Young Writers Society

“Breathe in with your nose. 1. 2. 3. 4. Hold your breath. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. And breathe out. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. You can feel the warmth of sunlight on your skin. The birds are singing and the plants are flowering. As you walk slowly along the wooden pathway a light breeze brushes softly against your legs. Soon you come to a bridge and you watch as the water flows lazily around the rocks.”

“Breathe in with your nose. 1. 2. 3. 4. Hold your breath. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. And breathe out. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. You walk across the bridge and enter the garden through an archway. You feel welcomed, safe and comfortable. You look around the garden. Taking time to stare at the flowers and the trees. As you walk along the gravel pathway you look up at the fluffy white clouds and the perfect pearly blue of the sky.”

“Breathe in with your nose. 1. 2. 3. 4. Hold your breath. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. And breathe out. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. Your eyes slowly fall down to the ancient mountains that travel along the horizon. Their rocky peaks coated with a sugar dusting of snow. You wish you could stay here forever.”

“Breathe in with your nose. 1. 2. 3. 4. Hold your breath. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. And breathe out. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. The clicking and clacking of the pebbles as you continue down the path is like music to your ears. You can smell the sweet scent of flowers. The world is perfect. You stop to listen to the sounds of the garden. You hear the call of a bird echo through the garden and you follow its beautiful melody. ”

“Breathe in with your nose. 1. 2. 3. 4. Hold your breath. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. And breathe out. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. As you follow the entrancing sounds the bushes grow taller and soon you realize you are lost. You look around for anything that could help you and you see the bird sitting on top of one of the tall hedges.”

“Breathe in with your nose. 1. 2. 3. 4. Hold your breath. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. And breathe out. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. You hear the beautiful call again and it jumps into flight. You run after it, following the long wavering tail feathers through the twisting path. To your despair, you reach a dead end and the bird flies away, but just as you think you are lost once again the hedge opens and you see an entwined pathway of blue, white, black and red.”

“Breathe in with your nose. 1. 2. 3. 4. Hold your breath. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. And breathe out. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. You cautiously walk along the tangled paths and soon reach the centre of the maze. There you find a fish pond. The blue water ripples as the black and white koi fish swim around the pond. They are a symbol of unification. Yin and Yang. The Moon and the Sun. Darkness and light. But, you watch in horror as the water becomes a sickening red and the lifeless bodies of the fish float to the surface.”

“Breathe in with your nose. 1. 2. 3. 4. Hold your breath. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. And breathe out. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. The water clears and you stare in amazement at the two small fish swimming through the pond. A symbol of rebirth. You walk slowly back through the twisting hedges and along the gravel path. You leave the garden through the archway feeling both rejuvenated and reborn.”

“Sit up and open your eyes,” Mr Sancho said, smoothing back his thin grey hair as they lazily obeyed his instruction. 

Mr Sancho had been their beloved drama teacher for as long as any of them could remember and since then his age had taken a massive toll on him. He was full of life, but life hadn’t been that easy on him. He often said that life was better when he was younger, but that that didn’t mean he should stop looking forward to it. He walked with a carved wooden walking stick that was once a dark oiled brown but was now a discoloured yellow. He was loved by the children of the school and they missed him dearly when he is away recovering from his countless operations. And even though the doctors argued with his lively opinions and his choice to continue teaching he was full of passion. “Today I will be reading a poem of my own entitled I hate.”

“Your rotting heart.

No more love. No more I miss you.

Strike it out.

Show them you hate it.

No h’s. No more I like you.

Show them you hate it because I know you do.

Draw them to quarters and steal their heads.

Slit their necks and ring them clean.

I know you hate them.

Cut their toes and stretch their arms.

Pull out their hair and chew their tongue.

I know you hate them. I know why you do.

So sit back in your hole filled with little dolls.

So hurt and pain and bleed in vain.

Die in your blood. And die drowning in your dirty mud.

Because I hate and I hate you.”

He sat quietly and watched the awed, paperwhite faces of the children before he began to speak once more, “Does anyone know what type of poem that is?”

Almost everyone’s hands went up. Not all of them were sure of their answer, but they knew Mr Sancho didn’t mind if their answer was wrong. “Yes, Sam.”

“It’s a free verse poem, Mr Sancho, and the genre is undoubtedly horror,” Sam answered, trying to impress Mr Sancho.

“Well done, Sam,” he congratulated her and carried on with the lesson, “Now that we have that out of the way we can play a game.” 

There was no doubt that this was everyone’s favourite part of the lesson and everyone cheered excitedly. “Does everyone know how Answer the Class works?”

“Yes, Mr Sancho,” they said in ecstatic unison.

“Our subject for today is writing and writers. Any book or any author. Why don’t you start for us, Lincoln? Abraham Lincoln, I think?”

“Do you mean me, sir? My name’s Linton,” John asked.

“Ah. Yes. The old noggin these days,” he apologised.

“Don’t worry about it at all, sir,” he said getting up from his seat. 

He walked timidly to the middle of the circle and took a few deep breaths. John was short and scrawny with his messy brown hair. “May I start, sir,” he asked, he wasn’t much of a public speaker, but he tried to sound confident because Mr Sancho had taught them that was important when trying to grab someone’s attention. 

“You may start.”

“Ok. So I’ve been reading a book called The Flame by Elizabeth King,” he said.

“How old are you,” came the first interjection.

“I’m 14. The book is about Thomas Patrickson who is looking for inspiration for a novel.”

“Where were you born?”

“Philippolis, Free State. And there’s this guy who can turn into a vampire.”

“What’s your mother’s maiden name?”

“Hal-” 

The bell rang shrilly interrupting the lesson. Mr Sancho waited patiently for the bell to stop ringing and asked “What was your mother’s maiden’s name, Linton, I apologise, we couldn’t hear you over the bell.”

“Hall, sir, but… didn't the lesson just end?”

“Right, of course. Thirty minutes is always too short. See you all next week,” he said and the children jumped off their seats and walked quickly towards the front office to wait for their parents.

John followed the crowd out the front office door and sat down at one of the wooden benches, scraping himself slightly on one of its concrete legs. He stared at the huge colourful poster stuck on the plain white wall. Friday the 14th of June was fast approaching and he still didn’t have a date for the Glow Dance. He knew his mom would pay for the ticket, but he didn’t want to be the only person to go by themself. He admired the bright neon words that stood against the light blue background. But he was mesmerised by the stark silhouettes of the dancing figures. And as he stared at their dark bodies he daydreamed about his crush. Her platinum blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes. A hand tapped him on his shoulder and he spun around quickly, coming face to face with those beautiful blue eyes. “Oh, it’s you.”

“Hi Sam would have been just fine,” she said and looked at the poster, “Thinking of taking someone to the dance?”

“I’m thinking about it. But I’m nervous to ask,” he said hoping she wouldn’t catch on.

“Hey. Any girl would be lucky to have you as a date.” But he couldn’t tell if she was being sincere or if she had just seen it in a movie.

“You’re just staying that.”

“No. I mean it.”

“You really think so?”

“Of course I do.”

“Thanks, Sam,” John said and hugged her tightly. 

He let go after a while and they stared at each other. “Drama was relaxing,” he said breaking the awkward silence.

“It’s always so fun. I wish that Mr Sancho was at school more often.”

“If it means he’ll be around for longer then I’m all about him taking his time to recover.”

There was a loud hoot and Sam looked back over her shoulder. “There’s my mom’s car. Let’s get going.” 

He picked up his green and brown camo bag and followed Sam towards the silver Volvo S90. They put their bags in the boot and got into the back seat. “Hello, Mrs Clarke.”

“Hello, Mom.”

“Hello, you two. How was school?”

“Relaxing,” John said.

“Relaxing?”

“We had drama today and we did some breathing exercises,” Sam explained.

“Well. It’s good to hear Mr Sancho’s back,” Mrs Clarke said and reversed out of her parking spot.

Sam looked across at the teacher’s parking lot, finding Mr Sancho’s small blue VW Polo parked under a huge willow tree. “But for how long? For all, we know this might be the last time we see him.” 

She stared out the window as the trees passed by and the first house came into sight. An old cottage with whitewashed walls and a clay red tile roof. “What if by tomorrow this house doesn’t belong to him?”

“Sweetpea. He just had a successful operation. He’ll be okay, I’m sure the doctors are making sure of it.”

“And if they don’t?”

John stared as the church came into view. Its old clocktower said it was almost three. “John.”

“Yes.”

“What do you think?”

He wasn’t sure what he should say. He had never seen his father act anything other than angry. “Sam I think your mom is right,” he said, but it sounded painfully wrong.

“He’ll be just fine, sweetpea.”

“I hope you’re right. He’s such a nice man.”

“Well… we’re here,” John said, changing the subject. 

The car pulled into the driveway and they got out. They walked up the brick path together in a friendly silence as John stared at the house like he had done hundreds of times before. Today, like every day he came here he was impressed. The modern two-storey house with its clean white walls and black tiled roof was huge compared to his family’s tiny 4 room apartment. Small windows ran along the frame of the black panelled door giving you a small glimpse of their wealthy life. “Get your homework finished. I’ll bring through a snack for you guys later,” Mrs Clarke said as they started to open the door.

“Of course, Mom,” Sam said

“We always do. Don’t we?”

“I never doubted you for a moment, Sam. Just remember to ask if you need any help.” 

They walked up a set of spiralling metal stairs, but as always John’s gaze was fixed on the living room. He was amazed by the brown leather couches and the huge TV. His parents had one in their room, but he wasn’t allowed to watch anything on it. “Come on, John,” Sam called, “Your homework won’t finish itself.” 

He tore his eyes from the glimmering screen and carried on down the hallway. Sam opened the door to her room and showed him in. Her room was a dark pink. A white poster bed sat in the right corner and Sam walked towards it. Meanwhile, John walked toward a light pink wooden desk and sat on a black computer chair. Their Maths test was coming up soon and there was a lot of homework. This test was mainly about algebraic equations. He normally hated Maths, but algebra just annoyed him. Numbers don’t make any sense already so why complicate it even more with letters? They opened up their exercise books and searched for page 205. They sat in silence as they worked. Sam wrote down the sums neatly and filled in the answers in in quick succession. John struggled and by the time Mrs Clarke came into the room with sandwiches almost an hour later John had barely reached the sixth page. “How’s it going, guys,” Mrs Clarke asked.

“Almost done,” Sam said.

“Four more pages to go,” he added gloomily.

“Well, you better start working, young sir. That homework won’t do itself.” 

Is it just me or is that saying getting a little annoying? She gave them their plates and they thanked her quickly before getting back to work. It wasn’t long before Sam finished her work and fetched her favourite book, Jane Eyre from her shelf. John worked for what felt like an hour before he got to the last sum. “Done,” he said with the satisfaction of a hard day’s work finally finished and slammed his book shut. 

Sam looked up from her book. “Finally. I’ve been reading for the last half an hour.” 

She bent her hand and stared at it for a few moments. “Like my nails? I had them done yesterday.”

“Um…”

“Just say yes or no?”

“I guess so.” 

He rubbed the back of his neck and looked at Sam again. Going over every detail. Her flowing hair and sparkling eyes. Her petite hands and feet. Her slim waist and beautiful smile. He liked Sam. No. He loved her. It was a love that made him lose his breath. A love that made his dry throat tight as a knot. A love that made his legs feel floppy and weak. A love that sent shivers down his spine every single time he thought about her. A love so deep he dreamed of Sam at night. He really wanted to ask Sam to the dance but, he was scared. He knew that it was now or never. That lousy dance or nothing. Sam would never be his girlfriend or take his hand in marriage. The children he had dreamt of would never be born, it all depended on this simple moment. But, were his feelings really worth ruining his only true friendship? What if she liked someone else? Someone cooler than him. He’d seen her look at Richard Anderson with his glowing blonde hair. “Sam, can I ask you something important,” he said, trying not to choke on his words.

“Sure. What is it?”

“Well...” 

Now or never. Now or never. His mind pondered it. Grappled with it. Played with it. Now or never. The idea was like a rock in his hands. Now. Fun to throw and try and hit your target. Or. But it was dangerous, you could hurt someone or even yourself with the flick of a wrist. Never. “Do you remember when you met up with me after school?”

“Yes. You were looking at that poster for the school dance.” Sam smiled excitedly.

“Sam. Would you make me the luckiest boy at Marc Hutton High and be my date to the dance?” 

He waited nervously for her answer. His heart was in his throat. His head raced through all the possible outcomes. “Yes.” 

He heard the word flutter from her lips and his mind stopped for a second. An explosion of happiness rocked through his head. His toes tingled and he wanted to jump up and scream. He just couldn’t believe it. He heard the sharp sound of his mother’s car pulling into the driveway, but he didn’t care. He went to Sam and hugged her and this time she hugged him back. They stayed like that until an insistent knocking thudded on the door. “John. Your mom’s here,” came the call. 

He tore himself from Sam and opened the door. He just couldn’t believe this was really happening. He thought about it the whole drive home. And when he climbed the ladder into the renovated attic he called his room and shut the trap door he jumped and pumped his arms in triumph. And while he searched for and read historical documents about his family he daydreamed about her, barely paying any attention to the documents themselves.

Though it lacked an initial organized investigative plan during the first 72 hours after the initial missing persons’ reports regarding Debra Linton (néeHall) and her daughter, Cartet Linton’s disappearances, numerous outside law enforcement agencies that were later part of the double homicide investigation suggested that the Benton Police Department’s continued presence at the property obstructed the disposal of the Lintons’ remains outside of the surrounding area. The Benton Police Department’s continued search efforts and willingness to launch four independent operations in three days was most likely significantly responsible for the suspect having left the Lintons’ bodies on the property and that eventually concluded with the recovery of their remains.

There is unanimous consensus based upon supporting forensic evidence that by the time the initial missing person reports were made to the Benton Police Department both victims were likely deceased. Thus, by that time, no police action could have been initiated or undertaken by the responding officers to the initial missing persons’ reports and following investigation(s) that would have prevented the deaths of Debra and Cartet Linton. In a circumstance where the death of the person is not immediate, however, the investigative actions of a police department and the coordinated response by assisting agencies can largely impact the aftermath. Thus, it is clear that if another missing person report were to be approached in the same manner as was the Linton case, the Benton Police Department may indeed miss an opportunity to save a victim’s life.

“Johnny,” his mother called from downstairs as he mindlessly clicked on a new document, “Dinner’s ready!”

“Coming,” he hollered back. 

He closed his computer and sprang up from his swivel chair. He followed the mouthwatering aroma to the dining room. His usually stern and serious father seemed barely able to contain himself with the plate of food in front of him. “Not even a thank you, Steve,” Mother said to Father.

“Not even a thank you, Felicia,” he said. 

He continued to sniff his plate, savouring the fragrance. He snorted as he sniffed in a disgusting attempt to mock Mother. She hadn’t even gone to the kitchen to get her own plate when Father started shovelling clumps of food into his mouth. Gasping for breath with half his mouth filled. John didn’t notice though, he was too busy thinking about Sam. He couldn’t believe that she had said yes. It just seemed too good to be true. Father looked at him eagerly and asked with a mouth full of food, “You haven’t touched your plate. Not hungry?”

But it sounded more like, “Mmm mven’t tukhed hur pate. Mot ungry?”

“No. I haven’t touched Mother’s plate.”

“No, yours.” (“Na, whorse.”)

“We can’t understand a thing you’re saying, Steven.”

Father swallowed his food and said, “You haven’t touched your plate. Can I have your food?”

“Sorry, I’m going to eat it. I was just thinking.”

“What were you thinking about,” Mother butted in in the hope of some sort of conversation.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” She arched her eyebrows.

“Do you really want to know?”

“What is it?”

“I was thinking about Sam.”

“What about Sam,” she asked inquisitively.

“I asked her to the dance.”

“And she said yes?”

“She said yes.”

“I’m so happy for you John,” she squealed, “We’ll have to buy you a suit tomorrow.”

“Oh great. A new bitch in the family and now I have to pay for a suit that’s just going to sit around and rot.”

“This won’t be his only dance, Steven.”

“Kids grow, Felicia.”

“Do you even remember the last time he outgrew his shoes?”

“Clothes not shoes!”

“That’s not my point!”

“So then what is your damn point!”

“Do you really have to be so explicit?”

“Oh shut up and stop crying about it.”

“For God’s sake, Steve our child is sitting right there.”

“Well if he has such a big problem with seeing what happens in the real world then he can go and cry in his bloody room!” John gratefully pushed his chair in and climbed the stairs to the sounds of their screaming match. He hated it when they fought, especially when it was his fault.