Joanne's Short Story:1st page

 Short Story: 1st page 

I spend my nights looking at the same People magazine from 5 years ago, imagining what life would be like with friends, fashion, and tv. It’s not that I’m unhappy living with my mom, but I feel so lonely all the time. I live in a trailer park in a remote campground by a river. Families occasionally pass by for a bathroom stop, or maybe even to spend the night, but no one lives here except me and my mom and an old man named Mr. Nelson. The longest amount of time I have had a friend is one week. Ever since my dad died two years ago, nothing has been the same. We used to travel all over the country, backpack, and camp but now I barely leave the campsite, and my mom barely leaves the trailer. I work at the Food Mart in the gas station just on the outside of the campsite, and my mom and I live off the little money I make. Before my dad died, my parents both home-schooled me but now I just re-read old textbooks over and over again.

            I don’t understand how my mom is almost three times my age, but handles my dad’s death with such little maturity. She has become reliant on alcohol, which is the nicest way to say it, and has become a completely different person. I cope with his death by drawing by the river, which gives me a sense of peace, better than any kind of therapy could give me. My mother often offers to take me to a therapist when she’s drunk, and I have to remind her that we can barely afford three minimal meals a day. Her emotionally drained expression, short temper, and sloppiness makes my stomach sink every time I see her. Whenever I imagined my life in the future when I was little, I would have never pictured this.

            My mom hasn’t slept in three days, and I’m beginning to worry. She is usually very restless at night, but all she has been doing for the past few nights is drink more, and have imaginary conversations with my dad. As much as it makes her temporarily happy, it kills me to see her like this. I hate telling her all over again that dad is gone, but it’s the only thing that makes her go back to bed, usually, after about an hour of painful whimpering. I shouldn’t have to grow up this fast. Sixteen year olds shouldn’t have to go through this; but how would I know what is normal for a “regular” sixteen year old?

            Somehow my mom found some sleeping pills and started taking them without me knowing about it. I started thinking how it might be a good idea, because she might actually sleep, which would hopefully decrease the drinking at least at night. Over the next few days her attitude has actually improved a little, so I haven’t said anything about the pills yet.

            After my shift at the Food Mart, I headed to the trailer to get my notebook and my colored pencils. I briefly said hi to mom, and then quickly walked to the river. I haven’t been to my normal spot in a few days, and it feels good to be back. I propped my back up on a tree truck, and my legs balanced my pencils and notebook on the log. The fresh smell of pine, the sound of rustling leaves, and the current of the river calmed me down a bit. With all the stress and difficulties I have to deal with, I’m thankful that I have this place of peacefulness to come to.

            As I am opening my pencil box, I hear a loud crash. I yell to my mom several times, but I didn’t hear her respond. I frantically climbed off the log and ran across the bridge. As I pulled open the old discolored door of our trailer, I could feel my pulse in my hands. I turned the corner past the clutter, and saw my mom lying on the floor, her hands covered in wounds dripping with blood and a broken vase with shards of glass scattered all over the floor. 

Faustine's Short Story

Her cheeks were ruddy, caressed by her dark brown hair. At 11 years old, her face still held the essence of a young child; puffed cheeks and a button nose. With small stubby fingers, she shaded her eyes from the blinding sun. Squinting, she peered up at the girl standing beside her. This girl was lankier, but held her figure with a trace of authority, an aura of confidence. However, at this particular moment, her confidence seemed faded, like the aroma of food after cooling. Her scrunched eyebrows were hidden beneath her unusually ruffled hair, and her light-colored eyes were distant, searching for a reason, an answer.

Cassidy looked up expectantly at me, “Joleeeen”. She said it with a lilt, the way all children do when they want something from their parents. I didn’t say anything, only patting her head, for she was a whole head shorter than me despite our mere 1 year and 9 months age difference. We were outside the Custody Courthouse waiting, just waiting.

The sky was a vast panel of deep sea blue, much like the color of the ocean that ruined our lives forever. It had only been three weeks since it happened, but our lives had changed so drastically ever since that it felt more like fifteen years. It still hadn’t sunk in yet, the reality that haunted us so constantly.                            

                                                 *   *   *   *   *

The fact that I became a piano teacher 12 years ago has completely changed my life. Not because over these years, the number of students I teach accumulated to about 50 students, of whom I see every week, taking up nearly all of my free time; it has become my daily routine, my life; nor is it because I have taught for 12 years straight, gaining experience and skills from my students themselves. Yes, I learned from my students, don’t all teachers? People pitied me for being a teacher who worked nonstop, or perhaps for something else, but they all gave me that same look, the one with big eyes and the words “Oh no” shaped with their mouths. I hated that look, nevertheless, it seemed like I was destined to receive these looks of pity, it’s like I was the Pity-look Collector or something.

The real reason lies in the situations that I encountered after becoming a teacher, all of which I must thank my wife for; she was the one who encouraged me to become a piano teacher at the age of 55, in addition to my regular job. Getting to know each and every one of my students personally also played a large part. They’ve really come to be like my own children, no, more like grandchildren. You see, my wife and I only have each other. Any free time we have, we spend it together, whether it’s eating at a fancy restaurant or watching the sunset, and I’m grateful. Grateful for the strong bond we have.

Life started to regain its rhythm, but not quite. So when we adopted Cassidy and Joleen Marigel, my long time piano students, we were in for another change.

                                               *   *   *   *   *

He was shaped like a teddy bear, complete with a round belly and a big nose. From the back, his neck was not visible, even more so resembling a stuffed animal. His hair was mostly white with gray streaks here and there, and with gel, his scarce hairs were combed neatly. Behind his old-fashioned, wide lens eyeglasses, were kind, loving, yet tired, almost wistful eyes.

We call him Mr. Wesley.

 TBC

Michelle Y.'s Short Story: Strain 70V3

Total destruction. Atrocity. Chaos. The cozy island of Karissa off the coast of Greece has never seen anything so hideous nor horrific in the past. In fact, Karissa was especially known for its peaceful ways. Ever since the reign of the Karissa family, violence was no longer known. The new monarchy, in order to maintain stability, exercised a new method of control. They called it compliance with freedom, essentially tyranny with equality. The Karissian rules were simple: live, work, and die for the greater good. Any interference was to be avoided, or forgotten. If something did not benefit society, it had to go.  Feelings and desires, if it did not help the community, was looked down upon. For a long while in isolation, this system developed.

Pretty soon, the enchanted island radiated prosperity and contentment. The reign of the Karissian Empire became legend. To the eyes of the preying public, there was no place more perfect than this island; it was even rumored that the island was a gateway to paradise. A warm island with clear waters and sunny skies, what more could be desired? A place where the tropical breeze blew, it was the perfect setting for a cliché story, the ones about summer romance. Karissa was pleasant, filled with the harmonious music of singing birds and the calming hum of the ocean waves. Plus, with all the perks of industrialization, Karissa was not at all a bad place to live.

But now, bodies—corpses—covered every inch of the island. A pool of blood had formed on the earth. Every inhabitant had been found, twisted in a grotesque fashion, stained with splotches of scarlet. The stench of rotten flesh burned. Karissa was covered in bodies with once gaping wounds whose faces were frozen in a state of absolute terror. The bodies that still looked like bodies had suffered blunt force trauma and hemorrhaging, but these scientific terms described nothing. In fact, there really wasn’t a way to fully describe what had happened, and no one knew, either.

Everyone simply assumed a political conflict. After all, the Karissian family had been ruling for quite a while, longer than anyone else had in the past. Conspiracy was a possibility. The prosperous island was something to be eyed; it would be of no surprise if someone wanted to become the ruler of it themselves. After a period of long reign, there is bound to be conflict. It made perfect sense.

Regardless of the assumptions of political conflict, everyone wanted to know what really happened. However, despite the curiosity, no one wanted to go to the ill-fated island; they were all waiting for a scapegoat to do what they did not want to do. Every single person, all around the world, had been waiting for someone like Angie Taylor.

These sort of things always happened to her. It’s a big break, huh?, the tall slender girl, thought. She had been afraid of getting fired, but instead, she got a shitty job that no one else wanted. Might as well been fired, she sighed as she twirled her long brown locks out of frustration. If only I got the pleasant jobs... The girl, not quite an adult, yet not exactly a child, walked rapidly down the corridor from her boss’s room, taking no notice of the bulletin of successful journalists of all time. It was part of her philosophy; why bother if there is nothing to be bothered about? It’s not like I’m going to be on there, anyways. Getting swiftly back to her room, Angie Taylor sat down heavily. On the way back, she had decided against the resignation she had previously proposed. She had duty, unlike the rest of them—and also unlike them, she had no power. My life is a series of unfortunate events, she concluded.

It had started ever since the death of her father fourteen years ago due to pancreatic cancer. A terminal illness, he had died quicker than any of his family members could react. After that, Angie’s life became a stream of bad luck. Her mother, presented with new financial problems, could no longer take proper care of her two daughters, six and sixteen at the time. Eventually, the older one ran off, leaving only Angie with her mother. However, even with one less child, their family had financial problems.

Mikaelas fist page: Nothing Of What It Seems

Nothing of What it Seems 


I wearly shuffled into math class 1st period to find my seat had been changed. The class, roughly 25 students was a mixture of the populars, most importantly Abbey McAdams, nerds and people like me; in the middle with average grades and average friends. “Sydney Morrison” read the card on my new desk in the far right corner and “Emily Ferris”, the card next to me. I felt bad but I honestly didn’t know who she was. I looked over at Abbey who at this hour of the morning, managed to look like a princess; her hair and makeup perfect and her outfit all designer and put together. She sat there as if there was a pole down her back, attentive and ready to learn. With the clock ticking at the pace of a snail giving us 20 minutes left of our period, paper airplanes and spitballs roamed the classroom with Ms. Jansons voice squeaking in the background. I looked over at my paper to actually start taking the notes and noticed a girl next to me that I guessed was the estranged Emily Ferris. She had been invisibly ghost like since the beginning of the period. Dead silent, eyes glued to the floor Emily sat there looking like she had borrowed clothes from a homeless person. I stared at her in awe wondering how her mother let her out of the house looking like that. She looked up catching me staring and immediately looked down again. What the fuck is wrong with her, I thought to myself, no makeup, messy hair; she looks like shit. My chair was immediately scooted over out of disgust.


The bell echoed through the halls of Milton High. Faculty and Staff directed students into the auditorium. It was crowded and dim and no one student actually wanted to be there. They finally got all of us to shut up so they could tell us about things that didn’t even interest us the slightest bit. Once they started talking though, there was chatter that couldn't be stopped. Tetris was the only thing that got me through the first half. “And now we as a faculty, proudly call up the McAdams to our lovely stage!” announced our principal. The four members of the McAdams walked down the aisle as if it was the Red Carpet at the Grammys. Kyle first, then his wife Susan followed by their two children Cole and Abbey. They got on stage and the auditorium went from a zoo of noise to like we were all bird watching. They stood as a family looking like they were posing for a picture, all beautifully dressed and good-looking. Abbey’s luscious blonde hair drapped down her shoulders like a waterfall and Cole looked more handsome than ever with the lights shining on him. His beautiful muscular build shown greatly as a result of all his All Star and Varsity sports. Kyle, thirty-five years of age didn’t look a day over twenty-five and the only words to describe Susan were a motherly goddess. "From our donations and fundraising done by us and others of the community, mainly at our very own McAdams Sports Center of Milton we were able to raise over $5,000 in contribution to east Garden of Milton High! We hope you all as a class can enjoy and prosper from this money.” Susan said, her voice soft and gentle but at the same time dominating and fierce. The garden was this huge plot of land on our school property that used to be dried dirt with weeds scattered about. In the beginning of that year the mentally disabled students got a new teacher with a green thumb. She helped them to create a garden on the land. It was a slow process, but it was beginning to come together nicely. All they needed was some more money for supplies and plants. The group of mentally disabled students receiving the money sat on stage looking up at the McAdams like they were a family of greek Gods. Susan, gracefully smiling, handed one of the seniors the check. Everyone in the auditorium was quiet and then suddenly burst into applause. It felt like a presidential inauguration. My friend Claire looked over at me “Gosh,” she exclaimed, “I want to be like Susan McAdams and have a family exactly like that when I get older.” I could understand where she was coming from. The family seemed perfect; from looking at them they looked out of a magazine and when you talked to them, woah, that was a whole different experience. Always having something fun and exciting to talk about with parents and kids. My mom had become friends with Susan through cooking class and she hadn’t a negative thing to say about her or their family. The bell interrupted the presidential vibe of the air and everyone filed out for lunch.

Siyao's Short Story: Behind Closed Doors

Behind Closed Doors

                 “Excuse me, pardon me!” Lydia Monet chanted over and over again as she pushed through the crowded station. Her trunk smashed repeatedly into her legs as the mob of passengers pushed her slight form this way and that. Ducking past a red-faced gentleman with a rotund stomach barely contained by his straining waistcoat, Lydia finally managed to extract herself from the sea of people and off the platform. Shielding her eyes from the glaring sun, Lydia gazed around at the lively streets of London, England. Well, I made it, she thought, now what? Her self-imposed question was answered presently by the appearance of a young man.

“Would you happen to be Miss Monet?” he asked. Upon receiving a hesitant nod, the man introduced himself as Charles Hardcastle and explained that he had volunteered to escort Lydia to her new home on behalf of her employers. With a rather ostentatious sweep of his hat, he guided her into a waiting carriage as the driver loaded her suitcase in the back. 

“How’d you know?” Lydia blurted out before she could stop herself. Mr. Hardcastle raised an inquiring eyebrow, seemingly unfazed by her abruptness.

“How’d you know who I was?” She elaborated as the carriage jerked into movement.

“It wasn’t all that hard,” he replied; face breaking into a grin, “you were the only young lady standing alone outside the station with a lost expression on her face. If you don’t mind me saying so, Miss Monet, you also have that air of a foreigner about you.”

“Oh, I see. Well, that can’t be helped.” Lydia tugged at a lock of curly, pale blonde hair that had escaped the confines of her bun and turned her attention to the window. She watched as they turned onto a dirt road lined on both sides by waves of green. “Is [town] far from London?”

“Only a couple of miles,” he answered, “but I should warn you that it’s quite rural, nothing like the city.”

 “Why do you suppose that my employers chose to settle down there then?”

“To escape the hustle and bustle of London, I expect. As noble as their lineage may be, the Crawfords have always been a….queer lot. I believe they enjoy the isolation from high society. After the tragedy of the previous year, they have very nearly boarded themselves up in their manor. In fact, you’re the talk of the town because of it. A new addition to their private household and a foreign girl at that; the news has gotten all the old ladies talking.”

“Tragedy?”

“Haven’t you been informed?” Charles Hardcastle looked taken aback. Then, he launched into a vivid retelling of “The Incident” as he had dubbed it.

Lydia listened avidly as he described the morning in which Lord Crawford had sent for the local physician to examine his wife for, as the lord kept repeating, “She would not wake.” According to the physician, it was too late and Lady Crawford was already beyond his help. Charles story was constantly punctuated and thereby lengthened by Lydia’s various questions, but he finally managed to conclude with: “The coroner announced that it had been an accidental death but –”

“What? But what?” Lydia cut him off for the umpteenth time, her blue eyes sparkling at the prospect of something far more exciting than an accident.

“Ah.” Charles looked amused. “We’ve arrived, Miss Monet. I’m afraid that my story must end there.” Indeed, the carriage had, without Lydia’s knowledge, entered [town] and stopped in front of a mansion that made all the other residences in the town appear no better than shacks in comparison.

He laughed at her disappointed expression. “Cheer up, Miss Monet. My tale can’t possibly compare to getting the real story straight from the horse’s mouth, right?”

Lydia sighed, but jumped down and took her bags from the silent driver with a word of thanks. Charles gave Lydia a farewell wave and with a snap of the reins and the clatter of hooves, she was alone again, facing the entrance to her new home with sudden trepidation.

“Hello?” she called out, craning her neck in an attempt to find a guard or the like. When no response was forthcoming, Lydia took a deep breath, reached out, and pushed.  The huge, gleaming, wrought-iron gates swung smoothly forward to allow 19 year old Lydia Monet cross into a new chapter of her life. [ I apologize for the cheesiness, couldn't help myself :) ]

“About time you showed up!” Lydia was met at the doorway by an old woman whose face was lined with wrinkles. Wrinkles that Lydia immediately guessed were the results of a life full frowns rather than smiles. The woman introduced herself as the head housekeeper and gave Lydia an once-over, barking out. “My lord, you are a right mess. Your dress is full of wrinkles, your shoes need a good polish, and don’t get me started with your hair. It looks like your sporting a bird’s nest on the top of your head!”

                “I’m sorry…” Lydia murmured, though she could feel indignation flare up inside her. The feeling morphed when she stared around at the grandeur of the entrance hall and then looked down at her plain, slightly muddied attire; the contrast between the two was mortifying and she could feel her cheeks flaming. 

                “Never mind that for now. Follow me.” The old woman harrumphed and took off at a brisk pace after motioning for a valet to get Lydia’s luggage. Lydia hurried after her, head still lowered in shame. 

                “This is the entrance hall, the first door to your left leads to the dining hall, third door to the right leads to the east wing where guests stay. That door leads to the lord’s study and that one to the parlor…” the lady droned on and on at a pace faster than her walk until Lydia’s head spun. Finally, the old woman came to a halt and rounded on Lydia.

                “I hope you aren’t as dumb as you look girl.” she snapped, “For I’m not repeating that again. Here are your quarters. You’ll be sharing them with the other maids. Well, go on in. They will explain your duties once they have finished with their own.”

Lydia shuffled in obediently without a spark of the liveliness that had filled her during her journey. She looked around, noting the numerous cots, candle stubs, and plain, wooden furniture that comprised of her new room. Hardly first-class, but what luxuries could I have expected as a scullery maid?

Feeling the old woman’s eyes burning holes into the back of her skull, Lydia moved forward and set her things on the only empty bed. She began to unpack mechanically as the door slammed shut and footsteps retreated down the hall. When she was sure that the woman was gone, Lydia dumped the rest of her things onto the folded piles and flopped on top of the mess. Who cares about that horrid woman, she tried to consol herself, I am Lydia Monet and I have never stood to be humiliated in such a way before. But, a cruel, little voice in the back of her head interjected, that was before. Now, you’re all alone and desperate enough to take a post as a maid. Lydia stood, willing the tears to go away. I need a distraction. She returned to the door. Carefully, she turned the handle and peeked out into the seemingly deserted hallway. She was just about to step outside when she heard people coming down the corridor.

When the maids entered their shared room a few minutes later, they found Lydia carefully arranging the last of her possessions, a highly polished frame containing a picture of a beaming, middle age couple swinging their child between them, near the head of her bed. The tallest of the girls stepped forward with obvious authority and looked Lydia up and down.

“Hullo, you must be the new girl. I’m Elizabeth. This is Rebecca,” Elizabeth gestured to her right, “and on her other side is Anne. The redhead is Mary.”

Each maid nodded politely as she was introduced. There was a long pause, then Rebecca took up the conversation the others were having before they entered the room. Though they tried to include Lydia, the newest among their ranks claimed to be too tired and climbed into bed. It is quite easy, Lydia realized as she closed her eyes, to drown out their mindless chatter about how once upon a time a butcher’s girl was supposedly engaged to the son of some high-ranking official or lord. There was only one logical explanation behind their sudden and immediate wedding…

                The monotonous days blended into weeks and weeks into months until the morning Lydia woke up to her 92nd day in the Crawford’s residence. Her daily routine had permanently ingrained itself into her brain. Wake up, get dressed, make breakfast, clean, clean, clean..., she recited dully to herself as she pulled on her uniform and hurried to the kitchen.

                “Lydia, my dear,” the cook, Martha, greeted cheerfully. “You’ve arrived just in time. Would you mind taking this to the master and his guest? They’re in the parlor.”

                “Guest? At this time?” Lydia accepted the tray with care; she had already dropped one too many cups in her time here.

                “Yes, Ms. Wesley has deemed it appropriate to visit yet again.” The cook’s expression betrayed her disapproval. “Not a care about her reputation at all…”

                Lydia quickly exited before the cook could go into yet another one of her rants of how the younger generation was these days. She did wonder, however, why Ms. Wesley was here before breakfast. Martha’s right of course, she admitted as she made her way through the manor, the gossip mongers would descend upon  the single mother like vultures if they knew of her random and often untimely visits to the widowed Crawford so soon after his wife’s death.                

                “I….aware….murder…calm down…”

                Lydia froze at the door to the parlor with one hand poised to knock. The voices on the other side rose even louder with anger and she was able to make out the words: “You know as well as I that she did not die of an overdose. Your wife, my sister, was murdered! Are you honestly going to stand there and pretend that all is well?!”

                A second voice, this one distinctly male, murmured something and Lydia pressed her ear against the wood.

 “Keep your voice down, Jane. I am not going to let my wife’s death go without retribution, but I believe we have already decided to approach this with delicacy. You, screaming bloody murder in the middle of my estate, are just about as subtle as a bull in a china shop.”

                Lydia’s eyes widened and her thoughts flew back to the day of her arrival. “The coroner announced that it had been an accidental death but –” Those had been Charles’ words and now…oh, I wish that I hadn’t interrupted him. What had he been about to say? Did Lord Crawford suspect foul play as well? What did he know? Murder of all things! Why hadn't he told anyone? How did Ms. Wesley fit into it all? What did she mean by “sister? Lady Crawford was an only child, right?  Each question led to another question and to another until Lydia’s head spun. She managed to firmly push down her raging curiosity just in time to hear Lord Crawford heave a huge sigh and say, “Then we are agreement?”

                “We are.” The other replied. There came the sound of skirts rustling. “I should go.”

                Lydia immediately lurched away from the door and darted back down the hall, clutching the tea tray for dear life. In her haste, Lydia smacked right into Arthur, the butler, who was just turning the corner. He reached out and steadied her with one gloved hand, the other balancing the tray with a skill honed from decades serving the Crawford family.

                “My lord!”

Lydia groaned as the familiar voice rang through the halls. The aged housekeeper bore down on Lydia, her face a mass of wrinkles contorted into that infamous scowl. “What were you thinking, running down the halls in such a manner? From day one I knew you lacked the grace to be a lady but I believed you had the sense not to race around like a headless chicken. You should thank the gods that Arthur was there or else you would have broken yet another set of tableware!” 

Lydia’s face hardened but she managed to keep her temper in check. “I apologize.” she said stiffly, reaching up and retrieving the still loaded tray from the butler.

“Oh, give me that.” The housekeeper snatched it from Lydia’s hands. “I’ll deliver this myself. Lord knows if you want something done properly; you have to do it yourself.”  With those departing words, the housekeeper left.

“I am sorry, Arthur.” Lydia repeated, this time with genuine repentance. “I should have watched where I was going.”

“No harm done.” He waved away the apology. “Why were you in such a hurry anyways?”  

“I just remembered that I was late for a…I-I had to…the umm…the library.” Lydia finished lamely, gesturing at the nearest door which happened to lead to said room.

“Ah, yes. Books are rather demanding masters, aren’t they? Better hurry, you wouldn’t want to keep them waiting.” the butler’s eyes twinkled with mirth. 

TBC

Charmaine: First Page

    The girl, while tending the chickens, smiled brightly at the boisterous bunch, revealing her straight “pearly whites”, or so her dead Ma used to call them. “Alexandria, time to prepare lunch!” her aunt Cindy shouted from the front porch. At that instant, Alexandria’s sparkling green eyes shone with delight, as any child’s would with the mention of candy. Her fiery red hair was held by a single ponytail, and it swung side to side as she ran into the slate gray house. “What should we prepare Aunty?” Alexandria asked expectantly. Cindy walked over to the Monitor-Top refrigerator and suggested that they make a simple salad with beans. The refrigerator had been Cindy’s pride and joy, since there were only five households altogether in the whole town that could afford one. Alexandria’s friends had always been green with envy of Alexandria for having an upper-middle-class and loving aunt as a guardian. Although Cindy had only adopted her five years ago, Cindy and Alexandria were nearly inseparable. During the summer, Cindy would take Alexandria out to the beach and buy her sweets, whether it be ice cream or apple strudels. During the winter, the two would stay in the house watching the flaming red fire in the fireplace while sipping hot chocolate with extra marshmallows. During the spring, the two would go for picnics in the park, watching the flowers burgeon. During the fall, they would rake leaves in their yard, watching the butterflies fly by. Never once since the adoption did Alexandria view Cindy as less than a mother.

    “Can we add eggs to the menu? I’m craving some right now,” Alexandria implored. “Sorry but I need to sell the chicken eggs at the market today. We’re a little tight on money this month because your uncle has just lost his job, along with the majority of the town. Times are getting tough, and food prices are skyrocketing. We’ll have eggs another time,” Cindy responded with an apologetic smile. Alexandria and Cindy ate in silence, and there was such a heavy atmosphere surrounding them that they could practically feel it. After Cindy took off to the market, Alexandria began to dust the house, but suddenly decided to switch up her chores a little. She strolled over to the stable, and started brushing the horses’ manes. For some particular reason, watching the horses had always given her comfort, but today the routine did not work its magic on her. As she was stroking Lily, her favorite mare, she heard an abrupt and eerie sound. It caused her to jump back and gasp in shock. She waited and listened, but there was no more to be heard. Alexandria shook her head at herself disapprovingly, and decided that she was disillusioned. “My mind is just playing tricks with me. I’m just having a bad day is all.” she soliloquized repetitively.

    She headed back into the house and started reading Frankenstein, and time flew by. Soon the clock struck a quarter to six. Alexandria realized that it was time to prepare supper, and made her entrance to the kitchen. She was slightly disappointed because Cindy had called from the local center informing Alexandria that she would not be able to make it for dinner tonight due to unfinished business at the market. Alexandria looked into the fridge, and dug out a cabbage from the humongous stash of vegetables. Her aunt had surely stocked up for this month. She swiftly threw on an apron and began to hack her way into the cabbage with her aunt's rusted cleaver. She turned on the radio and started humming peacefully to her favorite song. Out of nowhere, she spotted a conspicuous blood stain on her pallid apron.
She rubbed her eyes and blinked a few times at the apron. The bloody stain wouldn't disappear. Suddenly distorted voices echoes in her head. Alexandria's eyesight grew blurry, and she couldn't take the utter chaos in her mind anymore. "Stop!" she screeched on the top of her lungs. Her mind spun, and there was a whirlwind of images in her head. Her dead ma, her dead golden retriever Perry, the list goes on... 
 Alexandria opened her eyes to a wooden ceiling. She sat up from a soft stack of hay and took a deep breathe. All at once, she caught a whiff of staleness in the air. It was a very distinctive foul odor. Alexandria scrunched up her face in disgust, and tried to avoid breathing as much as possible

Michelle's Short Story Proposal

EXPOSITION: La Darius is a Seventeen year old boy who plays football. He is an only child who lives with his parents in Salt Lake City. His dad gets a new job in New York City and the family has to move.   La Darius is really unhappy because he has leave his high school and his friends that he's known all of his life.

INCITING INCIDENT: After a month of living in New York La Darius becomes very depressed.   He considers suicide.

RISING ACTION:  His mother is concerned about his grades so she begins to pressure him, she tells him that he has do better or he'll have to drop football.

CLIMAX: One afternoon on the way to his football practice he walks into the locker room and sees another student hanging from the shower obviously from committing suicide.  

FALLING ACTION: La Darius later gets questioned by the police and tells them that he doesn't know how or when it happened, and he said just found him there just like that. Later on that night he goes to the boys funeral and connects his depression with the boy who committed suicide.

RESOLUTION: After the funeral La Darius decide he doesn't want to hurt his family this way.  So he decides to start his life all over and make new friends also eventually he made the varsity team at his new school.