The Compilation Finalized

7/31/2019 The Compilation Finalized

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Designed by MuzziBhai

[unOFFICIAL]


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The Creative Writing Club has been quite a long and arduous adventure for

me. At this stage in the year I feel like Frodo emerging from the mines of

Moria; a little weaker, a little wiser, and suffering from a distinct sense of

loss. Instead of losing Gandalf though, I've lost Monday afternoons with the

strangest and most frustratingly exciting fellowship Tolkien could never

create.

Before I get too carried away with my clever Lord of the Rings analogy, I'd

like to take a step back and explain what exactly I'm writing here. This past

year, members of the Creative Writing Club have been doing justice to our

name by writing (creatively) and we ended up with a whole host of original

works that didn't have a home. I was so proud of my motley crew and their

literary aberrations that I decided we would showcase them in what has

come to be known as The Creative Writing Club Yearbook (CWCY for short,

Quincy if you're a fan of nicknames), and this is the Foreword.

This yearbook plays host to 10 original pieces of writing produced by

members of the CWC over the last year. There would have been more if

SOME people didn't think studying for exams was so very important, but

we don't talk about them. Snide comments aside, every member of the

CWC has contributed to our collective experience in a distinct and valuable

way, and for that I'd like to thank them all.


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This club has only been as much fun as the eccentric individuals that make

it up, and I could not have chosen a better group of people. For every

overly enthusiastic born debater that couldnt wait to have their say, I had a

patient and polite listener who wouldnt get offended by their rancor. In thesame way, there was a liberal for every conservative and no point made

went uncontested, while every generous and kind work-shopper was

balanced out by at least three people ready to critique an essay to within an

inch of its life.

And that was the heart of this club; balance. A balance of ideas as much as

personalities and, like I said earlier, it would not have been the same

without any one of those wild, obnoxious, hilarious, kind, generous, fanatic,

fastidious, pedantic, intelligent, perceptive, receptive, obstinate nutters.

I hope you enjoy (some of) the fruits of our labours, because we certainly

enjoyed throwing them together to create a right mess.

Happy reading!

Miss Siham Gheewala

Club Patron


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I could hear guns firing in the distance, the shots echoing.

I did not want to think anymore. I wished the pain would stop soon.

I squeezed the lifeless hand I had refused to let go of.

Its almost over..., I breathed and looked down at my left hand clutching

my abdomen, trying in vain to contain the blood spurting out of my

stomach and spreading over what was left of my shirt like an evil, red cloud.

My line of vision blurred. I fought to remain conscious.

!

A glimpse of my childhood flashed before my eyes; my father chasing me

down a warm beach,my mothers loving smile, meeting my friends at

school for the first time after a long summer apart -Happiness.

!

Images came faster now: my grandmothers funeral, loss. Being forced to

move to Canada to be safe from the war, anger.!

Happiness, loss and anger. The reigning emotions of my life, but what was I

feeling now? I had lost everything and everyone I was seconds away from

death. I should have been lonely and scared.


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I wasnt.

I closed my eyes and took one last ragged breath, letting a single tear

escape and felt a smile upon my lips.

Freedom at last.


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Abbottabad, this is where I was born. This is my hometown and, yes,

this is the place where Osama bin Laden was killed. Its a valley, surrounded

by green, snow-capped mountains. The beauty is breath taking and the

peaceful environment mocks the corrupt, violent world its embedded in. In

the middle of all this, perched on the north end of the valley,is a large,

ancient house enveloped in a thick mist of memories memories that I

have already lived and will never forget, and memories that I have yet to

make. That is my family house, my safe haven, the place I turn to in times of

joy and sadness.

*****************************

In the nineteenth century the British came. When they were unable to

fight and unable to conquer, they grew to love Abbottabad then cherish it

and protect it. They built a large house towards the north of the valley; it

had no protective charm around it but then, they sold it to a man who with

his family, cast a spell on it and surrounded it with a mist of memories.He saw his children being born. He cherished their first words and

clapped at their first steps. He celebrated their first birthdays and helped

plant their first trees. He expanded each ones garden till they became huge

and relaxing, and bore fruits, vegetables and flowers of all kinds. He took

them to their first day at school. He was present at their first Sports Day,

their first Speech Day, and their first drama. He was a lawyer. A very busy

man, but he found time for all this. Found time to fill and to thicken the

mist of memories. Then he saw his children graduate, saw them marry andwas terribly upset when they moved out. Soon after, his wife died and the

whole family came together to grieve. They were very close, a tightly-knit

family. He soon looked forward to the summer and winter vacations when

the family once again became whole with the addition of his grandchildren.

They ran about the house shouting, protected the fruit trees from


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imaginary thieves, skipped about and once again gave meaning to his life.

They would share with him what they were scared to share with their

parents terrible school marks and the fights they had had. They were all

sharp and lively, and they filled up his life.

There was one little girl who was an exact copy of her grandmother

his wife. Light green eyes, light brown hair, fair skin, slightly snubbed nose

and an oval face. He was her guardian-angel and she loved him. Every small

scratch was tended to, every prize was applauded, every tear wiped, every

smile encouraged. She was loved by all, and she loved all grandparents,

parents, siblings, uncles, aunts, and cousins. She was the baby of the family.

He treasured daughters they were the life and the soul of the house. This

little girl petted him, took care of all his needs, wobbled across the house

trying to find his lost possessions. She was growing up but she would never

forget him. Her laugh was contagious, her tears were contagious, and her

liveliness was contagious.

One day he got up early and went outside to one of the gardens. He

saw his little princess sitting on the dewy grass in her pyjamas. He went and

sat next to her. She took his hand and clutched it tightly.

The flowers were fresh and bright with tiny diamond like beads of

dew. The sky was struggling to turn light. The stars were still there on the

blue backdrop. The water was clear with the cold wind forming ripples. He

saw a multitude of colours. Colours that God had splashed all over and he

found colours to describe the little girl -Red, Yellow, Purple, and Blue. She

was the deep blue of the ocean, a mind of boundless possibilities. She was

the bright yellow wind, dancing and prancing, creating ripples in every life

when she moved, and she was the red Earth, as solid as the ground beneath

him. As he said this he felt tears on his hand as the little girl clutched it

tightly, holding it near her face.

The little girl grew older still, and so did he. In the summer of 2010 he

was diagnosed with stage four, Leukemia. When the little girl got the news

she was shattered. The walls had come crumbling down and her life had

gone topsy-turvy. She was in a state of denial. She could not believe that


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her guardian angel was on the brink of life and death. She prayed to

Godwith all her might hoping that He would listen. She begged Him to cure

her grandpa; she implored Him to give her guardian angel a long life. And

all through this time, she never left his hand. She appeared to be strong on

the outside but in reality her heart was bleeding, and she held back hertears. She cared for him like a little nurse. She gave him his pills regularly,

told him happy stories from her daily routine to take his mind off his

sickness. She wanted to make sure that she helped him ease his pains but

he was slipping fast and there was nothing she could do. She felt helpless,

and disappointed that just this one time when he needed her more than

she did him, and now she was helpless. She loved him but could not play

God. Chemotherapy left him weak and vulnerable, he was nearing the end.

He was weak and vulnerable but the day she turned 13 he wished her

a great future and gave her a little prayer. She could not contain herself and

tears leaked through her eyes. Those were the last proper words that he

said and that was the day he died leaving the little girl all alone. The entire

family was grieved but nobody could feel the pain that the little girl felt.

She ached all over. Her loss could not be measured. She had lost the man

she had loved the most for 13 years of her life - 13 unforgettable years of

her life. Everyone could see that the man was loved and his death had

caused great disruptive waves in the lives of the mourners. But the little girl

still knew that their guardian angel watched over them from heaven.

******************************

There is a house in the north of the valley ancient and large,

enveloped in a thick mist of memories, protected by this shield, in the city

where Osama Bin Laden was found. It needs to be saved because violence

has penetrated the tranquility of the valley. Yes the violence has entered

but I will not just abandon it. I will make sure my safe haven stays safe. Nowits all up to me to make sure that my shield the shield- is not shattered

and that I do give my guardian angel something to be proud of so that he

can boast to his friends in heaven that that little girl there, she is my

granddaughter and she is going to save the world. I am what my

surroundings and my memories have moulded me into. I am the wind


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dancing and prancing and now its my dances, my actions, my moves that

will create ripples in peoples lives that will keep my refuge safe, my

hometown alive, and violence forever away.


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All children grow up seeing images of heroes like superman and batman on

their TV screens. These fictional men and women are made out to be the

ideal vigilantes who do good deeds and ask for nothing in return.

Superheroes are made out to be fantastical characters, and rightly so,

because I havent really seen any red caped men of steel flying around

recently.However, why should children be shown these images of heroes that are

impossible to find in this real world? Why should these people be restricted

to characters from their imagination when we have heroes all around us?

Well,what is a hero? A dictionary definition might tell you that its a person

who, in the opinion of others, has heroic qualities or has performed a heroic

act and is regarded as a role model to others. That being said, does

someone really need super powers to be a hero? We have heroesall around

us, we might even meet them and not even know it. Take, for example,

Jinnah. He was a man who, against all odds, fought for what he believed in

no matter what. However hard people tried to sway him from getting what

he believed in, a homeland for all Muslims, he did not falter; he did not give

up until his dream became a reality.

But you dont have to create a country to be a hero. There is a certaindegree of heroism in some of the most ordinary acts. One such instance is a

man I saw who got out of his car and picked up the litter someone had

dropped on the road. To me that man is a hero as he went out of his way to

do his part in keeping his city clean.


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There are and have been thousands of people

like this in our world. Rosa Parks, Martin Luther

King,Nelson Mandela the list goes on and on.

All these people together prove one thing; youdont have to have super-human strength or the

ability to fly to be a hero. You just have to make

an effort, believe you can do it, and affect a

change.

Contributors

Note

I wrote this piece

because I could really

relate to this idea. I

feel that in our

society, as in our

country, it is time for

all of us to stand upand become the

heroes we so wish

for. In the words of

Nickleback:

And they say that a

hero can save us.

Im not going to

stand here and wait.


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My friend and I aged nineteen,

signed up to fight for the army.

Before our first battle we took an oath,

swearing upon the protection of us both.

Silence, and then the everlasting sounds,

as we fought together on the war ground.

With the tides of the battle we were swept away.

Both of us lost in our own ways.

There was no time to think,

no time to even blink.

I could see him fighting bravely from the corner of my eye,

but something, didnt seem right.

He was clearly hurt, and before my sight,

the brave soldier fell down in the dirt.

For a moment I wished I had not seen,

but I knew the vows would haunt me.

To die a hero,


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or to live in regret?

I, marched towards him. Contributors

Note:

The Creative Writing

Club has enabled us

to explore a side

within us we don't

get to see every day.

It was an escape intoyet undiscovered

parts of our mind

and I will forever

treasure these

memories and value

them deeply.


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As I felt the bullet tear through the flesh of my arm, I knew my day was not

going well.The office workers around me screamed, throwing up whatever

they were holding in a flurry of paper, and began to run wildly away from a

rapidly approaching presence.

Sam looked at me, mouth agape, staring at the blood seeping through the

wound. The cup of coffee he was holding fell to the floor, sending the

caffeine laden sticky beverage all over my leather shoes. Great.

What, Sam breathed heavily, What the what , he was gasping.

Sams asthma was acting up. He fell to the floor, groping his inhaler as he

struggled to insert it in his mouth.

I looked back. The shooter was sprinting towards us, fumbling with another

cartridge. I was terrified.

As I ran down the corridor, leaving a white and petrified Sam backed up

against the wall, I wondered who possibly wanted to kill me. My car

payments were due, for certain, but the leasing company wouldnt get this

worked up over a late monthly payment, would they?

Hey, maybe we can sort this out, I shouted over my shoulder to the

sprinting shooter, Mr. Joe wants his payment for the month right?

What? he called back.


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I said, Mr. Joe wants his money for the Chevy, doesnt he?

I dont know who Mr. Joe is. But Ive got a Chevy too, he hollered.

Oh really? I said, picking up speed and swerving through a turn in thepassageway, What model?

Shots rang out, bullets pinging all around. One embedded itself into a

metal beam a few yards ahead of me. I gulped.

Its a Camaro V6 Uh hold on a minute, have to get this spear out of my

belt.

You have a spear?What the hell! I cried, arms flailing around my head as Iran.

Yeah, its ummYakuza regulation, he replied, sending one soaring into

the air. I screeched in pain as it grazed my shoulder and went spiraling to

the ground.

Ah! Got a cramp, I could tell he waswincing as he said it, pretty heavy

things.

I could hear the sound of another spear being drawn.

Hey, come on, whats your name? Lets get to know - I was cut off

halfway, literally. I looked down, gurgling. The shaft emerged from my

stomach.

Nice aim, I said faintly as I teetered to a fall.

The assassin came up, breathing heavily, with arms on his knees, as he

stared into my face.


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Its not going to be as painful as you think. And Ill pay Mr. Joe for you, so

dont you worry, Nick.

Nick? I choked, Whos Nick? My names Gerald!

Hey, hold on, he looked confused. You arentNick?

No you idiot! You got the wrong guy!I gasped in blinding pain.

Oh, he looked embarrassed. There was a long pause. Sorry.

SORRY DOESNT CUT IT! I spat into his face.

I have to go now, he said guiltily, thanks for understanding.

As I cursed the fool who was slowly walking away, my vision began to blur

and all I could see was a searing white. I prepared for the end.

The end

Come on. End my suffering. Please, I sobbed.

I opened my eyes. I was face down on the floor, pain gone. Surprised that

my vision had cleared, I turned around, thinking all that had happened was

just a dream.

I groaned. The spear was still there, sticking out of my stomach like a large

marshmallow on a pointy stick.

Running late. Running late. Have to hurry hurry, a voice was mumbling,

getting louder as its owner came down the corridor.A figure in a hooded

cloak emerged from the shadows.

And who areyou supposed to be, the Grim Reaper? I said.


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Precisely, the figure threw back his hood, revealing a grinning white skull

with glowing blue sockets, I am a bit late, but I am here to collect your

soul.

Why? I asked. I should have been scared, but being pursued by a spear

wielding, idiotic Yakuza had exhausted my capacity for fear.

My good man, you have a weapon sticking out of your gut. Youve got to

go. Youre going to have to become what we call dead, the Reaper said,

It is my duty to destroy life from those creatures whose bodies cannot

withstand significant damage

But youre late! I interrupted, the least you could do is heal me and letme off!

That, he said, preparing to swing his scythe, can simply not be done.

Hey, wait! I shouted, Listen one moment. What ifI could give you

something? In return for being let off?

Like what? he said, scratching his skull with a bony finger.

If you hurry, my Chevrolet Camaro V6 is still parked outside the office

building. They dont come by easily, you know.

Hmm, the Grim Reaper said, thinking, I could do with a snazzy ride, you

know.

Who wouldnt? I asked hopefully.

There was a pause. And then

Very well, Gerald Marshall, I felt the spear being wrenched out from my

stomach, consider yourself saved.


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The Grim Reaper vanished. I looked down and

saw nothing but a scar. I also saw my leather

shoes, still sticky with Sams decaf, and I

wondered how things at the office were gettingalong.

Contributors

Note:

Being part of the

creative writing club

is a pipe through

which the drainage

water of creativity

flows. This piece was

the cultivation of

numerous club

meetings, which

helped me focus on

what I felt like writing

about. The style was

also distinctly

influenced by that of

the Hitchhikers

Guide to the Galaxy

by Douglas Adams.


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Hi. My name is Faisal and I am 7 years old. Last

year, when I was six, I stole something. I stole a

cookie. But it wasnt just any cookie; this was the

best cookie in the whole world. Hassans mom

had made it, and she made really good cookies,

better than any mom in the whole world. I stoleit from Hassans lunchbox, and ate it before

anyone knew I had taken it. But then, Hassan

saw that someone had taken his cookie, and he

got really mad. The teacher asked everyone

about the cookie, but nobody found it. Then

somebody said they saw Ahmed take the cookie.

The teacher made him stand up and apologizeto Hassan, but Ahmedsaid that he didnt do it. I

was confused. I didnt know what to do. My

mom would be really angry if she knew I stole

something, but I had a weird feeling in my

tummy, like I was about to throw up. Would I

keep feeling like this if I didnt tell the teacher

that I took the cookie?

Contributors

Note:

I wrote this story as

my take on morality.

Many people write

long and confusing

stories with an

unclear moral, so I

decided to do

something a little

different. I wrote my

story with the heart

and mind of a child

so as to make the

moral dilemma at the

heart of it a little

clearer.


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Dead of the night, silent as always. The cold charcoal-coloured instrument

held in my sweaty right hand was positioned at his temple. The sweat was

mutual between the two of us; you could see it dripping down the side of

his plump, pink cheek. His hand was shivering as he was trying to extract

his phone from the faded blue jeans. He was struggling with it; lifting the

right side of his body up, off the seat of the pitch black Toyota Corolla so

that he may withdraw his phone with ease.

"Jaldi Karo!"

His body twitched. A car whizzed past. My kurta swayed with the wind.I became a mugger because there was no other option available to me.

Begging was simply too hard and no one would give me a better job. Apart

for that I had had a pretty difficult childhood.

I looked straight ahead to see a hesitant man in the driver seat and my

accomplice holding another 9mm in his hand pointed towards the father's

head.

'Chalo! Nikalo!'

My guess was that his pockets were filled with money this particular day. To

think of it, I myself would have been hesitant.

'Nahi!'Strike 1.


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The kid swiftly turned his head around dropping what seemed to be an

iPhone to the floor.

'Kya?'

The father was a lucky man. Had it been any other let's term it borrower he would have been shot directly, his blood staining the fabric of his

seats. Let's make it clear; we were the good guys - well, relatively.The boy's face turned from the original pink to scarlet.

'Abbu paisa dedeinna!'

'Mein nahidoonga!'

Strike 2With no house, the street was my only home. Thats where the gun came

from and also the loss of my dignity.

A drop of sweat slid down the left side of the fathers face too. The boy

turned backand bent down to pick up his phone from the floor. He handed

it over. His hand the same colour as his face and soaked in sweat.So this is our rule: we give them, the victims or givers three chances. If

they deny, we walk away;as simple as that.

Bang! Deafening.

The first thing I saw was a flash, then a hole in his head. Then blood. Ilooked at the child. His face expressionless but so red, you would have

thought he was the one who had been shot. A tear trickled down his face.


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Looking at him something shot through me.A

flashback. My father on the concrete in a pool of

blood.Me on the concrete with him, bawling.

People gathering.

'Hum log maartenahihain!' I said to the killer. His

face was one of satisfaction one that showed

he clearly did not care. My heart burst.

He leveled his gun again aiming for the innocent

boy. The boy burst into tears. Another shot

shattered the sound of his sobbing.

The next day the news read: 2 Bodies Found

Dead.

The article went something like this. 2 bodies

found dead on the Lyari overpass. One body

identified to be 40 years while the other 25. The

latter was clutching a gun.

I had saved the boy.

Contributors

Note

The reason I wrote this

essay, was to show that

not everyone is black

and white good or bad.

Youve got these

confused people who

dont really have a clear

definition of right and

wrong but there will

always be that side to

them that has some

semblance of morality

even if it is not

immediately obvious and

I wanted to explore that.

The above is rubbish. I

wrote this story just to

see what it would be like

inside a mugger's mind

even though the hero is

exaggerated (and what is

a story without a hero?) -

I found it interesting to

write from his point of

view.

That is all.


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YAAAAAARGH! I screamed as I threw my dagger towards my foes heart. He

deflected it easily. I knew the throw was hopeless but I wanted to make him

pay for what he had done to me, my country and my family. I drew my

Gladius and charged towards him, not even stopping to catch my breath. In

a split second I unleashed my rage with three quick swipes; one for the

head, a fake to the torso and a sweep on the legs. My opponent parried

them all effortlessly and he then started to laugh. His torment only inflamed

my anger and I flew into a blind rage. All my thrusts were parried with ease,

and he even seemed to be smiling. He seemed to be putting no effort into

the fight but I didnt care I just wanted him to pay! Strategy skipped my

mind and I was just fighting out of pure instinct, which helped me survive

up until this point. All of a sudden he lunged at me and I parried, which

sent him crashing into the ground. I realized that I had finally caught him

off guard and he was vulnerable for an attack. I used my built up rage to

bring my Gladius down onto his neck. He was faking. I let my rage get the

better of me and did not think twice, as he kicked upwards and landed a

blow against my jaw, making me stumble back, enough time for him to get

up.He kicked me straight in the chest, causing me to double over, and

finally brought the sword crashing down against my skin, cutting through

my flesh and bone. My rage was the end of me.


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Words failed me, as I stood and watched. Watched the gigantic, seething

sun taking its last breaths. Watched neurons splitting, and the formation of

helium. Watched the destruction of the Solar System. Watched, as a mighty

supernova came into being. I clutch at the pleurite glass like an eager boy

watching fireworks. This was going to be one hell of a show.

So it has come down to this. After hundreds, no thousands of years of

survival, the fate of humankind rests not on our beloved homeland Earth,

but in just a fleet of a mere hundred or so cruisers. Society, literature,

culture, all packed into this feeble attempt to save mankind. And we would

most likely perish in 5 minutes or so. The sun would explode and hit our

fleet with a force equal to circa, a billion Hiroshimas. No type of material

could withstand that. Theoretically. Surviving mortally was out of the

question. God helping us, was another matter of course, but being a man of

science, for me, divine help, was also out of the question.

To watch a supernova happen is truly a spectacular sight. There exist

no words to describe it fully. Lustrous rays etch a path across the black void,

as auroras envelop the universe. Flames of fire leap and play over the tired

Sun, a display of its once present glory. And then it happens. A supersonic

boom echoes like interstellar thunder. The Sun winks, and disappears in a

cloud of antimatter hardly a meter across. It is the quiet before the storm.

Slowly almost excruciatingly it enlarges, and then explodes, the final

testimony of the star. A blinding flash from the depths of heaven occurs,


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and all aboard gasp. The transformation from

Sun to supernova is complete. It is beautiful

without imagination. A multitude of glowing

auras, shifting and changing, is scattered in frontof us. We are immersed in the sublime sight of a

supernova. Shockwaves ripple through the

universe in all directions. A timer beeps,

breaking the reverie. 1 minute to impact. The

starboard navigator absently asks me Sir, any

last orders?

Cut the engines.

Sir?

Do it! And relay this to the others. If we

meet death, we meet it head-on.

An awkward silence prevails. The

hydrogines are stopped. We all come together

and hold hands together, facing the unknown.

The other ships also stop, and as the seconds

tick down, a strange aura of friendship unites us

all.

3

2

1

0.

Death crashes into us.

Contributors

Note

When I first joined

the CW Club, I

thought it to be a

normal happy go-

lucky one. Yes, I

confess. But now,

hardly after 4 months

of being in the club, I

have to say that the

experience has been

amazing. Criticize me

all you want, but

believe me when I

say that the Creative

Writing Club is the

best one on the list.

By far. In fact, it

should be called the

Creative Club only.

Coz theres nothing

more than creativity

in it. And thats what

makes it fun.


26/32

Its 08:46 am

On a Wednesday

I'm at home

I'm in pain

And I wish I wasn't

And I wish I were in the hustle bustle of school

That I've grown to love so much

Every school day lost is such a tragedy

There's so much homework to finish

And there's always teachers, wanting to know exactly what happened to

you

And there's always me, trying to shrug it off

The teachers

Theyre determined to get the story out

Can't they see I want to be left alone?

Always the 'where is your homework?' and my inaudible ' I haven't done it'

And then of course, the 'why ever not?' And then 'I was absent miss'

And the relentless 'That's NOT an excuse' and my feeble 'I was sick, miss, Ijust lay in bed and slept'

The teacher mutters 'insolent lazy creature' and gets on with the class

And I stare at her back with distaste.


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And inside I'm thinking 'I don't understand why they're so slow! Can't they

see I wasn't well? Can't they see that I was sleeping the whole day? Stuff

them and the homework! I don't care!'

Then they glare at me the whole day, and I glare back.

Its 08:52 am

The pain still persists

I'm wondering what the class is doing right now

And I wonder when I'll be well and fine

And I think I deserve a holiday

But its only just a Wednesday

So guess what happened the day before today?

I got a brand new phone

I paid more than I should've and I'd love to explain

I really would, but explaining is tiring

Specially since the story is so long and boring

And its too long so by the end you'll all be snoring

Oh, so guess what happened yesterday?

Oh dont bother, Ill just enlighten you myself

It was my friend's birthday

The party is on Friday

I wonder what I should wear

Its 08:56 am

I'm not in so much painI've plugged in my headphones

And its a Wednesday still

And I'm at home still

God, its so annoying


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This day is just dragging on

Its so boring being at home

I wish I had something fun to read

Or a comedy to watch

But woe alas I don't

There's a PTM today

I wonder what the teachers will say about me

Even though none of them wished to meet my parents

My mom is adamant on meeting them

'Its for your benefit' she says and I stalk off sulky

My test marks are revolting except for Language but I'm good at that so

there

I hope the Language teacher will say something nice about me

I know all the other teachers won't

They're so mean and unpredictable

I can't even be sure about Language

Its 09:05 am

Im STILL at home!

The pain is back renewing its vicious assault on me again

I wish it would stay away,

Just please stay AWAY!!

Plus, I dont have a single friend to talk to

Why? You ask me why?

Because: They're. all. at. school.And I'm sitting in no ON my bed right now

Oh my sweet God,

I cannot believe Im thinking about prepositions at a time like this

Im just so miserably bored


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And cranky

And why shouldnt I be?

Bored + sick = cranky me

First language rules and now equations;

What am I really coming to?

Its 09:09 am

The pain isn't that bad

But its still there

Lingering in my head

My room is ever so messy

And phone is ever so dusty

And I think I'll clean it all up

Yes, I think that's what I think I'll do today.

Contributors

Note

I wrote this piece whenI was hellishly sick and

stuck at home unable

to go to school. I have

this obsession with

penning down all of

my life experiences so

penning down this one

was not much different,except it provided me

with a distraction from

my ailment and a

means to channel my

raw emotions and

feelings. Writing has

always been an escape

for me, and I edited

this piece again when i

was sick in a fairly

similar way. It gave me

a chance to rework

some of the lines and

merge the two sets of

feelings, which were

similar and yet different

in a nice kind of way.


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Dawn broke over the slumbering city of San Francisco, and the mist gave

way to yet another beautiful day. Light streamed through the window and

into the room. Alexandra stretched and rubbed her green almond-shaped

eyes. Then a gleeful smile crept onto her face today her brother would be

flying in from Chicago! The last time she had seen him was two years ago

when their parents passed away.

As she cycled to the Montessori where she worked, happy

memories flooded her mind flashes of playing soccer together with her

brother, teasing him, making secret languages, hiding in their tree house.

Alexandra and her brother looked very different the only feature they had

in common were the green almond-shaped eyes. By the time it was 2

oclock, she was more jubilant than ever.

Then she got The Call. The call that sent a chill down her spine,

the call that rattled her nerves, the call that told her that her brothers plane

had crashed.

Time seemed to slow down as got a taxi to the hospital and was

led to the intensive care unit. Her brother lay unconscious on a stretcher.

Alexandra collapsed in the chair beside him and sobbed. The

sobs slowly subsided into hiccups and the hiccups eventually died out.

Now she sat motionless and stared at her bloody bandaged brother. Thenjust when she thought things could not get any worse they did.

A doctor came and tapped her on the shoulder. Miss Alexandra,

I have some news about your brother. From the uneasy look on his face

she could tell something was wrong. He has been through a very drastic


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experience, and it is amazing he is still alive but the shock must have been

a little too much. He cannot move he is paralyzed and has suffered

extensive brain damage; he can only be kept alive on machines. I am sorry

to say but we only have two choices: to keep him alive artificially to live apersistent half-light, or remove the machines and allow him to escape a life

of misery the death will be painless.

Alexandra let the news sink in and reviewed her options keep

her brother alive, barely alive, or let him die. Of course she wanted him

alive! But that would be selfish. How it would kill her brother to lie around

all day, not able to move or talk, having to be fed through a tube. He would

rather die than accept a life like that! But wasnt it a crime to just let

someone die? And not just anyone, but your own brother? Alexandra had

never been in such a predicament. Let him die or stay alive? What would he

want? To die, not live a motionless life depending on others. She had to do

what was best for him. It was her job as the older sister.

I I choose the latter, she stammered. The doctor nodded solemnly. He

whispered to some other doctors and nurses, and began to work. She

looked at her brother as he lay motionless on the stretcher. He looked so

calm. At peace thought Alexandra, holding back tears, and held his hand.

The doctor nodded at her - the machine had been cut off. She stared into

his green almond-shaped eyes, and watched as slowly, slowly the life

drained out of him.


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The Compilation Finalized

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