by Michelle Z.

The young boy gritted his teeth, thrusting out an arm and grabbing onto the icy cold ledge. The merciless cold bit at any exposed part of his aching body. The boy dug his fingers into the snow, solidifying his grip on the rocky ledge, and he slowly, ever so slowly, grabbed the next ledge.

His feet, bare, scrambled uselessly as he tried to set them on a ledge. He found none, and his feet helplessly dangled in midair, threatening to pull his body down.

The boy looked at his feet, bruised and numb from climbing the snow-capped mountain. He whimpered. Part of him wanted to give up, just let go and let the wind sweep him away. No, he could not give up. The cure. They needed it. She needed it. They awaited him. She…. He promised her… He would bring her the cure, and they would be happy. Just like before the disease struck. He was going to get the cure.

The boy, fueled by determination, summoned all his power and grabbed the next edge. He kept on climbing, regardless of the frost bite or the pain. He no longer felt pain. He was no longer disheartened. All he knew was that she was waiting for him. And he would not disappoint her.

He reached the top. Gasping for breath, he rolled on to the snow covered ledge, nursing his fingers and toes. He made it. He could hardly believe it. But the cure…. He glanced around him, and spotted a single patch of blue grass growing, right in the center of the ledge he was on. He scrambled over, eyes wide and hoping, and snatched up a handful. It was like he was converted to a wild animal. In a second, he was jumping and whooping with joy, despite his wounded limbs, tearing out hundreds of grass by their roots, stuffing it into his pockets, laughing in delight.

He had the cure! He could save all of them! And she, she would be with him together forever! He could be happy again! The plague would be over! All he had to do now was to climb down!

But alas, easier said than done.


By Michelle Z.

Eventually, they tell her.
The pain would fade,
As she lay on the bed, staring wistfully out of the window.        
Eventually, they say,
She would heal, from the wounds of hurt and shock,
But the hopes from their words do nothing.
She misses him, every single day.
The storm of sorrow consuming her grows stronger every moment.
Eventually, they give up and leave her, one by one.
Now, not a single visitor is here.
Not that she notices, anyways. She stares out of the window every day,
Convinced that he will come back for her, eventually.
A year later, he still has not.
Her hopes do not fade.
Two year later, he never came.
He comes in her dreams, but not in reality.
She lies in bed, her life with him she reflected,
He left her to fall victim to disease, while her riches he stole.
Why does she still love him?
She has given up, yet some part of her still believes he will come.
She nearly gone now, at the verge of death,
Yet she still waits. He will definitely come.

Tis But A Scratch

  By Michelle Z.

King Arthur, his head held up and his eyes flashing with intelligence, strode through the forest, slashing down every single branch that got in the way of his brilliance. His trusty and loyal footman, Patsy, was behind him, stumbling on an occasional root and staggering under the weight of their luggage.

“Stay strong, Patsy!” Arthur commanded. “Camelot awaits us! We must journey on in search of knights who will join me!”

“Y-yes, your majesty!” Patsy stuttered.

A few minutes later, the distant sounds of clashing could be heard in the depths of the woods. Continue reading “Tis But A Scratch”

Awards of Stupidity

By Michelle Z.

The man turned the corner, his breath coming in gasps, as the officers charged after him. He forced his legs to run faster, and took a handgun from under his cloak. He glanced back.

The police were a few meters away from him, waving their guns at him, coming closer with every step.

The man ran over his options. (Let’s call him Gerald)

Right. He thought. I can’t keep this up forever. I’m pretty fit, so I might be able to outrun them! Gerald glanced back. The police didn’t seem like stopping, and he was (admittedly) getting tired. Gerald glanced at his handgun, which he clutched in his hand. Continue reading “Awards of Stupidity”