Young Writers Society

Authors Note: This is just some miscellaneous ideas to get back into writing for this character/setting. It's in no particular order, just a quick warmup!

Marsh

It rained last night.

Dewdrops slide from trees, and dirt drinks it up. Puddles squelch beneath my brand-new rainboots and cake them in mud. It’s chilly for a spring day. The hairs on my arms rise as a shiver runs through my spine. I consider running back inside for a coat, but find the cold air brings a new clarity to my thoughts.

Grandma’s grocery shopping, and I’m here alone. Without her, the marsh is like another dimension. The trees have crept closer than last time I checked. I’m sure one will reach down with its rickety branches, and snatch me away.

But I plunder forth. My fretful mind will hinder me no longer; I’m determined to conquer this realm. To cross one more fear off my growing list.

Thorns claw at my skin. I’m careful not to place my feet anywhere where they might get tangled. This must be how the prince felt, clambering into Sleeping Beauties castle.

The ground likes to shift beneath my feet. It breathes like a living thing, chortling as I struggle.

Marsh appears where is didn’t use to be, and I find my boots sinking into mud more often than not. I cling to branches, and startle birds from trees with my aggrieved shouts.

At last, I come to a clearing with semi solid ground. I’d sit, but I see beetles crawling between the grass. (Though I’m sure I’ve already been bitten by half a dozen mosquitoes.)

I wince, as bitter pain flutters from my ankle. I brush my thumb against it, and it comes away with blood. Some twig must’ve snagged me. I wipe my hand against my shirt, and stride forward.

Ahead of me is a massive tree. It looks like a cypress; a kind Grandma told me about. I lean against it and tilt my head to the sky.

Azure blue bleeds from the leaves, and trickles down onto my face. It tastes like the honey my mom adds to her tea.

The kettle boils in the back of my mind. When wind brushes my cheek, tussling leaves, I’m reminded of walks around our block.

It’s all one world. I’m here, and I’m not.

The thought gives me a headache. I peep one eye open.

Playground

It’s a big playground for a small town. Brand new, with bright colors polished to perfection.

I don’t like it. It looks like an accident just waiting to happen. I know Grandma said no resurrecting people, but if someone slams their head into a metal pillar and dies, I don’t see how I have a choice.

At least there are parents watching, but they seem preoccupied with idle gossip.

The playground is crawling with an infestation. Kids my age and younger clamber up the slides and push each other down the stairs, laughing all the while.

“Grandma,” I say, my voice meek and wary, “This is a bloodbath.”

She laughs, nudging me forward, “Come now, they’re only having fun. I’m sure you could, too. Why don’t you go down a couple slides? Or look, the tire swing is open!”

I shake my head vigorously, but she’s patting my head and walking away.

“I’ll only be in that store over there. You’ll be able to see me through the window.”

I can literally feel the blood draining from my face. I want to turn and run, but my feet are rooted to the spot. The only thing I can do is say, “You’ll be back soon?”

“Of course. Try to have fun while I’m gone.” Grandma says, “Promise me you’ll be careful?”

Anger curdles in the place of fear. What I want to ask is; Why do you all feel the need to abandon me? But my head quickly reasons that that isn’t what is happening. And I know that, of course. Though my pounding heart begs to differ.

As Grandma’s footsteps are swallowed by the sound of laughter and screeches, panic swells in my chest. From the back of my mind, there’s a voice yelling at me, frustrated. With me. This spurs proper annoyance, like some strange domino effect in my brain, where now I’m aggravated by the fact that my own self is berating… my own self? I grit my teeth, and stomp my feet.

Before I can get myself anymore twisted, I drag myself to the swing set.

Classroom

Mr. Carrot is the worst Science Teacher I’ve ever had.

He lounges in his chair, asleep, snoring, with his glasses askew. The curtains are drawn and he shut off the light, but not before assigning us a bucket load of work.

I’m fuming when I finish the fifth and final worksheet.

“Hey.”

The boy next to me taps his pencil on my desk.

I glance at the teacher, than scowl at him. “What?”

“What’s the answer to number eleven?”

I raise my eyebrows at him. His nose is lopsided, and his eyes are green. He looks like he too is about to fall asleep.

I don’t like cheaters, but I hate busywork even more. I weigh my morals, then flip my packet to page two, sliding it over to him. His eyes skim the page, before he nods his thanks.

“Things were better when Ms. Lisa was here.” He said sadly.

“Oh.” I say, wondering whether or not I’m meant to respond. “What happened to her?”

The girl in front of us- who I hadn’t realized was listening- spun around in her chair. “She died.” She said, eyes wide as dinnerplates.

The kid next to her snorted, “That’s not true. She disappeared. There’s a difference, Daisy.”

“Don’t say those things.” Said a boy with a perpetual cold. “She’s only on vacation. She’ll come back.” He ducked his head, his expression heart wrenching, “She has to.”

The whole class began to chime in. Or, at least, the kids in my area. Some pitching horrible fates that might’ve befallen her, most mourning their teacher.

It only lasted a minute, before Mr. Carrots eyes snapped back open. He shot up from his desk. “Shut UP!” He slurred, slamming his fists into his desk hard enough that it knocked a picture frame to the floor. The rest of the class froze in terror, but, since I was close by, I bent down to pick up the photo.

It had a nice wooden frame, a plaque reading, Worlds Kindest Teacher beneath. The photo was of an older woman with silver hair. She was short, about as tall as her students, and was wearing a graduation cap.

“Oh, did she go back to college to get her degree?” I ask, respect mounting for a teacher I never met.

I don’t think Mr. Carrot heard me, so I placed the picture back on the desk quietly.