eyes! They speak to me! …I will not let him take me…” I could hear him moaning. Deep inside I knew I could not have saved him, but I still blame myself to this day. With one last cry, he dove to the lake below. The hollow sound of bone cracking the rocks filled the night.

At our camp, we were panicking, numb in shock. We didn’t know why, how, or what made him do it, but he was gone and we could not explain. Together, we decided the daylight would clear our minds and retired once again to solitude.

This time I know I did not sleep. Within an hour, the demonic slur commenced. It filled my mind and my veins ran cold. It was not until I heard the screaming that the voices stopped. I ran out of my tent to see Mark holding a crying Josh back from the skull.

“Get rid of it! He knows it’s here!” Josh broke past Mark and grasped the skull. The drums grew louder and louder. I couldn’t make them stop. What happened next remains a blur in my mind. Mark’s eyes grew in a wild fury and flame as he pulled out our knife and thrust it into Josh’s stomach. The boy let the skull drop as he stammered around, a questioning expression across his face, finally falling to the ground. Breathing one last time, I choked on my fear and I screamed.

“What the hell are you doing?”
Mark stood, panting. He was not himself; eyes black and endless, stare, unqualified.

“You cold blooded son of a –.” The words fell from my mouth as he lunged at me and struck my head with a rock. There I lay, unconscious.

Who knows what time I came across my senses, all I remember was the moon setting in the west, an eerie moon, the light from it bringing uncomfort. I lay there, hoping it was all a sick dream. It wasn’t. I stood slowly. The fire embers were cooling and Josh’s body was stiff. I slid the knife from his stomach biting my lip. It held with it, a frightening chill, stained with the Devil’s crimson. Mark was nowhere to be seen, along with the skull. I felt sick. My mouth was full of acid, my head was pounding, and I was freezing. Walking around to clear my head, to my pure disgust I found Mark, hanging from a tree by his belt. The endless eyes were gone, replaced with those of pain and innocence. I began to vomit; the world was spinning and the wind rushed around me. I could hear voices, lonely cries within the gusts: weeping. Once again, the drums filled my ears, the slur beginning, “Filius du Insuadibilis quisnam havi inficio torin du meus
hadie per vestri gelu cruor. Pitiful parvulus quisnam teneo nusquam du immortalis. Me vos sino in vestri to vamor. Je sum Messor.”

“WHAT’S HAPPENING TO ME?” I screamed violently. The bloody knife was cast in the moonlight, the only way to rid of the pain. I pulled it to my stomach as the fire seared through me and the world began to blur, the slur of voices, slowing. My focus turned to the low hill to my left. On a pure white stallion sat a dark, morbid figure in black robbing, its eyes, unexplainable in any mortal words. In his arms was the skull. Looking into the eyes I could not breathe. I fell to my knees, heaving on fear and crying.

The slur began to fade into understandable words, a low whispering demonic voice, “…son of Adam who hath tainted the skull of my underworld with thy cold blood. Pitiful child who know noth of immortality. May thee suffer in thy own ignorance…I am The Reaper…”
The words echoed in my mind as I let out a weak scream. Lying on the soil, I gently placed my hand to my stomach. From the wound, the deep liquid crimson seeped…cold.

I don’t know now who found me, I don’t really care. I woke up in a hospital almost a week later. I told the story once; they think I’m insane. Mark, Josh, Alex…they were never found, not even their bodies. No evidence whatsoever. There were even campers in the same forest that night who claimed they heard nothing.

One of the doctors told me the area we were on was once the site of a rock formation, once a place of pagan worship, beyond their architectural abilities; however it was destroyed in 1864 in a battle of the Civil War in which every soldier died.

So they don’t believe me? I don’t care. But some nights, when I’m lying in my bed, the wind will weep and outside my window will be the white stallion, the Reaper on its back, and my blood will turn cold.

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