The doctor pulled the stethoscope ear tips out and hung the device around his neck."Mr. Weatherby, all of your tests have come back negative and my examination shows nothing abnormal."Adam knew what was coming next. "I'm not crazy, Doctor.""I'm sorry, but there is no physical reason for why you occasionally lose control of your hands. A psychologist can help...""I don't need therapy. I need answers. They seem to have a life all their own. I can't hold a job. I'm under investigation for assault. I almost killed my neighbor. This can't go on. I'll try anything at this point."After two weeks on a new medication, Adam saw no progress and grew increasingly depressed.He was convinced that despite what the doctors said, it was not a psychological problem. That night, a frustrated and angry Adam sat in a chair and drank bourbon. Drunk and hopeless, he stumbled to the garage and started the table saw, then slowly lowered his wrists toward the screaming blade.Detective Armstrong entered the garage where several uniformed officers stood over the blood-soaked body."So what do we got?" he asked, taking in the blood-splattered scene."This is a weird one, Detective.""How so?""Take a look at the body. He apparently chopped off his hands with the table saw and bled to death."Armstrong knelt down. "And?""And we can't find his hands anywhere."

Everyone loves the first day of school, right? New year, new classes, new friends. It's a day full of potential and hope, before all the dreary depressions of reality show up to ruin all the fun.I like the first day of school for a different reason, though. You see, I have a sort of power. When I look at people, I can...sense a sort of aura around them. A colored outline based on how long that person has to live. Most everyone I meet around my age is surrounded by a solid green hue, which means they have plenty of time left.A fair amount of them have a yellow-orangish tinge to their auras, which tends to mean a car crash or some other tragedy. Anything that takes people "before their time" as they say.The real fun is when the auras venture into the red end of the spectrum, though. Every now and again I'll see someone who's basically a walking stoplight. Those are the ones who get murdered or kill themselves. It's such a rush to see them and know their time is numbered.With that in mind, I always get to class very early so I can scout out my classmates' fates. The first kid who walked in was basically radiating red. I chuckled to myself. Too damn bad, bro. But as people kept walking in, they all had the same intense glow. I finally caught a glimpse of my rose-tinted reflection in the window, but I was too stunned to move. Our professor stepped in and locked the door, his aura a sickening shade of green.

He awoke to the huge, insect like creatures looming over his bed and screamed his lungs out. They hastily left the room and he stayed up all night, shaking and wondering if it had been a dream.The next morning, there was a tap on the door. Gathering his courage, he opened it to see one of them gently place a plate filled with fried breakfast on the floor, then retreat to a safe distance. Bewildered, he accepted the gift. The creatures chittered excitedly.This happened every day for weeks. At first he was worried they were fattening him up, but after a particularly greasy breakfast left him clutching his chest from heartburn, they were replaced with fresh fruit. As well as cooking, they poured hot steamy baths for him and even tucked him in when he went to bed. It was bizarre.One night, he awoke to gunshots and screaming. He raced downstairs to find a decapitated burglar being devoured by the insects. He was sickened, but disposed of the remains as best he could. He knew they had just been protecting him.One morning the creatures wouldn't let him leave his room. He lay down, confused but trusting as they ushered him back into bed. Whatever their motives, they weren't going to hurt him.Hours later a burning pain spread throughout his body. It felt like his stomach was filled with razor wire. The insects chittered as he spasmed and moaned. It was only when he felt a terrible squirming feeling beneath his skin that he realised the insects hadn't been protecting him. They had been protecting their young.

Have you ever spent your school lunch period watching random YouTube videos on the school library computer because all the friends that you would usually sit with are sick or absent, and Kyle said you couldn't sit with him, so you end up watching a 48 minute video about farming and yachts that was so wierdly intresting that after a moth or so decide to write about? I did.

This is the historically accurate and totally 100% true tale of how the americans got the American Cup. The video mentions is really long, so I'm just gonna give you the good parts, with added comedy and satire. Let me set the stage: The year was1851, and the British hated the Americans. This thing called the "Great Exhibition was starting, which was when countries from all around the globe would meet in London and show off their new and futuristic tech. Once such "Futuristic" tech included horses. Exciting times! But the Victorian newspapers were not exciteto td about the new visiting Americans - here's a quote: "Whenever they enter into a competition with European elegance, they make themselves ridiculous." Which is so mean!

In the exibition hall, each country was showing off their new plows, and for three weeks, attendees were laughing at the American's small plows. But, when it came time to test the plows, the Americans had the best and most functional plows. At that point, Victorian newspapers were starting to take back thier insult. And honestly, the other contries were getting intimidated by the American's pride and power.

Everyone, but the English. Theu claimed that they were still better at sports, such as yacht racing. But then, fueled by anger, a group of Americans banded together to create and build an incredibly sick, strong and fast yacht in order to beat the English, and the boat was so fast, that people were starting to ask what the boat's name was, and why it's so fast. The main creator stood up and said: "America. The yacht's name, is America."

Three days later, the Americans took the America to race a bunch of British yachts around the Isle of Wight. Parties were held all across the Isle,as people were super intrested to see how the American's America would hold up. The America starts the race with... a fouled anchor. By the time they get going, they're well behind everyone else, and the spectators all Booed. But, by the time that the rest of the yachts get past the first big party, the America was in the middle of the group! The people who previously booed started cheering.

In the end, a single boat pulled ahead. The boat even stopped before crossing the finish line so the crew could take their hats off to the crowd. This boat, was the America.

~thanks for reading! EC

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Thank You.

It’s 12:07. I’ve been watching a guy call himself “PewDiePie” for about fifteen hours now. Too Long. Way too long. I feel my stomach grumble. It’s been twenty three hours since my last meal. I’m starved. Like, really starved. Another grumble. I Have to get food. I think to myself. But what if they come? They scare me. They only come out at night. Why at night? How cliché is that? I can’t think about what they would do to me if they found me. They will always try to stop me. I can’t live without food… My mind reasons with me. They might not come out today… My mind wants me dead. I need food. Now. I force myself up. My legs feel like lead. One step. Two steps. Three steps. Four steps. They are not here! I shout in my head. They had never let me get past the third step. Today was a big day. But that’s when I noticed the subtle breathing behind me. Quiet, yes, but there. I slowly turn, anticipating the pain that would surely come, but I only see a little girl. She looks up and says something in a cute girly voice. “Mommy wont like you staying up so late…” and with that, she flys across the room, and latches onto my legs, scraping my skin blindly. Pain flairs throughout my body. I feel her fingernails digging into my legs. With all my strength, I pull her off my body, and push her to the ground. She falls, and freezes on the ground. I limp towards the living room, in desperate search for food now. I hear the barking of a dog.

I don’t have a dog. They must have let their dog out today. I look to my right, and see a blinding flash of light, as I feel pain on my right cheek. Immediately, the dog disappears, leaving me practically drowning in my own blood. I have no more hope. I need food. I will die in the next minute without it. I’m on the ground, literally dragging my two damaged legs. I’m ten feet away from the refrigerator. So close, yet so far. Eight feet. Seven. Five. Three. Two. One. I’m at the fridge, clasping the promising handle in victory. I have won again. I have beat them. And with a silent countdown in my head, i open the fridge, only to find the worst thing I could possibly think. It. Was. Empty. Shoot.

The booming steps of man shake me. I realize that they are now aware of the fourth creature in the room. I'm on window next to the TV, and a child points at me. I've been spotted. I spread my clear wings, and fly away - only to land on the TV after four seconds in flight. my body reflects the images portrayed on the screen, concealing me from the people. I'm hidden, once again.

Now five minutes later, I'm awoken by a screech. A child, wielding what seems to be a bendy spatula hurtles herself at me, and her spatula pulls my left wing off. Shooting through the sky, I crash straight into a potrait of a fat lady, and crumble to the ground. I look up to pray to fly jesus, so he can show me the way out. But right at that moment, the giant green frog in the corner of the room zips it's tounge out, and tags me.

And That's How I Met Your Mother

It's brown.

Simple, really.

Nothing else to it.

Holds hundreds of items,

Thick cardboard securly keeping things inside.

Nothing else to it.

Stacked higher and higher,

No limit to how many stacks.

Nothing else to it.

The Americans stood their ground. Undoubtedly, they were attempting to push us Japanese in, creating siege-like wall around the remaining survivors. The tough environment clearly made us all stronger. You could see the grim looks on our faces, desperate to make a last stand effort. Explosions rattled the stands, fear was shown. The past few days have been a mix of hiding, and searching for food-our primal instincts, bursting out. I hadn’t just feared the Americans. Here, bodies were ravaged-decorated with cut, blisters and bruises. No one felt safe here, not in the place that was once Hiroshima.

I am Sakura Hamada. I lived in what was currently one of the seven remaining houses in my city. It was once a beautiful city, but two years ago, in 1942, we were attacked by the Americans. They destroyed our homes and pushed the remaining civilians into the center of hiroshima, which just so happens to be next to my home. My family had been living at the bare minimum for the past twelve years - actually, the entirety of Japan has. In 1930, we had a Great Depression that ended up completely failing the economy. Thousands lost their jobs. My father was one of the unfortunate ones. He too, lost his job, but he also lost his wealth, too. My mother and father had not spoken in weeks-I feared for them. I helped them as much as I can, cleaned, cooked, I even helped the neighbors with common chores, but only to receive little to nothing. We had nothing anymore.

The borders were lessened - the Americans had fallen back a bit. But our dictator, Tojo Hideki had not done anything to keep the Americans back. He had hidden, and he knew that there was little to no hope for Hiroshima. I knew this too-and so does the rest of Japan. We’ve lost the war, but we wouldn’t give up. We suffered for this, worked for this, everything we had ever done-everything I had ever done, has led up to this. If we lost, there will be no future for Japan.

The Americans were gone. Their intentions were not clear, but the cries of joy as we celebrated the victory was pleasing. But we knew it’s not over. No matter what, we would still have economy issues. No matter what, The damage dealt would be near impossible to reverse. No matter what, we couldn’t make up for the family and friends taken in this war. We couldn’t dwell on the past. And that’s was when I heard it. A faint whistling getting closer and closer, louder and louder. I looked up and spied a small silver plane with the words “Enola Gay” written on it with black calligraphy.

It was from America.

~Eric Chen.

(Post-Script)

Truthfully, I’ve been working on the same story concept since fifth grade. Every year, every rendition, I can feel it get better. This current version is the newest one as of April fourth, 2018, and I do believe, that while it only gets half of the story, and leaves out some characters, it is the most detailed and informative rendition yet. In case you haven’t realized yet, Falling Leaves is about a young boy from Hiroshima, Japan during World War Two. This version ends with the Enola Gay (bomber plane) dropping the Little Boy (bomb) on Hiroshima Japan.