Young Writers Society

The young boy sits crisscross on the dry dirt in front of his family's shack, mindlessly picking at the large scab on his knee. Bruises aplenty decorate his suntanned skin, the blues, purples, and horrendous greens like galaxies bruised by battles. He rubs the back of a hand across his forehead and brushes back strands of obnoxious sandy waves. Sweat drips down his freckled face and traces the neat scar on his nose, only now turning white a month after the knife accident. Needless to say, Anya has gotten better at knife-throwing since then. 

"Sam!" Anya reprimands, "Don't pick at it, sicko. It'll never heal right if you keep messing with it."

Sam just shrugs and wipes away a bead of blood from the scab. He looks up at her with his nose scrunched and eyes squinted against the scorching sun. She towers over him with her hands on her hips, her knife sheathed against her thigh. 

"What do you want?"

"Well isn't that a million pound question." A small smirk twitches at the corner of her lips.

"If it's nothing then just leave." 

"Alright, alright." She raises her hands and takes a small step back. "Foster just wanted me to summon you. I'm not exactly sure what for though, sorry."

"Probably another assignment. I've only had two so far this month." 

"I don't think so. We're on break, remember? He won't give us anything until next week. Plus..." She goes silent and begins to nibble on her bottom lip. 

"Plus what?" He watches her every move. He can't help but feel a bit curious—suspicious even. Just say it already.

She finally opens her mouth, her words hesitant. "I think I saw a letter with your name on it, and the writing looks pretty feminine to me."

Who would write him a letter? He has nobody left, as far as he knows. No, he's certain he has no family left, he was there for their execution. It's not something a six year old forgets, not even with seven years more crammed into his brain. Although, he begins to think, if he was hidden away from death whose to say no one else was?

Sam tries to keep his thoughts from showing on his face, a habit he is much too familiar with. He looks away and begins to pick at his feet. Anya's face contorts in disgust and she slaps him on his shoulder. 

"You're so disgusting." He feigns a glare at her and gingerly rubs his shoulder.

"You've been living with only boys for a year, you'd think you'd be used to it by now." Even though it really did hurt, he's just glad he was able to distract her. Despite not knowing any more about the letter as of yet, the whole idea just seems much too personal to him for her grow curious about it herself. 

"Anyway, I better get going. Who knows what little Remus has shot with an arrow by now. We just might be having cat for dinner." She saunters off with a smirk.

"And you say I'm disgusting." He can't imagine eating their furry little friend, but he also can't imagine receiving an actual letter written by someone other than Foster. Besides, they've quickly learned that nine year olds aren't to be trusted with a bow; especially Remus. 

~

"You wanted to see me?"  Sam peeks into the single room shack to find Foster at his desk, which three of the kids—Eliot, Anya, and little Remus— had found. His shack, despite it being rundown and musty, is nicer than the two kids' sheds. He has an old mattress covered with rags, a rug made out of bear fur, and a single wide window that looks out into the woods beyond. Everything about the shack was old and dirty. 

"Ah, yes! Come in Sam, please." The middle-aged man stroked his hairy chin as he leaned back in his lawn chair. Foster sports a daring grin, a look the kids have all described as cheeky yet friendly. He plays a strong poker face the majority of the time, so you can never tell exactly what he's thinking. It's part of what makes him so mysterious, as Eliot (the oldest boy of the children) has explained once before. 

As Sam sits in the stiff porch chair in front of the desk, he tries to catch a glance at the rumored letter, only to find too many documents to decipher which one it is. Foster follows his gaze and looks back at him with a smile in his eyes. The young boy folds his hands in his lap, his neck and cheeks growing red. 

"She already told you about the letter I presume?" Straight to it then. Sam's left galaxy dotted leg begins to bounce. 

"Yes, sir." He nods. 

"Well that takes the fun out of it. I was going to make a pretty big production out of it, you know; a lap around the room with my hands behind my back, accusations as to who you could be communicating with outside the family. I might have even thrown a chair across the room for no good reason, just to get a good scare out of you—make you really sweat before giving you the sweet relief of a letter." 

Sam tries to refrain from raising a brow, "You still could. I mean, if you really wanted to." 

"Indeed, I guess I still could. But then it wouldn't have as big an effect on you, since you already know about it." Just show me the letter already, Sam imagines himself begging. He tightens his fists, still resting in his lap. Foster leans forward on his desk and rests his head on his hands, his pointy elbows digging into the rotting desk top. 

"So," Sam coughs. "About that letter..."

"Oh yes, right. Well, I had received a letter just last night addressed to you. I won't lie to you, I opened it already. I just wanted to make sure that you children weren't in any danger, especially you as the addressee; which is my duty as the father of this so-called, makeshift family of ours." Sam's heart drops a bit. That was supposed to be his letter and his letter only. He understands why he did it, but he still can't help wishing that he hadn't. 

"I understand." He tries to swallow the angry lump in his throat. Foster's Cheshire smile broadens as he claps his hands together.

"Great! Now that you're aware of the slight intrusion…” He pulls up the letter from the pile of papers. "You know that you're family was killed, and that would mean that nobody else is alive, right? Yes, well, let's skip through that whole backstory for both our sakes. Sam, I'm just going to say it. No need in beating around the bush here."

Where is he going with this?

"According to this letter, your sister is still alive."

"I—I have a sister?" Sam struggles to wrap his head around this news. 

"And she’s alive, yes. That's what the letter says." 

"May I see it?" Sam puts his hand out on the table. Foster looks down at it and tilts his head like a dog, making his grin look even more crooked.

"I'm afraid not, little man, I better hold onto it."

Heat rises to Sam's chest, "What for?"

"For reasons I can't quite tell you yet." And before Sam could open his mouth to argue, "Don't worry about it, alright? I understand how you must be feeling, but really, what good is it to have the letter anyway? Again, at least you know that you have a sister and that she's alive."

Sam takes a deep breath and steadily releases it. "I guess you're right."

"I'm glad to hear that. Now, do you think you could help Eliot real quick? He seems to be having trouble cleaning up your guys' shed after that little fight. Anya really did a number on his dresser."

~

The dresser wasn't the only thing she did a number on. Sam can't help but notice a dark bruise beneath Eliot's right dirt brown eye, while the other murky blue-green eye remains perfectly fine; a little watery, but that's it. His teeth are clenched as he picks up remnants of souvenirs he's found in the woods over the years.  Sam shuffles around, searching for something to do in order to help. Although, help is the last thing he knows Eliot would want.

Sam has always envied the older boy for being so independent, but he saw something shatter that night when Anya finally had enough of his discrimination towards her. That's one thing Sam didn't quite like about him. He never seemed to understand just how tough Anya is. 

"Just go away." Eliot grumbles. He stops rustling the shirt in his hand and sits on the filthy floor. His dark bangs cover his mismatched eyes. 

"Trust me, I want to, but Foster..." Sam pops his fingers one by one. He wants to ask him something; for advice on his supposed sister. Despite the fact that he was inches away from being knifed by the only girl in the "family", he is the oldest child and might know what to do about it. This topic is just too personal though, he decides. Just like Anya and the letter, although now he's thinking maybe he should have asked her to steal it for him, he'd rather not have everyone interested in this little piece of real life. Sam's escape from playing pretend,

"He probably just wanted you to spy on me. The man is sneaky like that." Eliot coughs. "I'm fine, really." 

Sam swears he saw him wipe away a tear with his arm, but he decides not to say anything. Hesitation and a musk of awkwardness hangs thick in the air. 

It makes Sam want to say, "He just told me that my sister is alive." Instead, he says:

"You could have taken her down." No, he couldn't. Sam almost feels the lie catch in his throat. Eliot lets out a dark, doubtful chuckle while shaking his head.

"Don't lie, Samuel. You're too good for that." He stands up with a solemn grunt and brushes the dirt off of the back of his legs. He briefly scans the room, shifts one of his pine cones on his makeshift dresser a little bit to the left, and hesitantly walks out the shed. Not a moment later, Anya walks in. Her nose immediately scrunches and she covers her mouth with her hand.

"The smell of filthy boys never ceases to surprise me." She saunters further into the room and sits down beside him, but not before cautiously analyzing the mattress. "So, what was the letter about?" 

 Sam simply shrugs. He pulls his leg up beneath him and fidgets with his grimy fingers.

"Don’t avoid the question, Samuel Knight. He did mention it, didn’t he?"

"I don't know if I can tell you." He looks away, trying to avoid her insistent gaze. She moves her hand from in front of her mouth to his left shoulder.

“Sam, you can trust me.” Sam sighs. Can he trust her? He was thinking he’d be needing her help in retrieving the letter…

“I have a sister, and she’s still alive.” Anya’s face briefly falls, but just as quickly as he notices she’s smiling again. 

“That’s great news, right?”

“I guess so.”

“Then why do you look so down?” She crosses her legs and turns to face him, ignoring the few random articles of boys clothing littering the bed. Sam’s mind is jumbled with things he wants to say, things he doesn’t understand, and emotions that he isn’t used to. “I’ve never seen you look so… upset.”

“I just don’t know what to make of it. He won’t give me the letter either, so I don’t know if there’s more to it that he’s just not telling me.” 

“Let’s steal it.” She blurts out, mischievously. An eager smile reaches her face and brightens her eyes. 

“Steal it…” He blankly stares at her, urging her to go on.

“Yeah, it’ll be easy. We just walk into his shack while he’s out on his daily scavenge and grab the letter.” 

“That sounds too easy.” Anya shrugs.

“We’ll take what we can get. Plus, who would tell on us anyways, Remus?”

“If anyone it would be Eliot. You did beat him up.” Sam peeks out the doorway in hopes that Eliot wasn’t standing right outside the door to hear that. 

“I did beat him up, didn't I?” A wide grin spreads across her face at the memory. “Well in that case, if he does happen to catch us and decides to be a little snitch then I’ll just beat him up again.”

Sam shakes his head. “Whatever gets me the letter, I guess.”

~

The family’s favorite spot in their rather sizable plot of land is what they call the “commons”; a large space in the middle of all of their sheds and shacks. Off to the center of the common grounds stands a large willow tree, it’s weeping branches providing enough shade and shelter from both the scorching sun and their caretaker. This is where the two amateur thieves hide as they wait for Foster to leave. 

“Staring at him isn’t going to get him to leave any faster.” Sam grumbles. Anya briefly glares at him from her seat on the crook of the trunk before resuming her staring. 

“What is he even doing in there?” She swings her feet, barely missing Sam’s face from where he sits on the ground in front of her. He shrugs.

“Foster things.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, whatever it is Foster does.”

“I think he draws. When I went in his office one time to receive my assignment I saw a really detailed sketch on his desk.”

“A sketch of what?” 

“Eliot.” She growls, eyes still trained on Foster’s shack. Sam looks up at her. The glow of the red setting sun compliments the scowl on her face.

“Eliot?” His scarred nose scrunched. “Why would he draw—“

“No, you dolt! Eliot’s going into Foster’s shack. But why so late?” Sam whips around to find, indeed, Eliot disappearing into the shack. He’s usually practicing with his sword in the training grounds at this time. As he’s explained before, he enjoys sword fighting when the sun is as red as the blood of his enemies. Sam just thinks he’s overdramatic. 

“Something’s not right…” He can’t shake the irritating feeling that’s brewing in his gut. They watch like hawks from behind the veil of willow branches as Eliot reappears with Foster in the doorway. The youngest of the two holds something in his hand as Foster, looking way too serious for being who he is, tells him something. 

“I can’t hear what they’re saying.” Anya whines.

“Instructions, maybe?” Sam hears her rustling in her spot as she jumps down beside him. Eliot steps out of the doorway, with Foster watching as he goes for only a moment longer before retreating back inside. Finally, they see Eliot walking briskly into the woods that surrounds their plot of land.

“Let’s follow him.” Sam suggests.

Anya rushes past him, “I’m way ahead of you.”

They follow closely behind him through the woods, dodging behind overgrown bushes and large oak trees. They tip toe through starch grass and dirt pathways while watching their fingers upon the trunks for strings of poison oak.  Anya still leads the way, only looking back every now and then to find Sam still tracing her steps almost perfectly. 

“How much longer do you think we’ll have to follow him for?” Sam whispers from behind her. She abruptly stops in her tracks. Sam looks over her shoulder and sees Eliot pause and sit on a nearby fallen tree trunk. 

“What is he doing? He can’t just be resting, he can walk forever without stopping. I’ve seen how far he can go…” Anya trails off. Sam gives her an odd look with a raise of his brow.

“You’ve watched him?”

“In passing. Now, hush before he hears us.” Eliot eyes the letter in his hand and tries to hide a grin. He then briefly scans the surrounding woods. “I hate that grin, it’s too smug. This isn’t good, Sam. Something about this whole thing seems queer.”

Sam shushes her. He watches intently as Eliot begins to open the letter, ripping it along the seal as carefully as possible. Anya’s right though, he decides, this is an odd circumstance. They’re on break, aren’t they? Then why is Foster sending Eliot on an assignment? The eldest boy still sitting on the stump scans the letter, reading it in a soft whisper just barely audible to the hidden observer’s ears. 

“The girl isn’t safe there. You must keep her hostage somewhere safer. I have discussed some possibilities with a dear friend of mine, and she has agreed to let you keep her there. Now, it is a foster home, so do be sure to remember which girl it is you're in charge of. There will be consequences… Signed, Foster Winston.” A flame reaches Sam’s heart. Could they be discussing my sister? Wait, held hostage? He stands up and rushes past the few trees hiding them from Eliot’s view, ignoring Anya’s failed grasp on his arm as he shoulders past her.

“Give me that.” He growls. Eliot quickly looks up at the boy. He notices Sam’s fist ball up and tries again to hide a smile. 

“What, this letter? What makes you think I’m just going to hand it to you? This is my assignment.” Before Sam can say anything, Anya pops up from behind the tree and puts a hand on his shoulder.

“We’ll take care of it for you, right Sam? And the best part is we won’t even tell Foster, so you still get the credit.” Anya eyes Sam for confirmation, receiving only a curious glare in return. Why would she do that for him—both Sam and Eliot? 

“You do make a very tempting offer, but how do I not know you’re lying to me?” Eliot gingerly touches the bruise beneath his brown eye, while his crystal blue eye vaguely reflects a distasteful memory. 

“I may be alright with beating you up, but I do not lie.” That right there could very well be a lie, Sam thinks. Then again, she’s never lied to him as far as he knows; either that or she’s just really good at it. Eliot must be having the same idea as he eyes Anya suspiciously. 

“Here, if this is any consolation to you,” she begins to suggest. “If I don’t stick to my word then you can use me as your training dummy for three days.”

“Five days.” Eliot crosses his arms.

“Five days, really?” Anya puts her hands on her hips with a frown.

“Wait, no. A week.”

“ Let’s not go crazy now… but sure. A week it is. If I don’t stick to my word, that is. Which I guarantee you I will.” Sam shifts his gaze from Anya to Eliot as they stare each other down, her with her hands on her hips and him with his arms crossed over his chest. The older boy finally breaks the silent tension with a heavy sigh. He glances down at the letter in his hand before hesitantly stretching it out towards Anya.

“Fine, it’s a deal. But I’m warning you, if I find out you’re lying to me than I won’t take it easy on you. Even if you are a girl.” Anya briefly glares at him, but quickly remembers to smile again. The only thing that gives her away is the vague tint of pink on her cheeks. She takes the letter from him before he has a chance to pull it away. 

“Pleasure doing business with you.” Anya says behind clenched teeth. The two go to shake hands as Foster often insists one does when making a deal, but reconsider as they remember who it is they’re dealing with. Eliot points back towards the camp and turns to head in that direction.

“Good luck.” He shouts over his shoulder with a salute, a smirk in his voice. Sam finally releases the breath he’s been holding in. 

“That felt like waiting for two guard dogs to go at it.” He gives a light chuckle.

“All that matters is that we have the letter.” Yet she still doesn’t look as happy as she normally would in this circumstance.

“But you also put yourself in possible danger.” He barely catches her cringe. She shrugs and focuses her gaze on the letter,

“I wasn’t lying, so it doesn't matter. Can I open this letter now?” Sam nods, hoping what’s inside is worth the sacrifice Anya just made. She peels open the letter and carefully smooths out some wrinkles, then holds it out for both of them to see. They already know most of what it says, since Eliot read it out loud, but what they weren’t expecting to find was an address. 

“This might end up being easier than I thought.” She forces a smile in his direction. Sam frowns.

“We don’t even know where that is.” 

“No, but here’s what we’ll do. We’ll go back to camp real quick and pack up, then once we go we’ll try and find somebody on the road to help us navigate. I have about…” She pulls out a few pounds from her pocket. “15 pounds. That should be enough, right?”

“Are you sure?” An uneasy feeling reaches Sam’s chest. Anya sighs, but eventually shrugs.

“We have to at least try.”

~

Back at the camp, Eliot dashes into Foster’s shack with a large smile on his smug face. He knocks on the doorframe and walks in upon the man’s acknowledgement, then plops down in the chair on the other side of the desk. 

“You have good news, I presume?” Foster asks with a hint of excitement in his gravelly voice. Eliot tries to conceal his excitement, but humorously fails on Foster’s end.

“He took the mission. Well, they did, the girl is with him.” Foster’s infamous Cheshire grin scratches the surface. 

“Even better!” A thought suddenly crosses Eliot’s demented mind.

“How do you think he’ll react when he finds the girl… not alive.”

“Dead, Eliot, it’s alright to say it. And I’m not sure, but I am excited to find out.” Foster crosses his arms across his desk and gazes out the window towards the woods. “Here’s to the making of a fine hero."