Tonight's the night to wear my fangs.

To knock at the doors with all my gangs.

To gather on candy and sweets and things.

To see what mischief the night will bring.

As we walk to doors in gangs of ten,

I see witches, and ghosts, and little minion men.

I see characters and gremlins and big boogie bears.

I see police and firemen and kids with big hair.

I see transformers, and angels, and devils, and such.

This is Halloween night, and I love it so much.

As the night fades away and it's time to retire.

Our candy is looked over, some thrown in the fire.

But not a bad hall for a night of good cheer.

I can't wait for Halloween to return next year.

On the twelfth day of Halloween,

my true love sent to me;

Twelve Vampire Bites,

Eleven Skeletons Skating,

Ten Wolfs A-howling,

Nine Zombies Lurching,

Eight Monsters Mashing,

Seven Ghosts A-haunting,

Six Witches Witching,

Five Skull Rings,

Four Crying Bats,

Three Freaky Frogs,

Two Slimy Slugs,

And a Potion in a Cauldron.

“Maybe we should just leave; we are not members,” Peter said, shrugging. He and Roselyn stood outside of the Royal Society building in the busy, cloudy streets of London on an afternoon day. They had been denied access by a stubborn, pretentious-looking clerk at the desk just past the front doors.

“I want to see what recent science is occurring here,” Roselyn protested. “I’m sure we’ll find a way in.”

“I’m sorry, find a way into where?” Roselyn turned, and was faced by a fairly large gentleman, well-dressed, with long grey hair. “The Royal Society? I’m a member—William Kirby, pleased to make your acquaintance. Is it that snobby clerk?” He did not leave any time for an answer. “I cannot stand that fellow; I’ll get you in.” He escorted them into the building and approached the well-dressed, snobby clerk. The old clerk looked up and sighed reluctantly.

“I am requesting access for these two guests of mine,” Kirby stated matter-of-factly. The clerk glared at him.

“Fine,” he finally grumbled. But as Kirby began to walk past, he added, “Though it’s not as if entomology is a real science anyway.” At this, Kirby jolted, and he swiftly spun around and marched back toward the clerk with an angry grimace…

January 1825

“And then he and the clerk began arguing about what sciences are worthy of being studied for the next few minutes.” Roselyn laughed as she recounted her brief trip to England to Diana. The two stood in the main printing room of her newspaper, and Owen was affixing some letters to the large press while Diana listened to Roselyn as she recounted her recent experience. “Anyway, it was wonderful to see the Royal Academy of Sciences,” Roselyn finished.

“What did Peter think of it all?” Diana inquired. “I know you had to convince him quite a bit before he was willing to undertake the voyage.”

“He didn’t like it much,” Roselyn shrugged. “He said there were too many factories and crowded city streets. I suppose there were a lot of unappealing slums and smoggy skies in the more industrial areas, but we simply avoided those places in favor of the prettier parts. Though I can’t imagine that we’ll be traveling again for a while: Peter really wasn’t impressed with much of it.”

“Well, I must say, it is good to have you back,” Owen stated rather flatly from the printer, concentrating on a metal letter that was stuck.

“Owen, my gosh, roll your sleeves up! They’re covered in ink,” Diana exclaimed. Owen simply shrugged, not caring that the white cuffs of his sleeves were blackening with dusty and wet ink.

“How is it you never travel?” Roselyn asked Diana. “I could always contribute to the—I make a good wage in the hospitals, even if it is less than what the men there receive. And Peter makes a fair amount, too.”

“I don’t know,” Diana shrugged. “I mostly worry over what would happen to this journal if we left for too long: we just finally recovered from 1819. Do you have the ink I asked for?”

“Oh, yes,” Roselyn remembered, and reached into a little bag and pulled out the two bottles of ink she promised to give to Diana.

“You best be getting home: the weather outside is very bad.” They looked out the window, at the New York streets that still had yet to taste rain but were covered by black clouds and whipping wind.

“Right. Do fare well,” Roselyn smiled and left. Outside, there was almost nobody on the streets, and those that were out were running doubled over, their arms crossed across their stomachs to prevent their clothing from flapping in the wind. Soon, it began to rain—not a light rain, but a painful, stinging, hammering rain.

This must be a hurricane, Roselyn thought. Desperate, and fretting that Peter would, reasonably, worry about her absence, Roselyn made the difficult decision to stop at the next building she came to on the street. Its windows were boarded up, and the door had an unlocked latch on it. She knocked hard. It opened a crack, revealing light from the inside.

“Who’s there?” a man’s voice asked from within. Roselyn could discern only part of his face—black hair, a blue eye—through the crack in the door.

“I require shelter from the cold,” she panted, soaking wet from the rain. “If you wouldn’t mind letting me in, I’d be very grateful…” she trailed off.

“I—well…” The man stuttered, but his generosity suddenly overtook him. “Come in,” he stated, opening the door wide for her.

As soon as Roselyn was inside and the door was shut behind her, the man went about the room (small, dimly illuminated by lanterns, and containing several desks covered in papers) and began shoving what looked like journals and news articles under other papers and books. He was a short man, well-dressed, in a black suit, and looked tired—he seemed to be urgently hiding the papers for some reason. Roselyn caught glimpse of a few words on one of the papers before the man shoved them away. They read: “Furthermore, in opposition to slavery…”

“You’re an abolitionist,” Roselyn stated with surprise. At this, the man stopped and stood still, sighing. “Is this a journal?”

“Secret journal,” the man corrected. “I suppose not so much anymore.” He glared at Roselyn.

“I apologize,” she stated. “If it helps at all, I am completely against slavery—it’s un-Christian.”

“I suppose that this is New York,” the man sighed as he sat down in a chair and took a glass bottle from his coat, containing some dark liquid, and drank from it. “But, you never know. A friend of mine worked at a journal like this in Pennsylvania, and he was attacked by a pro-slave mob a few months ago.”

“Roselyn Kincade, pleasure to meet you,” she stated to the man. He did not get up.

“Arthur Eastwood,” he smiled. “Glad to see that you identify with our cause.”

“Roselyn?” This voice came from the doorway to the next room.

Standing there was a tall man, half-dressed, with combed blond hair. At first, Roselyn was confused, but then she recognized the man: this was Francis, Diana’s husband Tyler’s younger brother. Roselyn had only met him once, and he almost never visited his brother in New York, but for some reason, he was here.

“My God, how are you?” He smiled, buttoning his shirt higher to make a good impression. Then his face gained seriousness. “What are you doing here?” Arthur was still in the corner, glancing confusedly from Francis to Roselyn.

“You know each other?”

“Yes, this is a sister of my brother’s wife,” Francis proclaimed happily. “I visited Tyler earlier this morning, but I apologize that I am in a hurry,” he stated to Roselyn. She saw Arthur shoot a quick, nervous glance at Francis.

“What?” Roselyn stated, taking a step back. The rain pounded against the boarded windows, and the wind could be heard whistling through the streets. “What is this, really?” Roselyn asked, looking at each of the gentlemen in turn. Francis swallowed and began to open his mouth.

“We are an abolitionist journal, nothing more,” Arthur stated abruptly before Francis could even begin his sentence.

“Arthur, we should tell her; she is technically a relative of mine,” Francis urged softly.

“The editor isn’t here; we don’t have authority,” Arthur cautioned.

“Arthur.” Arthur sighed and backed off, falling back into his chair. Francis then turned to Roselyn. “We—myself in particular—have been interacting with…well…individuals who are lending assistance directly to escaped slaves, in addition to operating this journal.” Roselyn was surprised, to say the least, and her surprise was evident based on her new expression.

“I’ve been commissioned to recruit individuals whom I judge as dedicated to the cause down south, and came up here to retrieve a shipment of pamphlets for delivery.” He spoke slowly and carefully, as if he worried that hiding his current activities from Roselyn was some sort of crime.

“Does Tyler know?” Roselyn asked.

“Only a little,” Francis sighed. “But he doesn’t know just how into this I am immersed now.”

“What about your duties?”

“I still carry the mail,” Francis chuckled. “That’s actually how I became involved in all this in the first place.” He paused, looked around, and leaned against the wall, evidently troubled by something. “Roselyn,” he began. “I, um, have been meaning to tell Tyler, and Diana, something important…I swear I was going to tell you all. I would never keep it a secret…”

“What is it?” Roselyn implored, suddenly expecting the worst kind of news.

“Your sister, um, Flower, and her husband…they are, um, working with individuals along a route for escaped slaves to journey to freedom in the North.” He said this last part quite swiftly, as if it might make the news easier to deliver somehow. Roselyn stood stunned. She had mixed feelings about it all: her sister, Flower, had children, and she was taking quite a risk by participating in such a seemingly dangerous trade; but at the same time, it did not surprise her at all to find that Flower was doing what she believed was right.

“I’m sorry,” Francis continued. “I just found out myself a few weeks ago when I was down there. I tried to talk them out of it…”

“No,” Roselyn interrupted. The room was silent, apart from the gushing white noise of rain. “If they wish to dedicate their lives to this effort,” Roselyn began slowly, “then I suppose that I should support that.” She paused. “Did it seem like they are being careful? Are they safe?”

“I don’t know,” Francis shrugged. “When I was down there, it was hard to discern. I can’t tell if they are merely lending supplies to those who house runaway slaves, or actually housing the runaways themselves. They wouldn’t tell me, probably because they knew I would try to stop them—for their own safety, of course,” Francis swiftly added. For a long time, the room was silent.

“How do I become involved?” Roselyn finally asked quietly. Arthur, who had not said anything for a while, raised his eyebrows.

“What?” Francis exclaimed. “Roselyn, I’m sorry, but I can’t let you become involved in this. If Tyler finds out that I led to your participating in such a risky trade, he’d hate me for it. I just can’t let you risk everything like that.”

“I wish to join,” Roselyn shrugged matter-of-factly.

“Roselyn, you must understand, I am not by any means a leader of these operations,” Francis spoke urgently as he walked toward the table and leaned over it, evidently distressed. “I’m merely an employee, so to speak.” He looked up, saw Roselyn’s face, and knew that she would not give up.

“I will find a way into this,” Roselyn ended, rather sternly. “I know my husband will probably support it. You can either show me how this all works, and teach me what to do and not to do, or I can take the more dangerous route and find out for myself. Your choice.”

Francis sighed and looked around the room, clearly not wanting to be a part of the conversation any longer. He finally stood up, looked back to Roselyn, and nodded.

“All right,” he yielded calmly. “Fine. But promise me that you will not become too involved. Please just take things slowly.”

“We’ll see,” Roselyn finished.

**********

Owen walked aimlessly through the cold streets of urban New York. It was nearly two weeks after the hurricane had come to pass, and there was still apparent damage. He liked to walk along the streets near the coast, finding interest in the crumbled or otherwise heavily damaged buildings. Sometimes he would pick through the rubble for little treasures (if no one else had stolen them by then, how was he to blame?), and occasionally would deliver newspapers for whatever journal would pay him to do so for the day.

One day, however, as he walked, he spotted a very young boy sitting alone on some fallen wooden beams, just in front of a toppled brick house. He was well dressed for such a young lad, though there was no sign of anyone around who could perhaps be his parents. Owen sat next to him. The child looked up at him, evidently frightened.

“What’s your name?” Owen asked.

“William…Tweed,” the boy managed to squeak out.

“How old are you?” The boy held up two fingers. Owen nodded, then reached into his pocket, pulling out a few individual playing cards that he had found while scavenging through the rubble. “That’s the king,” he said, handing the child the card with the king on it. “The king is the best card: the king can do anything he wants.”

The boy simply sucked on his finger as he took the card and examined it. Owen smiled, for the child was very adorable.

“What is all this?” A man walked up to them. “Come on, William,” he urged, and picked the child up and walked off with him. As the man strolled away, Owen saw the child held reverse against the man’s chest, still holding the card with the king on it.

Early 1826

“The attacks keep occurring, closer each time,” Chadwick spoke to Eleanor as they gazed out over their farmland from their house: a thin line of smoke was trailing up from over the trees somewhere in the distance. Chadwick looked at James, almost six years old, playing with some toy tin British soldiers on the floor inside the doorway of the house. Eleanor appeared distressed. Chadwick took a step out into the farm, gazing over all he had worked so hard to build.

“Are you sure it is worth moving so far away for?” Eleanor asked, stepping behind Chadwick. Chadwick sighed, and looked back to James. James knocked over one of the tin British soldiers with a carved wooden figure of an Indian. Chadwick swallowed.

“I will sell the land to Damoan, and with that, and what we have left of our earnings from last year, we can fund our journey to Texas.”

“What if the military calls you into service again?” Eleanor inquired worriedly.

Chadwick sighed.

“I hope they won’t, but they probably will, if they need me. I do have a lot of experience, you know.” Eleanor only grunted in reply. Chadwick added, “Texas is supposed to have a lot of good land; besides, I’d take us all the way to Alaska to live with the Russians if it meant that we would be safe.”

Just then, a man rode up swiftly, on a brown, spotted horse. It was Abraham—the man with the burning property.

“It’s quelled down now,” he stated to Chadwick, not dismounting from his horse. He wore a black coat with brown pants, all of which were very dusty and covered in ash.

“Sorry to say that the crops are all but gone. I wished to thank you again for coming yesterday and trying to talk peace over.”

“Where you headed now?” was all Chadwick said in reply as he held a hand to his face to shield the sun from his eyes.

“My wife has a brother further south in Florida,” he shrugged. “We’ll probably head there.”

They said their goodbyes, and Abraham rode back to his family’s farm. Chadwick continued to stare out at his fields before finally reconciling the decision that he had been battling over for so long in his mind.

“Well.” He clasped his hands together and turned abruptly, walking back toward the house, Eleanor following. He picked up James and held him as he turned to his wife: “We’d best have something to eat. Then, let’s start packing for Texas.”

Written By: ValiantRaptor47

There was once a fairy named Willow. She is a dark fairy. Willow lived in a haunted mansion on a cliff. Willow never left her house but no one knows why. Willow finally came out to the village 12 years ago. She caused multiple things like tsunamis, tornados, fires, and worst of all she ruined the village. But the people finally fixed and rebuilt the village. A few years later, someone came to visit her. Her name was Lily. Lily was still young and didn't know what happened last time someone visited her. She knocked on the door as lightning almost struck her. Lily was more nervous than ever. Willow opened the door. " What are you doing here" said Willow. " I came to ask you if you could do magic at my birthday tomorrow." said Lily. Willow shut the door. Lily was stunned. Willow thought long and hard about Lily. " Fine, I'll perform. What's your address?" said Willow. But Willow didn't know why Lily asked her. It finally came the day of Lily's party. Willow came to the village. Everyone stared in fear. Willow went to Lily's house. She performed some magic for the kids at Lily's party. Willow had smiled for the very first time. "My parents said that your a dark fairy. Why is that? You seem nice." said Lily before Willow left. "You mean I was a dark fairy." said Willow in response. Lily looked confused. " I am a light fairy now Lily. I haven't had this much fun in a long time. Do you think you can visit me more often?" said Willow. Lily nodded. :)

TRIGGER WARNING

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I'm THIS close to an anxiety attack.

I don’t know why.

I want to cry,

But I can’t.

The tears won't come.

My heart is pounding

And my chest is heavy.

I feel like I’m dying.

I can't stop shaking.

I feel like I'm vibrating.

My lunch is bubbling in my stomach

As bowling balls roll about,

Threatening to set off a land mine.

I'm THIS close to an anxiety attack.

I don’t know why.

I want to cry,

But I can’t.

The tears won't come.

My skin is burning,

I'm sweating bullets.

I'm uncomfy in my clothing

And feel immigrated to my skin.

I can't hear my thoughs,

The screams are too loud.

My mouth is desert dry,

even water won't help.

I'm THIS close to an anxiety attack.

I don’t know why.

I want to cry,

But I can’t.

The tears won't come.

Please just kill me.

End it all.

My anxiety is heavy,

And I feel SO SMALL.

Please.

I'm THIS close to an anxiety attack.

I don’t know why.

I want to cry,

But I can’t.

The tears won't come.

My childhood memories of you are these:

bags under your eyes,

the smell of sweat and oil on your shirt,

the way your eyebrows came together when you told us kids to stop talking and start eating or stop talking and do the dishes,

how you fell asleep watching TV after supper nearly every night.

You were working long hours, I know.

But why didn't you hold me more? Why didn't you get to know me?

I have no memories of you reading to me, even though now, as an adult, I know we share a love of fantasy novels.

I remember that first Christmas you actually picked out gifts for us kids instead of letting Mom do it for you. You got me a drawing book and an origami-making kit. That was the first time I felt you saw me as an individual, recognizing my creativity, and yet I felt sad at the same time, because you didn't know I loved writing rather than visual art, and the origami kit felt too young for me.

I wish you had told me I was beautiful.

I wish you had taken me on father-daughter dates, like my friends' dad did.

I wish you had tried to connect with me on a deep level.

I got my CORE so I could get a hunting license and spend time with you. I wanted to spend time just us two, but J always came with and that felt unfair to me, because I knew when I graduated high school and started working I'd be to busy to hunt but J wouldn't. I knew he'd get lots of alone time with you - and I was right, he did.

Part of being a middle child, I guess.

I've never bemoaned being a middle child; I always felt that you and Mom loved me. But now I've realized that I felt loved by default on account of being your child, not for specifically being me. I wish I had gotten more one-on-one time.

To ask for your attention felt like bothering you. To ask for your attention felt like inconveniencing you, burdening you. You didn't have energy, I know. You were tired, you were working hard for our family, I know. But we were well off. We weren't struggling. I needed my dad. I needed a father who made me feel loved and seen and heard, not a man who made me feel irritating and loud and needy.

I wish you had been less obsessed with budgeting and the mortgage. I wish you had let yourself work less - you could've, and we would've been fine. I wish you had chosen to be in the moment with us more, rather than always working toward the future and coming home bone-tired with nothing left to give.

My knowledge of you now is this:

your eyes lighting up when you see me,

you opening your arms for a hug,

you sending me book suggestions over email,

you looking at me and trying to hide a grin from the rest of the family when we are the only two in on a joke,

you forcing me to watch cheesy hallmark movies when I visit,

you and I fighting over the mouse and keyboard for who gets to blast the next song off the computer,

you asking for my book suggestions,

you saying I alone inherited your good music taste.

I'm so grateful for how we've both grown.

I can't help wishing you'd done so sooner, but I know what you'd say to that - "Same to you, kid!"

You see me now, and that's enough.

When the light starts to fade

and it goes pitch dark.

You’re filled with hate

and you have no way out.

Alone, in this universe

where no one cares

about your existence

and you feel scared.

But don’t forget,

there’s always someone

who will give you light

and lift you from your sorrows.

You don’t have to hide your feelings anymore...

You are a strong person

to have held all the pain,

doing your best to

brighten up someone’s day.

You have put others’ needs

before you,

forgetting that

you deserve love too.

Now it is time

to return the deed

I’ll be your listening ear

when you’re in need.

If you feel insecure,

this will be the last.

No need to back out anymore,

you don’t have to be an eccedentesiast.

Don’t be afraid,

there’s nothing to hide

No one will judge you

you are just fine.

You don’t have to

pretend anymore.

Take down those walls,

and connect with the people

who deeply love you.

To whoever’s reading this,

Go on now, and treat yourself

to a cup of hot cocoa,

and a good book

because you deserve it.

A virtual hug from me to you

Love yourself, because I do too :)

I was nine years old when I murdered my friend, Nessie.

She had died fast, her body thrashing on the ground. I stared, awestruck. The only sadness I’d felt was when it was over. Destructive me.

I was ten years old when I killed Finley. He died the same way as Nessie, his body thrashing on the ground, squirming. It was a really interesting sight. And I've kept it a secret, because I'm pretty sure no one would have liked to hear that I had killed two of my good friends.

Finley and Nessie are buried together. I didn’t have that much space for them, because they were... well, they were really big. I used a shovel to sink them into the ground, and then I prayed for them.

I did the same thing when I was eleven to my other friend, Feefee. She died the same way, and I began getting bored of killing. I went out to bury Feefee that day, but then, my dad my stepped outside.

“Athena, will you take out the gar-” he’d started to say, then stopped when he saw me. His eyes grew big.

I was dragging Feefee out onto the lawn. My dad’s eyes grew even larger, if that was even possible, and his eyebrows bended over so much that they crossed. He looked ready to choke, and I couldn’t blame him. Dragging something takes a lot of effort.

“What is that your carrying?” He asked, his eyes now bulging out of his head. He closed his eyes. “Oh God, tell me I’m dreaming, tell me this isn’t real.”

He told me I had a lot to explain. And I did, later. I told him about Nessie, Finley, and Feefee.

Nessie, Finley, and Feefee.

In my life, I’ve murdered three.

Fish.

_____________________________________________________________________

Title: Murdering three

Genre: Children’s books maybe

Age range: 8-11

Word count: 258 words.

Author name: Elie (just first name for now :) )

Why it is a good fit: I'm not sure if it's a good fit based on what you're looking for, but I just thought this would be a fun contest to enter!

The hook: That the three that the Athena’d killed were fish... instead of humans.

Target audience: Most likely children, I think?

Platform: N/A

Education: Middle School

Hometown: Somewhere in New Jersey

Age: (I originally put my age here, but I think I probably shouldn’t. Anyways, I’m in Middle School- some people call it intermediate school, but they’re basically the same thing to me)