Salem Witch Trials

I’m struggling. I’m losing. I’m dying. My friends have turned against me. People I’ve known all my life testified against me, telling lies, so many lies. They say they’ve seen me drink blood, fly away, shape-shift, and even dine with the Devil himself. I grew up with these people. How can they do this to me? When I’m brought forth they rise up and curse me or worse, shrink away in disgust. I feel empty and alone. No one is there to help me. When the court is done presenting evidence, it comes. “Are you guilty?” a deep voice booms out. How can I lie? The truth is the way to salvation, says the Lord. I would rather die than lose my soul. I reply with all the strength I have, “No!”

They drag me away. I’m locked away in a small cramped cell. The filth chokes me. The other girls look pitifully at me. They know. They know the court said I was guilty. I cry. I cry for them. I cry for me. Worst of all, I cry for the girls that will come after me. More innocent lives lost to this abomination to humanity. Tomorrow I will hang.

I’m awoken brutally with a yank on my hair. I’m thrown onto a cart and hauled into the square. I’m shoved down into the grit and rocks. My head slams into a rock, but before I can recover I’m dragged up. Shackles that are far too tight are squeezed onto my wrists. I walk, head held high, to the rope. I look around at the townsfolk who I once called friends. They damned me, but I harbor no hatred. My suffering is at an end.

I walk up to the noose. I shove away the hangman and wiggle my head into the noose. The crowd gasps as I scream, “You all have condemned me to a death for a crime I am not guilty of. You are the guilty and I am the accused. You will pay for this. Not by your death but with your soul. May this crime eat away at it until you grovel at the feet of the Lord for forgiveness. I will not be forgotten. Your children will hate you for what you have done. You will pay when you go before God. You will pay!”

The platform drops from beneath me. I drop too. My neck snaps and I am dead. My words, however, will live on forever. No one will ever forget the Salem Witch Trials. I was but one of the many who died. So many innocent lives snuffed out in vain. The Trials will always be in our history books. The crime was of the people, not of those accused.

Sugar Hill

Beep . . . Beep . . . Beep . . . My mind groggily pulls out of my wonderful maze of dreams. What on Earth is that? Why won't it just shut up! I roll over to drift back into blissful slumber, but then everything comes rushing back to me like a flash flood. I wake up in an instant, smack the alarm clock, and shoot to my feet. "No, I'm late!" I screech as I tear the blanket from my bed. I burst through the door and dash across the dewy grass, clutching my blanket for dear life. The cold wet blades attack my bare feet as I squash them. It's chilly for a summer morning; the wind seems arctic after hours in my cozy bed. The icy breeze seeps into my body, forcing my skin to erupt with little goose bumps. I scamper down to the pond and watch the carp eat the grass near the edge of the pond bank. Their giant scaly backs protrude from the water in the pale morning light. They look like mini Nessies. I laugh to myself. This is the only time I get to see them today. They hide from the sun because it will dry out their backs. I warily avoid the nasty brier patch on the way to my favorite cedar tree. I flop down on my blanket as the first rays of light explode through the trees on the opposite bank. I feel like I'm walking up over a hill to see the light of heaven purge my body. The crickets complete their night of singing while the birds start theirs. Slowly the sun creeps over the tips of the trees and beats down on the calm water below. The surface of the water catches fire with the purest light of the day. Sadly, it's over. The most beautiful scene I've ever witnessed burns into my memory: the sunrise.

Like every kid with a great childhood, I believe where I was born is the most magical place in the world. The sunrise is magical there, but some events are even better when the sun goes down. I wake to the sound of my dad's voice. I'm too exhausted for this, but before I can get back into a deep sleep he's at it again. "Mary, if you don't get up now they'll all be gone!" my dad yells. I groan reluctantly as I sit up and get dressed. The full moon peeks through the window like a child cautiously seeing if everything's all right. I dash into the living room and grab the huge plastic jar and a flashlight. I breeze out the door towards the cornfield, my shoes slapping against the cold hard ground. I set the jar down a few feet from the first corn stalk. The dazzling moon lights my path as I sneak into the rows of corn. Their blades envelop me like welcoming arms. I feel like they've been waiting an eternity for me to come to them. I hear it then, close to my right. I creep up, flashlight in hand, ready to use like a deadly weapon. I'm a predator stalking my next victim. I hear it again, my unsuspecting prey. I calm my beating heart. Easy now girl, you've got all night to catch 'em, I console myself as I smile. I'm near enough now. The flashlight blares on with enough light to blind anything I care to point it at. My other hand snatches out at my prey, fast as lightning. I walk back to the jar, slowly unclench my hand to hear a soft plop. I close the lid and hold it up to the moon, my first catch of the night. But tomorrow will be worse, for it. I'll take it fishing because fish love grasshoppers caught at midnight.

While catching grasshoppers at my dad's is a really good way to get into my primitive instincts, other things happen at midnight, magical things. "Are you ready?" my dad asks. "Yeah, let's go!" I squeak, as I hop from foot to foot. We rush out the door and get into the old green monster. As we pull out of the driveway, I notice the moon's only a sliver, and it's a clear bright night. Perfect, I praise the sky. The truck roars to a halt in the heart of the cattle field. I jump out and lay the blanket down in the truck bed. I can hear the cows munching on the hay as they come check us out. I lay down to notice we're surrounded. Crickets, hundreds of them, call to each other as if to find a lost friend or lover. To me it’s one of those sounds that, without it, the night turns from a comforting friend into a creepy stranger. I look up to the sky. I can see the constellations shining in all their glory. If I was up there, I'd definitely call this heaven, I think as I gaze dreamily up into the night sky. Then the first one appears, so fast that if I'd have blinked I would have missed it. Another one follows. I glimpse a trail of fire behind them when they shoot through the sky. I stare at the heavens all night, not wanting to miss a single one. Then the last shooting star fills the night sky as I drift off into sleep. I wish...

I grew up here on Sugar Hill. It's the most magical place I know. I'm almost grown but the magic never left me. My most treasured memories are of that place even though I'm making new ones now. No place will ever best Sugar Hill, where sweet little girls are grown.

Volcano

Volcanoes spend 99% of their time dormant.
Waiting, Watching.
Biding their time while building up power.
As everyone forgets me, I erupt.
Raw power flows from me.
Changing everything around me.
Sadly I use all my strength.
Alas it is time for me to rest again.
Waiting, watching.

A Fate Worse Than Death

Lightning flashes in the room and for a split second she sees him… She curls tighter into the side of the desk. Her hair is matted to her forehead and sweat beads down her face. Her eyes dart around the room, searching. She knows he must hear her heart beating a hole in her chest. Shadows play tricks with her mind as she sits, still as her body will allow. The house shakes as the wind and rain beat against it. Every creak of the old house makes her heart stop. A flash of silvery moonlight reflects off the point of a knife protruding from the darkness. The man steps into the light with it, like a shadow risen from the grave. Back into shadow he glides. The door slams as he leaves. She slowly lets out the breath that seemed an eternity to hold. She is shaking from head to toe. Even as she fights to regain control of her ragged breath she knows he’s there, watching outside, waiting for her to make her mistake. She begins to think of her final plan of escape. Then the old dusty floorboards creak and out jumps the man. She bolts for the door without thought. She feels nothing as her instincts take over. Time seems to come to a stop as she flees, her heart beast so slow. As the seconds go by, she wonders why he hasn’t caught her yet. Her body finally gives out and she slows to a stop. Sweat mixes with the rain running down her body. She doubles over, heaving to catch her breath. As she calms down she looks around for the first time. Slowly she remembers. The memory of this place comes flooding back. Years ago she called this home. Now he no longer has her and she’s free. Free to live.

Cutting Away Your Life

“Then I placed the blade next to the skin on my palm. A tingle arced across my scalp. The blood tipped up at me and my body spiraled away.” This, sadly, is what Callie does to herself. She cuts. “Never too deep, never enough to die. But enough to feel the pain. Enough to scream inside.” Cut is the story of Callie after people discover her secret. Patricia McCormick wrote this book eight years ago.
Unfortunately cutting is not a fictional problem. Thousands of people cut themselves in America. Most people think that it’s disgusting and cutters are crazy. They aren’t. At least just cutting doesn’t make them crazy. To them it’s their only release, the only way to express their pain, to feel something, anything. Cutters aren’t crazy but maybe if more people cared, or took them seriously, just long enough to hear their voice, they might understand how much pain they’re in. They can be helped, and we can help them.