Young Writers Society

Jadin closed the door quietly behind him, trying to quiet his breath. He held up his hand and flicked his fingers. A small ball of light appeared in his hand, illuminating the room just long enough for him to find a light switch; then he flicked his fingers again and it disappeared.
The ceiling lights revealed a big, locked safe marked 'guns' and a small cage containing a tiny ball in a pile of snow. Jadin stepped over and examined the ball, which was quivering. It was colored orange and had two disproportionately large eyes.
"A Chingpuff? Why do they keep a Chingpuff in an armory...?" He muttered to himself. Soon after he spoke, the Chingpuff squeaked, and a bright flash hit Jadin in the face. He went to the ground, gritting his teeth to avoid yelling. After a second he got back up, bracing himself on a table behind him.
Carefully avoiding the Chingpuff's cage this time, Jadin pointed a finger at the lock on the gun safe and waved them in a pattern so familiar he could do it in his sleep, and the safe unlocked. He was getting a little tired - best to avoid using magic for a while.
The safe held five assault rifles and a few pistols, as well as several crates of ammo. Jadin grabbed a rifle and shoved a pistol in his pocket (making sure the safety was off first) just in time for the door to crash down and four guards to appear.
Jadin shot the first guard before he could draw his pistol. He fell backwards into the guard behind, who caught him and dragged him backwards. The third guard drew his gun and ran into the room, and Jadin dove behind the table, fuming because both his guns were out of ammo. "I'm glad there was a bullet chambered in that rifle," he thought to himself.
The Chingpuff squeaked, and the third guard swore and went to the ground, snow covering his face. Jadin seized the opportunity to crawl over, grab his pistol and shoot him in the knee. Meanwhile the fourth guard had entered the room; when he saw his partner laying on the ground he bent down to look at him, and Jadin shot him in the stomach. The second guard glanced at the limp forms and ran. Jadin let him go.
After catching his breath, he stood up slowly and headed for the door, taking the guard's pistol for him. "Time for me to pay the Kaandah Art Exhibit a visit," he thought to himself.
As he walked toward the door, there was a loud squeak behind him. He dived out of the way, narrowly avoiding another snowball. The thief stood back up slowly, watching the Chingpuff's cage.
"I don't want to shoot you, buddy - waste of ammo - but you throw another enchanted snowball at me and we're going to have a problem, you understand?" Without waiting to see if it understood, Jadin ran out of the room.

The sun shone down on the endless white plains, causing the whole of the Ice Kingdom to glitter and gleam like diamonds. Not a breeze was in the air and a fresh layer of powder soft snow rested across the igloos dotting the land.

On the very edge of the houses, Felistia crept over the snow as silently as a cat. Beside her stalked Shiler and Shriken, their golden eyes glowing with childish excitement. Just beyond the crest of ice they were hiding behind, sat Kora. She had her silver wings folded back and her tail was curled neatly over her talons.

Felistia grinned as she began forming a snowball with her paws. The others next to her began eagerly forming theirs too. Soon each had a shimmering white snowball in their paws.

“Now for the final touch,” whispered Shiler, touching each of the balls with her claws. They shivered slightly and faded to a pulsing sapphire blue. Shiler gripped hers firmly in one paw and threw it directly onto Kora’s back spines. The snowball exploded on impact and a loud boom blasted through the afternoon air.

Their older sister whipped around, yelling, “Who’s there. Come out here right now.”

The three behind the crest of snow dropped to their bellies, struggling to suppress their giggles.

With an exasperated snort, Kora settled back into her previous spot and proceeded to lick the remains of the snowball from her back.

Suddenly another snowball slammed into her head, bursting with a thundering bang. She shot to her feet and glared off in the direction of where the others were hiding. A series of muffled snorts and giggles was coming from that direction.

“Okay guys that’s enough. You throw another enchanted snowball at me and we’re going to have a problem.”

As if on cue another ball launched over the crest and hit her right between the horns with a boom. Three snouts peaked over the slope and ducked quickly down again with a roar of laughter.

“Right. That’s it,” Kora hissed, wiping the soggy snow from her face. Spreading her scaly wings, she leapt into the frigid air. Flying silently as an owl, she hovered over the hill where her siblings were crouching. As her shadow crossed over them, they let out a squeal of joy and bolted. They bounded through the snow, flapping their wings as they tried to out run her. From Kora’s height they rather looked like little white jack rabbits with wings.

“You do know that you’re not going to get away with this?” Kora shouted down to them.

Felistia glanced up at her, responding, “You’ll have to catch us first.”

Ducking into a dive, Kora plunged down, her talons spread ready to send Felistia tumbling into the snow. Her sister saw her coming though and rolled out the way. Unable to change her course in time, Kora was sent hurtling headfirst into a snow bank.
There was a roar of laughter behind her as her siblings collapsed in a fit of giggles.

“Ha, ha. Very funny,” Kora hissed, wiping the snow from her head for the second time that day.

Shriken was prancing mockingly in front of her, imitating her crash. This was how he failed to see the crevasse before it was too late. With a scream of terror, he tumbled into the fissure.

“Shriken!” yelled the others, rushing to the edge and peering into it. Shriken was clinging to a ledge, his little eyes wide with fear. The ravine seemed to go down for miles and faded into inky blackness.

“Can you reach my paw?” Shiler asked, reaching down as far as she dared.

“No,” Shriken cried, stretching for her talons. He was too far down to reach and had to scrabble at the wall to regain his balance on the precarious ledge.

“Can’t you try and fly up?” Felistia suggested, gazing down at her brother in worry.

“No, don’t Shriken,” Kora quickly shouted, before he could open his wings to try, “You’re too young to fly that distance. It’s too risky.

“How am I going to get up then?” Shriken wailed, shivering from head to tail. His tail was dangling like a loose rope over the edge of the ledge and it gave Kora an idea.

“Could you reach my tail if I dangled it down to you?” she asked, letting her tail drop over the edge.

Shriken strained as far as he could, but he was still a good few meters away from her.
“I still can’t reach,” he wept, a small tear streaking down his snout.

Suddenly a splintering sound echoed through the gorge and hair line cracks started to appear across Shriken’s ledge.

At that very second, Kora knew what she had to do, “Grab hold each others tails,” she roared, handing her tail to Shiler, who caught hold of it with her talons. Felistia snatched up Shiler’s tail and Kora slowly began lowering Felistia and Shiler down into the chasm. Kora gripped the hard rock under the snow as the weight of her sisters strained against her tail.

“All most there. All most there,” Felistia hissed, swinging her tail for Shriken to grab.

Another ear splitting crack sounded from below him and the ledge started to fall away.

“Jump!” Felistia yelled. Shriken leapt into the air, flapping his tiny wings as he reached for her.

“Got it!” he cried as he clung to his sister’s silver tail.

Kora gave a great heave and began hauling them up. The ground was slippery and every step she took was excruciating. Finally after what seemed like forever, Shiler, Felistia and Shriken where all out of the gorge and safe. They collapsed onto to the snow, gasping for breath.

“Let’s not do that again okay?” Kora panted.

“Absolutely,” agreed to others.

“I think it’s time we went home. I for one am famished,” Kora suggested, getting to her feet.

The others nodded and together they made the long trek back to the palace.

The child played out in the snow. It fell in large clumps down to the earth. "Aww, what're you doing out here? It's too cold, you don't even have a coat on."

Yvette threw Snowball at the glass window. Her Snowball was quite enchanted, and rather alive. It splattered all over. Her mother, inside the house, shrieked and opened the window up. "What are you doing?"

Yvette giggled at her mother, "Just having fun."

"Oh, I see." her mother looked at the window closely. /This looks like modern art/, she thought to herself. /I could make millions if I sold this to a museum./

Mrs. Green took her hands to the pane and took it out, trying to keep the image in tact. She hadn't been able to do art in months. Finally she had found something that would make her money. She carried it horizontally with the splatter of blood and organs upwards like she was carrying a lunch tray.

On the countertop she set the slab of glass down and went to get her daughter from outside. Mrs. Green grabbed her keys before she left. "We're going to the store, come on honey."

"Can I have five more minutes?"

"No, come on. Let's go." '

Yvette totted herself to the van and took a seat in the back. She strapped herself in and buckled herself tight. Her mother loosely put her seatbelt around her shoulder and drove to the store.

At the store Mrs. Green tightly held her daughter's hand and looked at portraits. It took her 20 minutes to decide which one was the right size. Mrs. Green got to the checkout and yelled at the cashier for being too slow.

Back at home, she put the glass inside of the large portrait only to take it back to the Modern Art museum.

--

They paid her ten grand for Yvette's dead pet.

In the glass case it was held in, the smell started to seep out into the museum's air. Nobody noticed.

The End. .

I apologize for how insane this is. The theme was, initially, love your enemies. Hate your friends. Antagonize life. Also that fantasy is a hard genre.

A scrawny boy with a slight hunch, Jon looks like a drug addicted Harry Potter. For some reason, he would appreciate that comparison. Not because he had a slight addiction to Adderall, but for the fact that Harry Potter is his hero.

High school was tough for him. While he managed to survive school with a 3.2 GPA, his peers would bully him for his unusual obsession with J.K. Rowling and the characters she created. One time, they even tattooed a picture of the author on his stomach while he slept. His retaliation eventually accumulated into a bomb threat that led to his expulsion. It made local news for three days.

Now, Jon spends all his time time plotting another revenge plan. Well, fifty percent of his time.

The other half consists of him working at the local library. Sure, it gives him time to reread The Half Blood Prince for the fifteenth times, but it also allows for him to be by books that give him "special ideas".

"You're clinically insane," Grace, one of his coworkers, says to him as he rigged booby traps in the YA section.

"I am not insane at all; just too smart for my enemies," he grunts under his breath. The way he set it up involves all the John Green hardcovers falling from overhead with enough impact to break one's spine. Once the subject is down, Jon would pelt them with his homemade 'Enchanted Snowballs'. They are, as he would say, "an unique creation that Goddess Rowling and God Potter would both approve".

In reality, they are glass ornaments covered with cotton balls and filled with hydrochloric acid. Sarah, with a confused look, has a problem with comprehending what is going on.

"This is deadly, right?"

"Of course, silly goose," his response has a joyous snark.

"I see... I see... alright, question. Why the hell are you doing this today?"

"Master Potter and Servant Weasley told me to do so. They told me something's coming. Something dangerous and life threatening. I need to be a hero. I need to show that I'm not a muggle."

"I think you need to realize tha-"

Jon suddenly cuts her off. He lifts his head high and lets go an ear-gratingly loud raptor screech, causing Grace to fall back in shock. He quickly assumes the position of a lion seeking prey. Every kid around the YA section stand in silence as they witness Jon stare down a random man. The man is wearing a plain, black hoodie.

"Jon. Long time no see. Um, I apologize for what I did back in high school. It was wrong and immoral."

The random stranger ends up being Ethan Klay, a fellow classmate of Jon. While it was a group plan to give Jon the Rowling tattoo, Ethan was actually the one who tattooed it. Unsurprisingly, his craftsmanship was so spot on that he was offered an Art scholarship to a local liberal arts college. Rumor has it that he did every wrinkle so well, the tattoo will come alive on Tuesday nights.

"I will never forgive you, you ruined my life! It's because of you that I can't be happy in life!" There was fire in his eyes, fueled by anger and chocolate bars. His health is slowly deteriorating at this point.

"You e-mailed me death threats weeks before that even happened. Look, I understand you had a rough time. But I need you to understand that we all make mistakes. We are both in the wrong. Please, please realize that what happened was in the past. I have nothing against you." There is fear in Ethan's voice. He knows what he did was wrong, and turned down the scholarship. He even paid for the damages, and the tattoo.

Jon is less than amused. He has been waiting for this moment since Senior Year. It is time for him to give Ethan what he deserves.

Right as all this is going through his head, Ethan notices the Enchanted Snowballs.

"What is this," he picks one up, "are you trying to kill me? These are Anarchist-grade weapons. I told you I'm sorry!"

He throws one over to Jon's direction lightly. Jon jumps back.

"You throw another Enchanted Snowball at me and we're going to have a problem!"

Jon approaches Ethan to attack, but within two steps, he triggers the John Green booby trap. His head goes straight into the lap as he tries to embrace the impact. The novels land straight on his back, luckily avoiding his spinal area. Ethan quickly runs away, and Grace helps Jon back up.

"Are you okay? That seemed like attempted suicide."

"It really wasn't. Just a bad try to get unnecessary payback."

They clean up the mess that was made. While they picked up all the books, they put a rug over the hydrochloric acid and glass mixture. The thought of him murdering someone haunts him. While it never did before, this time he wasn't the only person playing victim. A part of him wants to apologize if he ever did anyone wrong, which he probably has. Another part wonder what would have happened if he didn't antagonize others. The final part of him is tempted to put Anthrax in Ethan's mailbox, but he tries his best to ignore that.

Fred stared down the snowy hill at the approaching figure. He hadn’t believed the news a week ago, but here he was: the Dark Lord. He’d slowly felled every city in Havaria, and then he’d come for Fred’s village on the Mountain of Desolation. Few dared make the treacherous climb to the village, but the Dark Lord couldn’t stand the idea of a single village in Havaria remaining free. Fred’s people hadn’t had time to prepare a proper defense and the Dark Lord had been brutal. Now Fred was the only survivor. Fred represented the last free Havarian, so he was getting the honor of being killed by the Dark Lord personally.
What an honor, Fred rolled his eyes.
“Give up Havarian!” The Dark Lord’s voice boomed as he climbed the slope, “Your people are all dead or enslaved!”
Frederick narrowed his eyes and clenched his fist, “Keep shouting! Perhaps you’ll cause an avalanche!” To Fred’s side, a snowball suddenly formed and hovered in the air. Fred eyed it in surprise, ignoring the Dark Lord’s response. All who lived on the Mountain of Desolation had powers over snow, but Fred usually realized when he used his abilities. Fred’s eyes left the snowball and returned to the black-armored warrior who was starting a lecture about everything being done “for the good of the world”. Bored, Fred found his eyes being brought back to the snowball. He looked back and forth between it and the Dark Lord a few more times then shrugged.
What the heck, he killed everyone I know and I’m about to die too, so why not?
Fred reached out and smartly tosses the snowball down the hill.
It hit the Dark Lord square in the jaw, stunning him and interrupting the lecture. The Dark Lord stood in silence for a moment before his eyes ignited with fire and disbelief, “Perhaps, I’m not making myself clear!”
“Yep! You look a lot more opaque to me,” Fred formed two more snowballs and sent them whizzing down the mountain, not even bothering to physically throw them.
One hit the Dark Lord on the head again and the other missed, but curved around and hit him on the back of the neck. The Dark Lord gasped at the sudden cold and tried to shake off the snow.
Fred concentrated hard and formed three more snowballs. One knocked off the Dark Lord’s black cap and the other two hit him in the stomach and leg. Where ever they hit, the snowballs clung and began to seep through the chinks of his armor.
“ENOUGH!” The Dark Lord created a swirling blast of fire, melting the snow around him as well as the clinging snowballs. “You throw another enchanted snowball at me and we’re going to have a problem!”
Fred just shook his head. Once the fire was gone, the cold mountain air quickly froze the resulting water. The Dark Lord was surrounded by a thick patch of ice.
Fred formed another snowball.
“No you don’t!” The Dark Lord took a step forward, but his foot couldn’t find a grip on the frozen ground. Waving his arms wildly, the Dark Lord started slipping backwards. He tried to break his fall, but was only rewarded with a sickening crack as he tumbled and hit his head.
Fred raised his eyebrows as he watched the warrior roll down the rest of the snowy slope. Finally the Dark Lord landed splayed at the bottom of the hill.
A minute passed and the Dark Lord didn’t move. Fred formed a few more snowballs and tossed them at his face to be sure he was unconscious. Once Fred was satisfied, he slid lightly down the hill and stood over his fallen enemy.
“You brought this on yourself you know,” Fred said as he bent down to unsheath the Dark Lord’s ruby sword. “You should have let your scouts finish me instead of insisting on doing it yourself.”
Fred worked the sword free and raised the blade over his head. “Keep that in mind next time you try to take over an entire kingdom. Your life is worth a lot more than glory, poetic justice… or even revenge if that’s what’s driving you.”
Fred gripped the sword tightly, ready to kill. Then he faltered.
This man was behind more deaths than all the wars of the last hundred years. He had killed Fred’s family, his friends, and had even tried to kill Fred himself.
Despite all this, Fred couldn’t bring down the blade. He held the sword above his head until his arms grew weary, but he couldn’t land the killing blow. Finally he sighed and lowered his arms to his sides. “You don’t deserve this. If you remember anything about this encounter, remember that. You do NOT deserve this.”
Fred threw the sword away in disgust and walked a few feet to where The Dark Lord had tossed his shield. It had been a move to show off his strength, though the Dark Lord likely regretted it now.
Fred picked up the shield and turned over the heavy piece of metal in his hands, “Hope you don’t mind if I borrow this.” Fred said as he tossed the shield onto the ground.
Then he looked out toward the horizon. The mountains were encased in snow, but Fred thought he could see the green Ever Forest off in the distance, and was that flash of blue a glimpse of the Shimmering Sea?
Fred looked back at the Dark Lord. His minions would come looking for him soon. “Try not to break the world anymore than it is already, aye? I don’t know how much more it can take.” Fred jumped on the shield and shoved off using his powers. The shield began sliding at a fast clip over the snow and Fred held on tightly. With luck, he’d be far away by the time the Dark Lord resumed his search.

Jack and Raven, two rivals ever since grade school, started another fight in the class.

"You stole my idea!" She angrily yelled, her brown eyes blazing with anger, short black hair tied in a small ponytail.

"No I didn't. I just thought the same thing as you, but much more improved." Jack taunted her, a smirk plastered on his face as he saw the way her eyes glazed with passion and anger.

"Yes you did! It even has the same plot points as mine! I got scolded by T. Joanna for plagiarism! I even had a five point deduction and a warning from the school you bloody Jack fruit!" She exclaimed, tears forming in her eyes, emotion flaring and Jack felt terrible for her. His feelings already stirring as he looked at her form, shivering with rage and sadness.

Frowning, Jack licked his lips and replied, "I'll clear this up, after all great minds think alike right?" He smiled softly at her, Jack has never in all his life see Raven cry and he doesn't want to see it now.

Raven looked at him with hope in her eyes, her expression mirroring a curious puppy. "Are you sure? I mean, you're a Jack fruit will they really listen to someone as smelly as you?" She halfheartedly replied, Raven didn't expect him to actually try and clear up the misunderstanding. She expected him to leave her there, crying at the prospect of being labeled a cheater or laugh at her and brush it off.

"You know you have to stop doing that." Jack suddenly said, looking at her with a softness in his eyes that Raven hadn't seen on anyone she knew.

"What?" She asked, her eyebrows scrunching up as she sniffled, wiping the would be tears from her eyes.

"Stop saying things that make me want to kiss you." Jack blurted out, his cheeks dyed red as he realized what he said. "Kiss...me? You want to kiss me." Raven mumbled in surprise, no one ever said anything about liking her in a romantic way. And to hear this come from the bloody Jack fruit of all people, it stunned her. Mulling over this, Raven knew what she wanted to do.

With a teasing smile she walked up to the still form of a mortified Jack and kissed him on the lips. "You know Jack fruit. You may be a smelly fruit but I heard it taste sweet. Do you think I can try it for myself?" She sweetly asked Jack.

Shaking off his stupor, he smirks back and answered her. "Oh yes you can little birdy." And with that he whisked her away from the classroom and to somewhere a little more private. The roof sounds like a nice place for a kiss or two then he'll deal with that plagiarism none sense.

Ah, the minds of children. The depth to their imagination seems nonexistent. Each one is different. Some more imaginative than the others. Some circle around food, others knowledge, but no one has an earthly clue what little Luke’s is about.

There were too young children, standing and playing in the yard, in the middle of winter. There was a once smooth layer of snow on the ground, now punctured by divots and footprints from a play date. There was a flurry of snow, but it didn’t bother them whatsoever. Their snowsuits and layers of jackets kept them warm enough.

Luke was in his backyard, standing on the snow-covered ground, waving a stick around with his best friend, Oliver. “Challenge me, old warlock!” Luke shouted through a scarf wrapped around the lower half of his face.

“Why am I the old warlock?” Oliver complained.

Luke lowered his stick, and looked at Oliver like it was obvious. “Because you look the part.” Only eight years old, and already throwing around clever comebacks.

Oliver expertly executed an eye roll, and raised his stick. “You will never defeat me! I have eaten tooth picks like you!”

“Eaten?” Luke asked. “That’s creepy.”

“Well yeah, I’m an evil warlock.” Oliver yet again rolled his eyes. “Remember?”

“You’re mean.” Luke complained.

“Am not!”

“Are too, you’re doing that thing with your eyes.”

“What thing?”

“The thing where you make them go like this.” Luke demonstrated, rolling his
eyes. “My mom told me that was bad.”

“Only when you do it to grown-ups,” Oliver corrected. “If you do it to kids, it’s okay!”
Luke narrowed his eyes. “How do you know that?”

Oliver looked a little unsure now. “Lee told me,” Lee was Oliver and Luke’s cynic and admittedly misbehaved friend.

“You can’t take her seriously,” Luke told Oliver, as if he were speaking to a child.
Oliver shrugged. “I guess you’re right.”

Luke raised his stick again, bored with the conversation. “Where were we?”
“I was going to eat you.”

“Not if I beat you first!” Luke wiggled his wand. “I just turned you into a frog.”

“I blocked your spell!” Oliver taunted. He scooped a handful of snow off of the ground, dropped his stick, and made a sphere with it in his hands. He chucked it at Luke. “Freezing spell!”

Luke shrieked and raised his hands, but not before the snowball hit him square in the face. “Ah! That’s cold!” he wiped all the snow off, and sent Oliver his best death glare. “You throw another enchanted snowball at me, and we’re going to have a problem.”

Oliver laughed, and sent another snowball flying in his direction.

Luke laughed, and threw one right back. Their wizard’s duel devolved into a wonderful, cold, snowball fight. They fought until it was dark out, and Oliver’s mother called them back inside for several mugs of hot chocolate each, and a Christmas movie. They eventually fell asleep together on the couch, and stayed there until Luke’s mother came to pick him up the next day.

The skaters made paintings on the ice, their blades cutting deep into the surface of the lake to leave winding country roads and trees with so many branches they could have kept the hearth fires burning all winter. Aurora was not an ice skater. She had skates on her feet but where the beautiful patterns should have been, there was only a heap of browning snow.

“You taking a breather?”

Aurora looked up to see a boy with floppy green hair and rounded ears. If those weren’t enough clues that he was an enchanter, then the gaudy robe all covered in golden moons and stars definitely sealed the deal. Aurora said nothing; better he think she was a lazy elf than an incompetent one.

“Cor, must be hard work all that prancing about.” The boy gave a wink and folded his arms heavily over the back of the wooden bench. Aurora couldn’t help but notice that even his gloves were embroidered with a golden galaxy!

“It is, actually,” Aurora snapped back. Not that she would know, but those were her brothers and sisters out there and it certainly had to be harder than throwing a few spells around.

The boy grinned and held up his hands in surrender. “Well, what do I know? Gee golly, I’m sure with all that hard work that they could use a little fun.”

“What?”

“Fun! You guys surely know what that is.”

“Of course,” Aurora said. “We have fun all the time. See, look – don’t they look like they’re having fun?”

The tears prickled in the corners of her eyes as she watched Neva skate into a spin so tight that when she hopped out of it, a delicate rose had been carved into the ice. Neva landed skilfully on the points of her skates and drew the stem, then the leaves and then she wobbled. Aurora let out a sharp gasp and sprang up from the bench as she saw the second snowball explode against Neva’s shoulder, showering the rose design with white clumps.

“Aurora, was that you?”

“No – no!” Aurora shook her head and gestured helplessly at the enchanter who had four more snowballs hovering around his head. He flicked his wrist and the next white ball flew through the air, narrowly missing Neva but hitting another elf in the back of the head instead.

“Stop it!” Aurora insisted.

“But isn’t this fun?” the boy enchanter asked, a devilish spark in his dark brown eyes.

“Nooo, it isn’t fun at all.”

“It isn’t,” Neva agreed as she skated to the edge of the lake. “You throw another enchanted snowball at me and we’re going to have a problem.” Her words cut sharply through the air and for a moment the smirk fell from the boy enchanter’s face and he looked down at his feet. Aurora almost felt sorry for him: she knew how it was to be on the receiving end of Neva’s displeasure.

“Well-okay-“

“It’s cheating,” Neva said sharply and she bent to the ground, scooped up a ball of snow with her hands and launched it straight at the enchanter’s robes.

A giggle erupted from Aurora’s throat as she stared at her sister in disbelief. “But the work – but the winter arrangements!”

“But the fun!” Neva roared.

Before she knew it, Aurora was pulled onto the ice with the rest of her brothers and sisters and her skates skittered over their designs as she weaved out of the way of elves and snowballs and one very enchanting boy enchanter gliding across the lake’s surface on a pair of enchanted skates.

In the infinity of space, time and dimensions lose their meaning. With no markers to gauge distance and rate of change, they become obsolete. Any finite value ceases to matter when compared to the infinite: the ratio is always 0:1. As if it weren’t bad enough that existence might be pointless, it turns out existence didn’t exist in the first place. You just disappeared in a puff of Maths. It is a sobering thought.

Unless you happen to have a clock and a ruler.

The crew of the Apollo 11 did, but they were sober anyway. Something about space does that. Or possibly something about the NO-ALCOHOL-DURING-SPACE-MISSIONS rule. Either one.

The two crew-members of the small, exotically shaped space-craft just behind and bellow the Apollo 11 were not sober, in any sense of the word. But they were being very, very quiet, and nobody had noticed them.

***

“Phase three initiated.” Buzz Aldrin felt the clunk as the tail end of the shuttle disengaged and floated away. He checked the read-out on the main console. “Tertiary thrusters fully operational.” Then he looked up in alarm: something had hit the shuttle:

Splug.

Splug.

There it was again. All the crew members heard it this time. “What the hell was that?” said Collins. (You know: Michael Collins, the guy no one has heard of.) The three men looked at each other. (Dramatic point in background music). A crackly voice came over the intercom:
“Translate it does not.”
“Pardon?”
“What it was, you asked. Translate it does not.” The three men looked at each other again. At some earlier point they must have looked away, but we didn’t see that. “This online translator stupid to be cursed,” said the voice. Armstrong was the first to speak, the light of realization in his eyes.
“It’s Yoda.” He exclaimed. The Voice was crushing in its reply:
“Yoda won’t exist until May the 25th, 1977, twerp. Oooh! I fixed it! No, I fixed it. What?! You just sat on the keyboard! It’s working, isn’t-”
“Wait a minute! There are two of you?”
“Just about.”
“What?”
“Doesn’t matter,” said the Voice. A pause.
“Who are you?”
“Our names do not translate.” The light of realization rekindled in Armstrong’s eye...
“It’s the Russians!”
“We are not the Russians.”... And died again.
“Well what are you then? Does that translate?”
“Yes. No. Sort of. Not really...Oh, hang it. Try them. We’re aliens.” Silence. “Oooooo! They’re tough earth-men...” The earth-men then said a number of things at once. The conventions of literature do not allow for such an occurrence, so I’m gonna try it like this; (actually, I didn't want to try it like this, but such is life, and such is formatting on YWS)

Why?
What?
ET!
Knew it!
Who?
Pardon?
Nooooo

AAAUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGGGGGGGGHHHHH

How?
Are you sure?
When?
Yessssss!!
Run…… OW!

***

The aliens did not lie when they said their names were untranslatable: they simply do not fit into a human mouth. So I thought for a while and hit upon the ingenious idea of calling them Alien 1 and Alien 2.

“I told you Alien 2: no brains at all,” said Alien 1 with an air of assumed nonchalance.
“You are right of course: no ability to adapt. How they got out of the trees is a mystery.”
“Not good for much, are they?”
“No, not much, except...”
“Yes, except...”
“Should we?”
“Hmm, I don’t know...” They hesitated.
“YAAHOOOOOO DO IT, BROTHER!!!”
“I ALREADY HAVE!!!”

Splug.

Splusplug spsplusplusplug - splug splusplusplusplgsplusplspl splugsplugsplusplsplsuhsplsugspsug splug splugs splugsplu splugsplugsplugsp, splugsplusplugsplugsplusplusplug: splugpsplug splusplug splugpplusplusplusplug. Splug.

“Shhhh. It’s the Earth-men — listen.”

“Hey! Hey stop it! What is it with you guys? What are you doing?”

“Ugh. Idiots. We told them there was no word for these things in English.”
“Wait a minute - they look like snowballs, don’t they?”
“Yeah, but they’re not.”
“I’ve got it. Press the transmit button would you. Ahem. Do not be afraid, Earth-men, we are merely throwing enchanted snowballs at your ship.”
“Are you out of your mind Alien 1? Enchanted snowballs?”
“Well, they look like snowballs, but stick ‘enchanted’ in front and they could really be or do anything. See?”
“Genius.”
“Thanks. Shh, the earth-men are replying.”
“Well, if you throw another ‘enchanted snowball’ at me we’re going to have a problem.”
“Tempting, Alien 2.”
“Nah, we can’t; we’re all out. Look.”

Gurglurglurgl... Splug.

“Houston, we have a problem!”
The aliens sniggered.
“Whoops.”

The small, exotic-looking spacecraft turned and accelerated away, soon vanishing into the empty reaches of space. Inside, the silence of the stars reigned for a while.
“Their language is really weird, isn’t it Alien 2.”
“Nangadangadooop.”
“Pardon? Your pronunciation is awful.”
“Sorry. Nangadangadoooop.”
“Yes, I agree.” Silence again.
“That was good, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah. We need a larger septic tank though. Ours emptied far too soon.”

If you fail to understand any part of this, (I couldn't possibly think why) please do not hesitate to PM me you question. It's just that I might not be able to answer.

After reading Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn, I started imitating Amy Dunne's self-surveys. Narrowing down the options of a difficult decision into three multiple-choice answers proved far easier than choosing from an infinite display of intangible maybe this's and maybe that's. If nothing else, I could always resort to the process of elimination (which my history teacher informed me was "the best way to make an educated guess").

When you realize your life is in shambles, you should:

a) isolate yourself and focus the entirety of your energy on completing scholarship applications.
b) seek the advice of your parents or your school guidance counselor (the one who irons his jeans).
c) find a boy and kiss him until you forget there was a problem in the first place.

The answer should have been A. But, like I pointed out, my life was in shambles. Shambles aren't conducive to carefully-calculated decisions.

By the time I turned seventeen, my existence had spiraled into a whopping warzone of a mess, and because of that, I vowed to keep myself organized from then forward. From there originated a plethora of lists; events arranged themselves into timelines in my head, and I started numbering my mistakes. You were number six. I know what you must be thinking: how can a person go through life having made only six mistakes? And the truth--you've always enjoyed the pretense of telling the truth--is that I've made closer to six million. You're just the sixth big mistake I still remember.

Like any mistake, you began as a blazing runway, afire with untapped potential. You were the highway to my dreams. It was silly, but I was in love. The winter of our senior year, you told me I was so pretty I must have been dealing with black magic. Your nose was rosy from the bite of the bitter wind and a smile played on your lips. Your downy hair stuck up in the back like a duck's butt. I grinned mischievously and cupped a handful of snow into my yellow mittens, reeling back and whipping it at your chest. I called you a liar.

"I'm honest," you told me, and I still remember it now; the way the words dropped off your lips and your hazel eyes were earnest. "I don't lie." Then you clutched your heart where the snowball crashed and said, "But you throw one more enchanted snowball at me, and we're gonna have a problem."

The next day, you huddled in the shadows of the hallway, squeaky sneakers giving you away as I jounced over the blue-tiled floor. I acted surprised to see you anyway, yelps echoing in the honeycomb ceiling. When we finished giggling, you closed your eyes and told me to cast a spell on you. You were so nervous that your shoulders were in knots. My fingers played with the zipper on your jacket and then I kissed you. Your mouth was warm, your hand tousled in my curls, and you held me like you would never let go.

It was the third day when everything went to hell. You'd asked me to meet you on the outer fringe of the parking lot. What you didn't know was that I planned to make a pit stop by the gym to fetch my sneakers after the last bell. I remember the school being quiet. I remember my shoes sounding like a stampede, and I remember the pending excitement sparking like fireworks in my stomach. I couldn't wait to see you.

I saw you sooner than I thought I would.

When you find the boy you love in the girls' locker room with his mouth on another girl's lips, you should:

a) initiate a humiliating fight with him in the company of the other girl.
b) yell several obscenities and run crying for the door.

Unfortunately, that one only had two choices. I took the second option, booking it for anywhere but there, unable to get your stupid, gorgeous face and your silent, lips-moving-no-sound "wait" out of my head.

You were a dead end. Your note is still at the top of my locker, and I've long since graduated. A freshman is probably contemplating the identity of their secret admirer; the person who scrawled you're all I can think about in your thematic-essay slant. I still think about you. I wonder about your contradictions. You told me you were honest. You swore it, and I trusted you. I cried when I saw the note you'd carefully lodged between my math and history textbooks, because you were too good to be true. And now, I realize that I was never "all you could think about", because there was someone else you were thinking about too.

When you realize your heart is broken, you should:

a) bury your feelings of regret and longing deep inside.
b) isolate yourself and focus the entirety of your energy on completing scholarship applications.
c) vent by writing a letter to your ex-boyfriend that you will never have the heart to send.

You should know that I didn't choose C right away.

I tried A.

I even tried B.

Now I'm engulfed in the repercussions of choosing letter C, and I'm thinking that you must be a Common Core question. "Which answer is the best?" it would say in the instructions, though the answers are all equally nonsensical.

I think that one of these times, I'll accidentally let your real name slip out onto the page. I'll stop calling you Six like you're a statistic. And then maybe I'll actually buy stamps at the damned post office and stuff this piece of paper in the mail, hoping that maybe I'll get a word or two in return on how you're holding up.

One of these days I'm going to admit that I still care about you.

Katerina glared at Lily, who was smirking at the snow that had just exploded over her. "You throw another enchanted snowball at me, we're going to have a problem," she hissed.
The Hecate child laughed and sneered, somehow at the same time. "We will, won't we?" she said in an infuriating British accent. "What are you going to do about it?"
Katerina gritted her teeth. People thought Demeter wasn't a powerful goddess. But they were wrong! Demeter had been one of the original five gods, sister of Zeus and goddess of agriculture. But just because Demeter wasn't in control of anything flashy like lightning, they assumed she was weak. Katerina had been determined to prove them wrong ever since she'd been claimed.
"You want to see what I'll do?" growled Katerina, holding up her hand as well. "Well--"
Before she could say anything more, Lily thrust her hand forward and shouted something incoherent. Katerina yelped as another enchanted snowball burst against her chest, sending flecks of snow flying. Lily laughed wildly as Katerina balled her fists in anger.
"That's it," she whispered. She grabbed a hunk of grass, mumbled something into her hand, and blew it towards Lily. For a moment her face changed, turning into something like fear as grass tendrils began to snake their way upwards.
Hecate was rumored to be Demeter's friend, since Hecate had helped her find her daughter, Persephone. Katerina and Lily were living proof that things didn't always happen like they should've.
Lily screamed as the grass wrapped around her body, tying her to the ground. "What are you doing?" she cried, thrashing. Her movements slowly became more sluggish until she was bound helplessly, unable to move. Her eyes shot pure hate at Katerina, while the daughter of Demeter stood smugly.
"Stop it right now!" she yelled menacingly. Katerina nonchalantly picked at her nails, ignoring Lily for the moment. When she threatened to put chocolate bunnies on the Demeter cabin roof, however, Katerina looked up. Was Lily actually saying that? She marched over to the daughter of Hecate and glowered at her.
"You try to vandalize my cabin and I'll show you something worse than enchanted snowballs," she said in a low tone. "Now get out!" She flicked her hand, and the grass unraveled. Lily glared at her one more time before rushing off to her cabin, probably to tattle on Katerina.
For a moment, Katerina seemed to smell the scent of fresh flowers in the air.

Today was the day Jacob would go to Hogwarts. His father was the proudest man in the world. His mother on the other hand was a different case. He woke a strange feeling deep in his throat, like excitement and being utterly terrified. He took a long breath and let it out slowly.

He decided to double check the items in his trunk. He looked at his clothes and noticed a large lump under a shirt. He lifted the white cloth to find the last thing he expected, a flamethrower. "MOM!"

Jacob lifted the flamethrower from the trunk worrying he might accidentally make it go off. He ran down stairs as fast as he dared. Once in the kitchen he found his mother washing the dishes. She turned with a concerned look on her face. All Jacob had to do was lift the flamethrower and put on a questioning look.

"Now Jacob-" She began before he cut her off.

"It's a freaking flamethrower!" He felt that he should be a little more excited about this matter. Ever since his father had told her about Voldemort she had been worrying like crazy and kept sneaking crazy weapons into his trunk the oddest was a bazooka. "I'm going to have my wand."

"Do you think the wizards and witches that Voldemort killed didn't have wands?" She said as though giving an eleven year old a flamethrower was perfectly normal.

"Well no but-"

"They were much more trained than you."

"But Voldemort is gone!" He shouted in unbelief, how did she not understand that. She was muggle but that didn't give her any excuse.

"Your father says they said that the first time he went missing," She turned to continue rinsing the dishes and putting them in the dishwasher, "mother knows best dear, now put the flamethrower in the trunk."

"I'll put a knife in and that's that." He was more than slightly perturbed by how his mother was acting.

Jacob began to head for his room. Once inside he searched through his baskets for a knife. A gentle tapping came from the door. He ignored it and continued looking through the baskets. Another tap came and Jacob had had it, "FOR THE LAST TIME, I AM NOT TAKING A FLAMETHROWER TO HOGWARTS!!"

His father walked in his face had the same concerned look as his mother's. "Mom just wants you to be safe" His voice was soft and kind.

"I know it's just Hogwarts is safe, they've gotten increased security since the battle. Why can't she just understand that?"

His father chuckled, Jacob didn't see the humor. His dad then walked over to his bed and sat. "I know a flamethrower is a bit much, I'm not even sure where she got one."

At the thought of his mother breaking into a shop and getting a flamethrower Jacob smiled too. He lifted a knife from his basket and set it in his open trunk.

"I think I'm ready for Hogwarts."

New York City real estate is tough. My mother has to bend over backwards to pay for a seventh-floor apartment with rooms the size of prison cells. I’m not talking about nice cells, either. They’re more like the shabby kinds from western movies. It’s a wonder we have blinds instead of bars.

So, there I am, playing with my set of cowboys and Indians on my takes-up-ninety-percent-of-the-room bed, when my mother comes in, gently shoves my teepees to the side, sits down, and says I’m getting a new little baby brother.

His name is Rodion. Rodi, for short. He’s lived in an orphanage in South Africa all the five years of his life. No one’s shown an interest in adopting him.

My mom touches her heart. “The poor little guy!”

More like the poor little me.

Unless I’d like to set up some blankets on the kitchen floor, Rodi and I will have to share beds. We’ll also have to share cowboys and Indians, the TV couch, and Mom.

I don’t say anything to my mother. Instead I pick up one of the toppled teepees and crash it onto a cowboy.

Hardly a month later, my mom comes home from South Africa and stops by my grandparents’ house to pick me up. I peer around the corner when I hear the door open, and when I see only my mom come inside, I catapult into her arms, trembling with joy.

“You didn’t bring him!” I practically sob into her windbreaker.

“Oh, honey.” She thinks I’m upset, and strokes the curls on my head. “Rodi’s here. He just doesn’t like the cold, so he’s waiting in the cozy taxi.” I crumble onto the floor, but just as quickly my mom lifts me back up again, holding me to her chest. “Wanna go meet him?” she whispers, excited.

Rodi doesn’t look like a person. He looks like a bundle of blankets. The bottom half of his face is wrapped taught in a fuzzy sheet, leaving only his nose and eyes exposed, like a surgeon wearing a mask. Keen intelligence sparkles in his copper eyes, and by the way they dart around, a clear hatred for the wisps of frost that sneak into the car is there too.

Mom closes the door, leaving Rodi, the taxi driver, and me alone in the car for a number of tense, drawn-out seconds. Rodi stares at me the whole time.

“You’re a wimp,” I tell him. “It’s not that cold.”

“Nice to meet you, too,” he says, his voice muffled through the blankets. “I’m Rodi.”

“Jason,” I mutter back, annoyed at his politeness.

The taxi doesn’t drop us off at home, like I was expecting. It leaves us at some fancy soup cafe. Rodi reluctantly leaves the taxi but is clearly delighted when the cafe is warm and stuffy, the heaters cranked up to something near one hundred degrees.

At the table, my mom and her bubbly personality keeps the conversation alive. I’m relieved when she and Rodi are finally done with their soups and I my saltines. I feel so uncomfortably hot and stuffy that I ask my mom if we can go play in the snow.

She ruffles my hair. “You’ve been a good boy, Jason. I don’t think Rodi would mind if we had a little snowball fight.”

We cross the street and walk to a little park, where the grass is blanketed in snow. That’s when I throw the first snowball at Rodi.

Rodi cries out and tumbles to the side, falling in the snow. My mother laughs and helps him back up. “You’d better get used to snowball fights, Rodi. It’s our favorite pastime.”

I giggle with delight at the look of horror on Rodi’s face. He hurries over to the play set and tries to hide under the slide, while I stick by the fence and assail him with snowballs.

My mom gets a call on her phone and turns around to answer it. It’s probably work stuff.

I pick up another lump of snow and mold it into a ball with my mittens. I want to make an extra good one this time, since my mom isn’t looking.

Then, out of nowhere, I see Rodi winding up for a snowball pitch of his own.

“Oh, it’s on!” I cry, ready to dodge it.

The thing is, Rodi’s snowball isn’t ordinary. The snowball Rodi throws in the air is on fire.

Now it’s my turn to tumble to the side as the snowball-on-fire slams against the wooden fence. The wood instantly springs up in flames.

I panic, and start kicking up snow into the fire. A few seconds later, Rodi is at my side, helping me.

“Sorry,” he mutters.

“What was that?!” I cry.

“I don’t like the cold. Things like that happen when I don’t like something.” He pauses. “That’s why no one’s ever adopted me.”

I’m dumbfounded, but I don’t ask any more questions. My mom’s still on the phone, but she’s looking at us oddly. “All I know is this,” I say. “You throw another enchanted snowball at me and we’re going to have a problem.”

Rodi laughs. “I’ll try not to.”

We used to be happy here.

I can’t remember how long it used to be that the frosted over lake and barren tree on the island in the middle of it were the sight I was graced with every day, the school bus passing by it on its daily route to and from school. It’s one of those memories that persistently eats at the back of my mind and senses, reminding me that it exists, that those blissful hopes of learning how to skate on thin ice didn’t abandon me. Yet aged and dated, playing like a black-and-white film with frayed edges, dialogue muffled, the setting’s meaning worn so thin that it would be impossible to have a full understanding of what happened on those days.

Sometimes, in the worst of days, I feel like that all took place was exactly that - a dream within a dream, where reality seemed like a distant nightmare, and hope abounded. Then there are other days. I can sit on the couch, smelling of booze, squinting at the television screen while my head aches ferociously, and then I find myself back to when you gave me that first pair of skates. Back when I walked to school, you wanted a friend to talk you, and you tried to teach me how to do figure eights. The day you, in your blue jacket and bluer lips, screamed in when I fell on my head. You were convinced my brains were dashed, that the few drops of blood on the ground was a torrent. It’s hard to forget the way you pulled me onto the snow and shook me to force me awake from my concussion. Then how you screamed in delight, held me close, and called the wet snow blessed.

We tried again; this place was too beautiful, too laden with memories, and now an unintentional blood oath, to not. So many times we tried again, always seeing if we could skate a little further, longer, more eloquent. I never saw you anywhere else. I could’ve watched you pirouette over the landscape, skates worn through with love and age, defying the odds by still working fine, forever. You, perpetually pale and frost-covered, gave the appearance of a spirit that never grew weary or worried. Then came the persistence that I join you. The cold never seemed to bother you, and you never grasped why my breath fogged and I shivered when I remained here long enough. Sometimes you even wanted to see if I could handle a challenge. Referred to it as testing my reflexes, I think. You’d sculpt perfect snowballs, call then the gifts from the earth you held dear, and toss them towards me as I skated.

“You throw another enchanted snowball at me and we’re going to have a problem,” I joked, swiftly dodging a few. You laughed and threw them harder, hitting me in the head. And we’d play this game for some time, cavorting like a pair of happy idiots. After that, I’d have to pick up my backpack, get a kiss on the cheek from you, and make my way home, ever listening to your endless banter about how much freedom your parents gave you and how you wished I could stay just five minutes longer. Most importantly, how I kept forgetting to get to the cold before it got to me.

Months went by. I called you a backwards goose when summer came and the lake began to thaw, the leaves beginning to sprout from the tree. You said your family had a vacation home here, and went back to Alaska for most of the year. Then, after a few last skating trips, came the promises that you would always return just in time for the winter. At least you were true to your word; I let the days pass by with a sense of eagerness, hoping for the time snow would coat the landscape, I could run out with my skates in tow, and find you again, feeling the same way as I did.

Years went by. You never aged, acting as young and lively as ever. The world moved ahead of you. Puberty struck, I grew taller and larger, and pimples scattered across my face. Laughing it off, I kept on skating, even though my feet felt more and more constricted, and your perfect rhythm became more and more dreamlike - distant, fading, losing color. I saw the way your eyes grew more misty and pale, your face turning grey. Our smiles felt fake, but we kept trying to relive our joy. We knew we couldn’t ever succeed again, but we were desperate and young. Only those final days one year, when you actually frowned for a change, when we exchanged tears and wept over snow that seemed to be more cursed than blessed, did we face reality.

That was the last time I saw you. Summer came, and with it the new building, catching me off guard. The lake and tree were surrounded and trapped by a wave of steel, concrete, and pollution. Litter scattered across the bottom of the former, and the latter simply stopped growing leaves altogether. Soon, the murky lake was surrounded by a fence and a concrete wall, and the withered tree was torn down and removed. I knew that I would never see you again, that it would be hopeless to try. So I tried everything. Come winter, I spent some time every day there, always patiently scanning the surface of the frozen lake. Sometimes I threw rocks, or grabbed a dirty snowball and tossed it in. Nothing.

The skates were worn through now, but the iron never rusted; the leather never faded. It was the only piece of you I had left. I convinced myself they were you. They were the last to enter the lake. I cried, fell on my knees, and prayed.

I remembered you didn’t promise to come back this time, and the dream died.