Feed myself to the water
It swallows me and brings me down
Eternal grace is ahead
When my lips part
Flowing in like flames of the dead
Cold and harsh and unforgiving
Water runs thicker than gore through my bodyBreath runs out
Flood takes over
Close my eyes
Progressions of hydraulic action run over my body scratching
It’s always hard to love being the victim
I realize this is it, there’s no turning back
My lips again part to scream this time
Nothing comes out and I—
I choke on my own stupidity
Do I still want this to happen?
I think I’m crying, but
I’ve forgotten what it feels like
Do you remember to breathe?
I’ve forgotten what it feels like
Salt from my pores integrates with the water
I swallow it in, still gasping to vocalize my pain
And my tongue grinds it down
Burning like an angel’s tears
But there’s no such thing so they must be mine
My arms and legs go numb
I feign becoming limp so as not to use them
Lying face down on the surface
My last connection to life: the sun
It still scorches me reaching out to pull me back
And some believe, I will be closer to it soon
I will watch the sun on parallel and it watches me back
The clouds shun the blaze
And begin to weep in anticipation of my arrival
Soon I will perch upon them…some believe
The lights shut out and my head refuses to hold itself up any longer
I’m no longer sinking, I begin to levitate
This world has been too glorified
Too wonderful for my expectations
They believe I am sent to a god to be judged
And I think, I’m not killing myself, I was going to die anyway
So I am carried up towards a light
There I will be truly executed
For I am not dead until they kill my soul too
And turning off the light, I go into darkness
No light will shine upon me when I am forgotten
And it is all mine
|About the author: Switch is about drowning yourself, obviously. It might not be the happiest thing you've ever read, but i'm proud of it. This is my second poem on Teen Lit and I hope you all enjoy it!
The Hard Life: One Girl's Story
We were young and the drugs were there;
And no one was around to care.
We learned too quick about life and death soon to
It was getting so expensive but we needed some.
I sold my body, you sold your soul;
They both came with a toll.
Now I'm dieing of AIDS, and you're long gone, a bad
How can this be real?
It's midnight, I should be home in bed,
Not wandering the streets half dead.
Life should be dancing, cheerleading and going to the
Not needles, pills, and alcohol.
Surrey, B.C, Canada
Falling Like Rose Petals
Remember friends will always help pick up our dreams if they fall! !
Your dreams are falling like rose petals
Your memories are drifting away.
The rain is falling like rose petals
Swiftly flowing away.
You look at my smile
And all you can do is frown.
I feel so happy and full of life
When all you can feel is down.
Memories are falling like rose petals
In a slow but noticeable way.
You find yourself in a deep depression
When I say live life for today.
Now you're the old you I used to know and love
and it's like you were blessed from above.
Your memory is back and stronger than before
And now you're no longer falling like rose petals any more.
Copyright ©2000 Alex B.
Your lips are stained in purple
Smeared parlously with the floor
Color drips from your fallen frenzy
Hanging tilted near the door
Blending past your drunken grin
Sunburned madness weeps no more
The raven has spoken, lies now
Lies there sprawled upon the floor
Your color is faded softly violet
Ripened as mangled at the core
Trembles ceased in patterns aplenty
Hues splattered in its ugly gore
Mont Belvieu, Texas
Howl for Today
I’m sick of being unheard but always listening,
We all try to be heard, but now there’s only screams on screams,
Cacophony surrounding as superficiality looms over a terrified crowd
I thought they saw what I saw
Thought they recognised the lies, too
Masses of writhing bodies,
Mountains of moulded minds Screaming…
Screaming at whatever they see,
Not noticing the clouds above them, breaking into wads of cash
Held together by rubber bands
Hammering their thoughts until they had none
I stood and watched and cried
Till their screaming stopped,
But they all looked at the sky
And despised me for revealing their unholiness
They hated me because they knew they were strong
They are the majority
So will never be wrong
And they turned back and screamed, just like they always had
Just like they always will
They looked up at a smile that they knew they would like
And tried to be heard again
I started to die
I realised my arrogance – I thought I could save the bodies
I thought they didn’t want to be unheard
I thought too much
Softer voices sang to me
Sweet triads of meditation
They tell me to give up and leave Hell behind
Leave the Serpents to their cuboid minds
Let them diffuse their souls
While invisible horrors squirm beneath
They die screaming and silent
I will die silent and alone
|About the author of Howl for Today
This poem is a metaphor for what I see in today's world. It is inspired by Beat literature (namely Kerouac and Ginsburg)and is an almost response to the poem Howl. It talks about the plight I believe my generation is soon to face.
I saw you walking by
The color faded from my face,
As I saw you walking by.
My body was panic-stricken,
Unable to move.
My eyes were fixated on your long, quick strides.
You never even noticed I was there.
Never saw my face.
I gasped for air the moment you were gone from sight,
Forgetting that I hadn't taken a breath.
Why after all this time did you affect me so?
Why did my pulse race and my mind drift back to memories of you and I?
I am haunted of your face and your glorious smile.
Oh, how I sometimes long for your strong protective arms.
Love is a waste of trust and emotion.
Love is inevitable insecurity.
But the way you used to laugh made it seem so worthwhile.
Beckley, West Virginia
|About the author of I saw you walking by. I am 17 years old and have been writing for as long as I can remember. I plan to attend college and major in Journalism with a concentration in public relations. I hope to minor in technical writing. I wish to sharpen my ablility and become a better writer. College and practice will hopefully fullfill that wish.
Twisting, crying, bleeding, dying
The blood in my viens runs cold
And bleed not the blood of your brothers
|About the author of MindsongI am a 9th grade student in Pennsylvania and love to write. I am in the middle or writing my first novel which I hope to have published someday. I also enjoy animals, basketball, music, and reading. My favorite author is T
amora Pierce and Gareth Nix. I hope you liked my poem, and I hope to be sumbiting a short story next month.
Days come and go
Days come and go
Nothing stays the same
I may be proud
But I'll hang my head in shame
At first I truly loved
But now I truly hate
Everything is fine
'Till a sudden twist of fate
Where I never wanted
Now I always need
Where ever that I followed
Now I seem to lead
Yesterday I'm black
Tomorrow I am white
Today I am both
Here and out of sight
Kamloops, BC, Canada
"No", it hits with a great impact
Surprisingly your conscience is still intact
Now, you bleed anger and derpression
"No" is the weapon which cuts your confession
It is a bomb which has your feelins dispersed
To experience no feeling, is a feeling of the worst
A memorable curse, on your pillow, is where you two meet
"No" bleeds from your heart, like tears on our cheek
To soak your soul with sadness and defeat
Daily routines of the moment in your head, it repeats
Years of hope for the person you've known
Fades in the dust of being alone
"No", the expression of an emotion lies within a poem.
You are ...
You are whatever I need the most.
You are the searching ship that finds me just before I sink.
You are the comforter that rushes in like a mighty wind,
But yet You calm me like a warm, gentle breeze.
My soul cries out to You in times of sorrow,
And You hear and take me in Your everlasting arms.
I am engulfed by Your love and strengthened by the joy You give me.
How I long to be near You, You are my sustainer.
My hope and my peace, are in You.
Without You I am nothing, but with You I have eternity to gain.
You give and You give and when I think I have received
Enough, You give once more, asking only for love in return.
I give to You all the love my finite mind can hold.
It is Yours. All through the day I think of You.
I am only satisfied in Your presence.
Your presence excites me, yet calms me all at once.
The more I try to put into words how I love You,
The more I realize how much I lack.
There is no amount of time nor words to express
My deep, deep love for You, Jesus.
|About the author of You Are... I've only been writing a few years. I wrote this poem on night after reading the book of Psalms. This is the only way I could think of to express my love for Jesus. This is my first work submitted to TeenLit.
light turned down
to twist a flight
of sweet bitter chills
to warm the night
to play the dark
from black to white
as sings the moon
Welcome, North Carolina
|About the author of night'shine: My name is Jeremy. I am currently a junior in high school. This is one of my poems; one of the many i hope to put on teenlit.com. So i hope you enjoy and even if you dont, feel free to give me any critique. And sorry about punctuation within my poems. (it's just not my thing)
I held three flowers tightly in my hand.
Maybe at times too tightly, for their stems
got bent and I cut my hand on the thorns
To lose these flowers (which looked just
right, the flowers for which I searched long and
hard and smelled to make sure they smelled just right,)
would be great loss.
However, beautiful flowers cannot be over done
and my search continued. One day not
too long ago, a flower bloomed that I
had not before seen. It's petals hung
majestically on the other side of a fence
in the midst of thorns. To add this
flower to my humble boquet would
be worth every scratch bump and bruise
I would suffer.
So, I climbed the fence and waded waist
deep in the thorns to the place the flower
grew. With utmost care I plucked the blossom
and held it high and stood in the thorns in
wonder and awe of the petals' radiance.
It sets kindly in my boquet and I grip
it lighter than Ido the rest for its stem is
fragile yet and may not repairn if bent.
This flower was not picked in a vainattempt to say I had it. Nor does it
dominate the beauty of my boquet.
Rathe, it is something, like the others,
that is beautiful and needs to be
|About the author: Benjamin has been writing poetry for 5 years. He explains this poem to be about friendship, and encourages you to leave feedback on the discussion board. If all goes well he will have a book of his poems and photography published within a year.
Snow In Little China
Each fragile snowflake falls,
One finds it's way into my jet-black hair,
The hair you used to twist around your fingers,
So different, as the snowflakes glimmer around us,
Your pale hair from mine, black as the midnight sky,
We are so different, continents apart.
And so I explain to you, in my broken English, Why this cannot be, and I
leave you, standing in the snow.
|About the author of Snow in Little China: This is the first piece of poetry I have submitted anywhere. It is also my personal favorite. I hope you like my description of things coming to an end, and the lamentings of a person long broken by love.
Sitting here in my class,
Thinking of our wonderful past,
But suddenly we came to an end,
Leaving me bawling to my friends,
How can we go in the blink of an eye,
From being us to only I,
How can this happen so fast,
When I thought we would last,
I'm not sure of what to do,
When I'm so use to being with you,
Can my life go on,
When we were together so long,
This is all very new to me,
Being single and free,
Maybe this is all a dream,
At least thats how it seems,
I thought our relationship was strong,
SO where did we go wrong,
What mistakes were made,
That made our love fade,
I thought nothing could tear us apart,
But now I am left with a broken heart.
|I am Kristina and I love writing stories and poetry. I'm also involved in my school's drill team, student council,and Habitat Council.
What is that virus which plagues our society like a demon in a civil world? It is the force and lifeblood of confusion, chaos and anarchy in a society where conformity and purity have blended into an efficiently organized and productive congregation of hopelessly deviant and blindly corrupted people. But this virus is something paradoxical in itself. It has been muted and oppressed for so long that it's sheer existence has been nearly forgotten from tales of lore and old time. But now, in a time of purity and well being, this force which has existed as a theory which only the genious possess and the insane lament comes once again to take it's revenge on a society which, by ignoring and choosing to forget it, has indirectly insulted it. It is this disrespect which has fueled the burning fire powering the civil war dividing society into those who cannot change, and those who choose not to.
|About the author of Change
My name is Vince. I'm a senior, and I've been writing almost constantly for about 6 years now. I write all kinds of literature from poetry to short stories to mini novels, to everything. I find a general direct relation between people who write and people who are musically inclined. I play piano almost 6 hours a day, and I write music as well.
Drowning in the purpose
The pounding quickens as the rush is coming
Fear spreading from my gut to my heart
Turning off my brain and letting my fingers lead
Dialing... don't think...
Pulsing anxiety radiating through the atmosphere
Fierce dry air cutting into my flesh
Ringing... cut off the mind...
Vibrating through the groundless room
Insanity creeps up from the cracks in the floor
Click, the ringing stops... say a greeting...
Click... no hello, no how are you
The subtle buzz of rejection awakens my mind
Sick, physically sick to my head
Free for the insanity to grasp
As the tears flee to the cracks whispering
Take me, I won't resist this time
I am beaten by the game of my own will
Drowning in the purpose that was always there
PoCo, British Columbia, Canada
Journey to Ithaca
The meaning of life is a mysterious and elusive question which has puzzled the societies’ geniuses, as well as the common man. Humans have banded together in order to leave a more impressive mark, and yet they know from the remains of civilizations before us that physical monuments do not last. Throughout history great minds have been telling the world that life is more than possessions you acquire; it is deeds, not possessions that make a lasting impression.
In Anton Chekov’s “The Bet”, the lawyer states that in the beginning that “it is better to live somehow than not at all”. But due to his solitary confinement and intense study of man he comes to realize that his original statement is untrue; life is a charade. The lawyer comes to despise man and his exploits as well as his own mortality. He states that everything man made is a willful deception on the part of society. In an effort to free himself from the tedium of societal life, he breaks the agreement with the banker and leaves five minutes before his “sentence” is up; thereby forfeiting the million dollars he was to receive upon completion of the bet.
The lawyer decides to serve others in this lifetime so he will be rewarded in the infinite life to come.
“The Wall” by Jean-Paul Sartre is another contemplation of life. It follows a group of condemned men coming to terms with their impending deaths. Towards the beginning the men still have hope that their situation may change, but as the dawn grows nearer they seem to comprehend for the first time the fact that they are mortal.
“...if someone had come and told me I could go home quietly, that they would leave me my life whole, it would have left me cold: several hours or several years of waiting is all the same when you have lost the illusion of being eternal.”
When people are faced with death they finally are able to see what their lives have amounted to. Some will be content, but others will mourn their folly and wonder how they could have been so blind. Pablo Ibbieta was granted a second chance to improve on the folly of his own life, but few are granted that gift. Show others who you are by what you choose to do.
The idea that material possessions are least important in the grand scheme of things was utilized in both “Ozymandius” by Percy Bysshe Shelley, and in William Shakespeare’s sixty-fourth sonnet. “Ozymandius” illustrates the fact that your actions, and not your wealth determine your lasting effect on the world. When Ozymandius’ monument was reduced to rubble the scornful words of the sculptor remained behind. The king’s coldness and arrogance were all that was left of his legacy. The simalarly themed sixy-ourth sonnet realtes the Earth’s natural way of erasing man’s physical mark on the earth.
“When I have seen by Time’s fell hand defaced
the rich proud cost of outworn buried age...
Or state itself confounded to decay;
Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate-
That Time will came and take my love away.”
Those that base their self worth and affection on what they have created will be devastated in the end. Ithaca is the carpe diem philosphy of life. One must live in the moment always experiencing and savoring.
“When you start on your way to Ithaca,
then pray that the road is long, full of adventure full of knowledge..
lways keep Ithatca fixed in your mind.
To arrive there is your ultimate goal.
But do not hurry the voyage at all.
It is better to let is last for long years...”
- Constantine Cavafy
|About the author of Journey to Ithaca: The Author is a senior at Midland High School. She is very invovled with local drama, and music. This is her first submission to TeenLit.com. She is hoping to continue on to college in Musical Theatre.
Ichiroo was curious. His parents had brought him to a new place. He could tell it was different. It smelled nothing like his small little farm back in Japan. There were sounds he had never heard before, like something that moved and sounded like a dog growling, but he knew it wasn’t because the sound came and went way too fast. Ichiroo’s mom called this place “San Francisco”. It seemed like such a weird name for a place, just like “California” was. Ichiroo couldn’t wait to go back to his farm to play with his grandparents under the cherry blossom tree.
It was round, like a ball. It smelled tart, nothing like cherry blossoms.
Ichiroo’s mom told him to eat the ball, calling it an “orange”. Hesitantly, he brought the round thing up to his mouth and took a bite. It was squishy, but that wasn’t what caught his attention. He had never tasted anything like it before. He finished slowly, afraid that there would be no more for him later. When he was done, he held up his sticky hands and asked for more. His mother told him that she’ll give one to him the next day. Ichiroo smiled and waited patiently for the next day to come.
A New Friend
He had walked over hesitantly to Ichiroo, who was sitting on the grass in front of his door eating an orange, wishing his parents were there so that he wouldn’t be bored. Shyly, the boy tapped on Ichiroo’s shoulder. Ichiroo turned in the direction of the tap. The boy asked for a piece of Ichiroo’s orange. Ichiroo gave him a piece and they started talking. The boy’s name was Mike. They agreed to come back at the same time tomorrow to play. Ichiroo wasn’t going to be bored anymore.
When his parents came home from work, Ichiroo could tell that they weren’t happy. He touched their faces and felt that they were frowning. He asked them why they weren’t happy. They said that there were bad things happening in the world and people were being killed. Ichiroo couldn’t understand why people would want to kill each other. Ichiroo had heard on the radio that America would not enter the war. He was very glad that there would be no killing here.
Ichiroo was listening to the radio when he heard an announcer interrupt his favorite song. The thing Ichiroo was afraid of happening had just happened. Japan had bombed Pearl Harbor and America was entering the war. Ichiroo didn’t want anyone to be killed. He turned off the radio.
War Brings Sadness
Ichiroo was supposed to go play with Mike. He waited for him, but Mike never came. Ichiroo hoped that Mike was all right. The next day, Ichiroo waited again. Ichiroo wanted to go to Mike’s house to make sure he was all right, but no one could take him. Mike did not come for the next day, or the day after that. When he did come, he told Ichiroo not to wait for him anymore. Mike’s dad did not want him to see Ichiroo anymore. Ichiroo was lonely again.
Rotten eggs, oil, dead fish. These were all that Ichiroo could make out of the horrible stink that hovered over the place he was taken to. He hated the place immediately. He wanted to go back to his small apartment. He didn’t know what to think. He was very confused. He didn’t know why men had come to his apartment in the middle of the night to take him here. His father had said it was because they were afraid that they would do something to get them hurt in the war. Ichiroo thought that they were very silly for thinking that. He had learned a new English word from his father the other day. Serendipity. This was negative serendipity. A bad surprise.
Ichiroo huddled in his cot. Outside, he heard the guards yelling at someone.
“Watch it, you spy! This isn’t the stupid country you call home, you useless dog.”
“Baka na hito! Shineba yokatta desu!”
Ichiroo curled up and put his hands over his ears and tried to think he was in his bed in his small farmhouse in Japan with crickets chirping outside and his grandmother singing a Japanese lullaby.
The bells rung. It was time for dinner in the cafeteria. Ichiroo didn’t want to go. They always ate the same thing — gruel with a small fruit, usually an orange. Gruel made Ichiroo want to throw up. So did oranges.
Ichiroo woke up to the loud laughs of the guards. They sounded like they were drunk. Ichiroo heard the words “nuked” and “Hiroshima”. Ichiroo had heard the word “nuke” before. It seemed to mean “to kill”. Ichiroo also knew that Hiroshima was a big place in Japan. Ichiroo tried his best to keep the two definitions from coming together in his head. He pulled the covers over his head and tried to go back to sleep.
At lunch, Ichiroo heard people crying. He let go of his mother’s hand and stumbled over to where the crying was coming from. He felt the face of someone and felt their tears. Ichiroo started crying too. They asked Ichiroo if he knew people in Nagasaki. Ichiroo had no idea if he did, but kept on crying.
All the guards were screaming and laughing. They kept saying “VJ DAY!”
Ichiroo had no idea what they were saying. They screamed “Cowards!” to every Japanese person they saw. Ichiroo didn’t like his people being insulted this way. He ran to the room that he shared with his parents and shut the door.
The smell of rotten eggs, oil, and dead fish still lingered in Ichiroo’s nose as his mom led him through the gate of the dreaded place that he was brought to three years ago. He wanted nothing more than to go back to his little farm house, where he belonged, with his grandparents and cherry blossoms blooming on the tree in front of his window.
New York, New York
|The author of Changing Views hopes that the story has brought people to a higher awareness of the mindlessness of discrimination in all levels. Most of all, the author hopes that you enjoyed the story :) Have a nice day :)
Laila peered into the screen, needing to block out the thoughts in
her head. It was easier to sting her eyes with the glare of the computer
than to envision the visions within her mind. Ignore them, she told
>A thud against the wall caused her to jerk up in alarm. She swabbed her
eyes, which moistened at the booming sound of screams, with the pads of her
index fingers. Ignore them, she told herself.
>It wasn't that her ears were deaf to the slamming of falling bodies. Even
her eyes were not blind to the images in her mind of the bloody and bruised
woman who was her friend. Laila knew the pain that the woman endured. She
was not oblivious to the battles that went on next door, but she was a
neutral fixture in the war. So, she sat, agonizing and wondering if she
should intervene. How could she intervene? Ignore them, she told herself.
>And then, she asked herself a question for she had the habit of questioning
her own thoughts. Why was she ignoring the problem?
>There is one simple answer: Blood. Blood is a type of loyalty. A type of
love. A type of stupidity. She questioned herself once more. Why was she
being stupid? With that in mind, she arose and headed toward the source of
the noise, no longer willing to pretend to be unaware of the sounds. She
was going next door. She was going to the abuser. She was going to her
brother. Her blood.
>Her fist was tentative as she tapped the front door of her brother's
>A scream filtered through the wooden planks of the door. She recognized
the voice. It was his wife.
>Now determined, Laila rapped much louder…No answer…Another knock…Silence…
>Furious, she banged, stinging her knuckles…An answer.
>Laila was thrown aback by the grim look on her brother's face. With
eyebrows diving into the bridge of his nose and nostrils flaring, his
countenance was a fearsome sight.
>"What? What do you want?" He was impatient.
>"I…uh…juh-just heard some noises, and I wa-was worried" she stuttered.
>"Mind your own business."
>"Is Janna okay?" Laila instantly knew that the blurted inquiry about his
wife was a mistake because his face creased even further, becoming a twisted
ball of anger.
>"Is that your damn business, huh? Nosy brat! Stupid girl! Get the hell
away from here!" Laila jumped as he slammed the door in her face. She had
lost the battle.
>As she entered her home, her face revealed no emotion. She whisked past
her parents in the living room, masking her sadness with a façade of calm
contentment. I can not let my mother see me cry, she thought. Her mother
had already shed too many tears for the sorrows that life had forced upon
her; Laila could not watch her mother shed another tear for Laila's sadness.
>She trotted up the stairs and nearly tripped as she past her bedroom.
After shutting the bathroom door behind her, she stared into the mirror
above the sink and waited. The tears that she had anticipated came as she
had expected they would. Her hands fumbled with the cold, steel handles of
the sink as she turned on the faucets. Turning on the sink was a technique
that she had learned to hide her emotions; the rumbling of the running water
superseded the noise of her cries. Water running at full blast, she
released everything, exploding in front of the mirror. While tears trickled
down her cheeks, awful moans and gasps escaped her lungs. She winced at the
sounds of her sadness, which she could not control. You must control
yourself, she told herself. Why? She questioned herself once again. But
then she soon found the answer: It was the only thing that she could do.
>She took a deep breath as she had done so many times in the past. It was
an intake of breath that always refreshed and revived her. She enwrapped
her hands with clumps of toilet paper and dabbed the tissues at the wet
areas of her face. Good, she thought as she looked at the mirror. It
almost seemed like she hadn't been crying.
>Chest puffed out and head held high, she marched out of the bathroom,
emotions controlled. Emotions contained…until the next explosion.
Ella and Ashley
Crystal blue yes, strawberry blonde hair, pale complexion, freckles
to match her hair, size 2, standing at 5'11" Ashley Cardwell was perfect.
She never talked which gave her a mysterious, edgy appeal. She was the most
popular girl at Wade Geoff High School (WGHS). No one really focused on the
fact she didn't talk. They mostly focused on what she was wearing, whom she
was going out with, and what brand of lipstick she bought. It was Ashley's
senior year and this week she was going out with Jeff Wringer, the school
> All the unpopular girls despised her, of course. "Why doesn't she talk?"
Ella asked everyday. Ella had jet-black hair, cold grayish-blue eyes, a tan
complexion, size 6, and 5'9". She was what everyone called a "Goth". All
black everyday, she sat on the opposite side of the lunchroom as Ashley.
The lunchroom was segregated by popularity. Ella had her table, which she
sat at everyday, full of her fellow "Goths". Four guys and three other
girls sat at her table, Jeff, Nick, Drew, Ryan, Samantha (Sam), Kelsey, and
Gabriel (Gabby). Ashley sat with three cheerleaders, three football
players, and Jeff Wringer. The cheerleaders were Brittany, Stacey, and
Melissa. The football players were Kevin, Jason, and Chris.
> It was a week before the prom. The theme was the Millennium (go figure).
Ella wasn't going no matter what! Every time Ashley was asked she just
smiled and walked away. When Ella saw this she went nuts, "Why does she do
that?" Nick constantly asked Ella to go but she had her heart set on
watching Carrie and Carrie 2 that night. Ashley broke up with Jeff on
Friday. Chris quickly replaced him. Everyone assumed she was going with
him. Ella threw a fit about this too, "Why would she go out with him? He's
not even cute!" Ashley heard her say this and flashed her an evil look,
which Ella returned.
> Ella sat by Ashley in Biology, which Ella hated. Class was about to end
when Ashley slid a note in front of Ella. Ella opened carefully so the
teacher wouldn't see it. Why are you so jealous of me? She read to her self.
Ella grabbed her pencil and wrote down her response then flicked over to
Ashley. She read carefully then read it again and again. Ashley looked at
Ella confused. She opened her mouth but quickly shut it. Ella had tears in
her eyes but she bit her lower lip to stop herself from crying. The bell
rang and Ella stormed out of the classroom. Chris walked up to Ashley and
asked what happened. She handed the note to Chris.
> "I thought she hated you…and me?" He stammered bewildered at what the note
> "So did I." Ashley said, her voice was raspy because she never talked but
still her voice was soft and beautiful. Chris looked at her with an
expression that seemed to say you talked! Ashley stood up waited for Chris
to grab her backpack and they left. The week progressed and Ashley talked
as much as any other teenage girl, which meant after school her phone was
always busy. Ella stopped talking, and rarely showed up at school. If she
did she stayed for biology then left again.
> It was prom night Ashley was going with Chris, and Ella was at home.
Ashley wasn't having a very good time her mind was on Ella and the note.
The night progressed slowly. Ashley was prom queen and Chris the king. As
they took the floor for their spotlight dance the lights flickered on.
Everyone gasped; the principal went nuts thinking it was a prank. Everyone
quieted down when they saw two cops make their way towards the middle of the
> "If I could have everyone's attention," he began, " I regret to inform you
that one of WGHS' students committed suicide about a half an hour ago."
Everyone gasped, a few girls screamed. Ashley ran up to the officer and
clinched his jacket. "Was it Ella? Please don't tell me it was Ella!" she
screamed with tears running down her face. The policeman pushed her away
and brushed off his Jacket. "It was." He said bowing his head.
> "No! No! You have to be lying!" she shouted stumbling backwards. She fell
into Chris' arms crying. Chris' face went white as he whispered, "the
note!" The officer stepped towards him. Ashley looked up at him. She
pushed him away from her.
> "The note? That's what she meant! Oh God! Why didn't I stop her?" she
choked collapsing to the floor. Chris helped her back up. Ashley noticed
he was crying when she looked at him.
> "What note?" the policeman asked them. Ashley walked over to a table and
grabbed her purse. She took a piece of paper out of it and walked back.
> "Read it! Now!" he barked at her. Ashley looked at Chris who had his back
turned so no one could see him. She brought the note to eye level. She
opened her mouth shaking.
> "I asked her 'why are you so jealous of me' and she responded 'what does
it matter? You don't know me. Besides in another six days I'll be
forgotten. Oh yeah, tell my brother, Chris, I love him.' That's it. I
didn't know she was going to kill herself!" she said. The policeman
snatched the note from her. Chris turned around. "Dad, I didn't know." He
said as the policeman turned around.
> "You could've stopped her, Chris. I hope you're happy. I hope you've
reached your goal." He said sternly.
> "What do you mean my goal?" Chris asked puzzled.
> "You always shut her away. No one even knew she was your sister. She
left a note on her bed. It read 'Mom. Dad I love you. Chris now I'm out of
your way. Maybe you can have my room. I always admired you…why?' You
could've told her once you cared," The officer said walking out of the room.
Chris dropped to his knees and started crying.
Make sure your loved ones know you love them.
|About the author of Ella and Ashley
My name is Emilie and I'm 13. I live in Missouri and am in eighth grade. There's really not much to say about me, I just hope you enjoy my story.