Angelic Possession Entry

I can remember everything that happened that day; everything was so normal. I remember waking up and lazing in bed for a few minutes, enjoying the warm slice of sunshine that peeked between my curtains. I remember stumbling about my room, my eyes slumberous and my mouth yawning. I took a shower, brushed my hair. Made some coffee. I didn’t have to go to work until ten, so I put on a jacket and took a walk down to the nearby cafe to get breakfast.

I remember the March morning air being so sharp and crisp that I immediately became more aware, and my remaining sleepiness from earlier slipped away. I remember looking around my neighborhood, admiring the signs of spring and the evidence of winter coexisting; small, icy piles of snow crested the sidewalk, but I saw a few trees blooming in my neighbors’ yards.

The cafe was roughly a block and a half from my apartment, and as I neared it, I noticed that Ms. M’s blue bike was lying up against the brick side of the establishment. I rolled my eyes. I liked Ms. M well enough, but she was just so political. Everytime I bumped into her, I had to hear all about “Donald Trump this” and “Donald Trump that” and “we need universal healthcare” and “if we had a Democrat for president, none of this would be happening!” I’m not a very political person. I vote, of course, but I don’t care for politics when it’s not the season. Most of the time, politics are just dull and uninteresting to me.

I passed Ms. M’s bike (which had a shiny new DNC sticker stuck to the basket of the bike), took a deep breath, and entered the cafe. The cafe was cozy, with warm red brick walls, a dark wood countertop at the register, and circular tables and plush benches that dotted the floor. The walls were covered in the artwork of local painters and photographers, and twinkling string lights ran across the ceiling. The buzzing sound of chit-chat drew me to realize that there were more patrons in the cafe than normal, and they were all huddled around a table near the front counter. Most of them were neighbors, and from their backs I guessed they were Debby Berkshire, Good Ol’ Joe Baker, Hector Santana, and Beverley Rex and her wife, Crystal.

As I stepped forward, a head sprouted out of the middle of the huddle. It was Ms. M. “Pascal! I was on Twitter this morning,” oh no, “and I was looking at Donald’s latest tweet,” great, “and THIS is what I saw!”

I sighed and walked over to the table. Ms. M held her cellphone out toward me, and, with much resignation, I looked at the screen.

“What do you think?!” Ms. M cried.

“Hold on, I haven’t even read it yet,” I said. I stared down at the blue screen, which displayed the latest tweet from Donald Trump.

Just want to apologize for calling NY Times “failing.” #apologize #sorry #POTUS

“Weird isn’t it?” Ms. M pulled her phone back towards herself, and stared at the screen with one eyebrow cocked. “And there’s more.”

Crystal turned toward me, her own phone in hand. “Check it out, Pascal.”

I took Crystal’s phone and began to scroll through Donald Trump’s Twitter feed.

Most of the tweets were simple, pleasant messages:

Good morning! I hope everyone has a great day! #goodmorning #sunshine

But then the tweets became…abnormal. Their content wasn’t strange, but coming from Donald Trump, they certainly were…different.

Took a hike this morning. America has such beautiful trees! The most beautiful trees I’ve ever seen! Thankful for National Parks protecting America’s beautiful landscapes. #onewiththetrees #letsbuildatreehouse #national parks #grateful

I wasn’t incredibly familiar with Donald Trump’s Twitter account, but I was aware that his tweets were often controversial. These new tweets were different from the samples that Ms. M usually shoved into my face whenever I ran into her. I scrolled through the next few tweets, and came across a few more abnormal ones.

2017 was one of the hottest years on record. Sad. America – and Republicans like myself – can do more to slow global warming. Recycle! #climatechange #globalwarming #sorryididntbelievescientists #lol #recycle

“Hmm. I thought Trump didn’t believe in climate change,” I said. I could have been wrong, but then again, I wasn’t familiar with the political beliefs of most politicians, and only had a vague idea of what Donald Trump’s opinions were.

“He doesn’t believe in climate change!” gasped Ms. M, “something’s up! Keep reading, Pascal! It goes from weird to weirder!”

I continued reading. The tweets were strange – some of them were unusual because they contained polite, pleasant language, but others were completely off the wall. Even with my limited knowledge of Trump, I knew he sounded like a completely different person.

My new years resolution? Better represent not just the GOP but the American people regardless of political party. Whats yours? #newyearnewme #new year vibes #GOP

And their weirdness kept progressing…

Feminists? In MY country?! Love it #womensrightsarehumanrights #5050 #feminism #feminist

I was about to announce my perplexity about the tweets, when Ms. M let out a squeak. “He’s live tweeting! He’s live tweeting!”

Suddenly, Crystal ripped the phone from my hand and all heads turned to their phones. “What did he say?” I cried; I tried leaning over the table to catch what was on Ms. M’s phone.

“‘Hey, I’ve been doing some thinking.’ That’s the first one, but there’s more!” Ms. M slid her phone onto the middle of the table so we could both read the tweets.

Politics suck.

There’s so much hate #why can’t we love each other

I honestly want to take a warm bath rn, but like, I don’t know I went thru this thing last night. #anxietyattack #existentialcrisis #omg

I know i said my resolution was to be a better leader but like…

… I’m tired and i just want everyone to love each other but sometimes I don’t even feel like I can love

“Oh my god,” said Debby Berkshire. “It’s getting so juicy.”

I’m sorry to all my fans, but I need to take a break #apology #fans

I need to start all over. #newstart #tired #sorry

I’m getting a new job somewhere else (location won’t be disclosed, I need to be alone). I’ll be back in June #break #president #barista

I want to bring happiness to many people with my new job. I just need time to think

“Is that all?” asked Hector Santana after reading the last tweet. It seemed that the live tweeting had come to an end.

“Yes, looks like that’s it.” replied Ms. M. She sat back into her seat with a dazed look in her eyes. “What does it all mean?” Her brow was crinkled with confusion. “What does it mean?”

I didn’t know what the rest of the of the group was thinking, but I could tell that Ms. M was immensely confused. We leaned over the phones in silence, taking in all the tweets.

From behind us, at the counter, someone cleared their throat. “Excuse me?”

Upon hearing the voice, my eyes bulged – I looked again at Ms. M, whose jaw was slack. There’s no way. Is it…? I stared at Ms. M, the intensified confusion on her face reflecting my own. I slowly turned toward the counter, scanning for who had spoken, only to find my absurd prediction proven. It was him. It was Donald Trump, behind the counter.

He looked different, younger and almost angelic. His skin was so clear it was almost glowing, and his eyes were sparkling. He was wearing a white apron and one of his hands was resting on the register. “Hello? Would you guys like anything to drink or eat today?” he asked.

Ms. M let out a stifled cry, Hector Santana made a small choking noise in the back of his throat, and the rest of us just stared. Donald Trump continued talking.

“Our special today is minestrone, but we also have French onion soup, and both come with a side salad.”

I wanted to say something, but I didn’t know what. Should I order breakfast? Should I ask when he started working at the cafe? Should I mention the tweets? I didn’t know what to do, and even if I had known what to say, I couldn’t have said anything anyways. My mouth, my tongue, my vocal chords wouldn’t work – this must be the new job he tweeted about. I was in shock.

“As for something to drink,” said Donald Trump, “we have plenty of teas and…”

– he gestured to the bags of coffee beans on the counter –

“Covfefe.”

The end.

Cookies

James Mcdevor was far from the nicest student in Mormont High. Some could say he was even the bully, the classic teenager that pulled a wedgie on one of the freshmen every once in a while. But that would be a large understatement to explain the attitude of Juvenile James and his friends.

The young man was demeaning and heartless, never knowing the limit to his actions and frankly, not caring. Most avoided him, afraid of his tall and lengthy figure that shadowed every hallway he walked down. With his group of minions behind him, James was nearly unstoppable.

Well, that was until the day after Valentine’s Day, when the young man stole a plate of Cookies from one of his fat classmates. Amy was her name, a girl considered to be one of the sweetest in the school despite the demeaning comments she received for her weight.

“Stop your complaining Amy” James sneered “you already have enough fat on those bones”

As the poor girl cried, James took two large bites of a sugar cookie and promptly began to shove the rest in his backpack.

“You didn’t-didn’t” Amy stuttered

James opened his smooth to reply with a snarky remark but his voice seemed to lodge in his throat, his heady clouding with something strangely light.

“What was in that cookie?!” James stammered as he stumbled towards a desk to sit down. His hands latched onto his forehead, an unheeding pressure growing at the base of his skull.

“Sugar, eggs-“ Amy began to ramble as James nearly fell sideways.

Her voice became more distant every moment that passed until he could only hear the fear underneath her breath. Do I scare her this much? James could not help but wonder. He tried to shake the feeling of guilt away, but with his head pounding and heart beating alarmingly fast, James could not help his brain that turned every which way.

“I-I have to go” He managed to say, grabbing his backpack and stumbling towards the doorway.

Every step after was hesitant as if James had a sudden impulse to turn back and return Amy’s cookies. He tried to wash away the feeling that grew every moment that passed but no matter how much he pushed the guilt away, it kept returning, demanding to be felt.

James Managed to find the bathroom and throw himself towards the sink before his strange impulses took over. Lapsing the water across his sweaty face, the young man ran his hands through his hair and stared at his reflection.

He knew something was strange the moment his eyes stared back at someone nearly unrecognizable. Sure he was still tall and lengthy, but his face no longer held that heir of coldness everyone felt when he walked by.

“You okay man?” A voice rose from the silence.

James turned around, wild eyes landing on a shorter boy. “Fine. What about you?” He blurted before second thoughts could stop him.

“I’m good yeah-“ he paused as recognition washed across his features “you’re James? Right?”

James only nodded, thoughts heavy with much more than the vexing boy behind him.

“Oh man-“ He began

“Jeremy” James cut in, jaw clenching “please leave”

Jeremy could not explain his shock and frankly, James could not either. How did he know his name?. Yet the shorter boy did not stick around to ask the moment James passed an intimidating glare in his direction.

When at last the lengthy boy was left in silence, he collapsed onto the bathroom floor, a strange pain erupting between each shoulder blade. It came to grow and grow until James nearly cried out from the sharpened agony. The feeling was unexplainable as if someone was stabbing his back from the inside out.

He twisted his arm and felt below the base of his neck, hands grasping something silken and feathered.

“What the-“

Before James could curse another pain shot through his back and sent him writhing on the ground once again. He was unsure of how long the laid their, twisting uncontrollably before managing to pull himself towards the bathroom sink.

He was not shocked to see his sickly pale skin and tired eyes, only left breathless from the two feathered wings attached to his back.

———————————————————————————————

Amy was disappointed that James stole her cookies earlier that day. She had forgotten lunch and hoped to share some with her friend Nancy on their short break. But of course, that stupid and juvenile boy always managed to find a way to ruin her day.

She frankly was tired walking home now, not only because she had forgotten lunch but because the entire day had been a mix of snarky comments and insults. Thankfully James had disappeared for the remainder of her classes, saving her some time to actually enjoy herself. Yet she could only suspect her happiness would last so long.

She did wonder if the demeaning boy was okay after that abrupt scene in AP English. Something strange occurred when she made the cookies the night before but she doubted or rather hoped the effects would not be detrimental. Then again she would enjoy watching James cry every once in a while.

Amy’s thoughts continued to linger on these strange hopes and maybe one-day realities as she continued down the narrow sidewalk. Passing houses block by block, she at last arrived at her own, somewhat relieved that her day was done. But before she could step towards the walkway cutting through her yard, she paused.

Sitting on the steps near her door was no other than James Mcdevor, tall and strange as ever. She would not have been left so breathless if two white wings, long and feathered loomed over each of his shoulders.

Amy even tried to rub her eyes, wondering and hoping this was some figment of her imagination. But after several strange shakes of her head and fluttering of each eye, the sweet girl was left with the same picture. She thought about turning around and running the opposite direction, entirely puzzled of what she had witnessed. But the closer she looked, the more she came to see his face held no intention of hurt. He looked rather lost and desperate for someone or something.

“James?” Her voice barely a whisper as she took a few small steps forward.

He smiled unlike any other she had seen his lips draw before “Amy. How are you?”

Her eyebrows raised, steps faltering “you have wings”

His head arched backward “Oh yeah…those”

“How…” Her eyes grew wide “How is this even-“

He sighed “It’s a long story”

“Well…why are you here?”

He unzipped his backpack, pulling out a plastic container of sugar cookies.

“I brought back your cookies”

 

 

Copper

Valued at only 1 cent.

It’s reminiscent of warm autumn days, which lay in its base.

Its glittering is the deflector of destruction and the sign of a warrior.

Its sounds can be a deep bellow that rattles our ribs,

or the chimes of a song bird that itches our ears.

It tells the fables to old men, which are passed on again and again.

It can be beaten and hidden,

but regardless it impresses.

It’s redolent of determination, accompanied with rich hints of earth.

All valued at 1 cent.

Blue Color Poem

Some think of it as sad

Some it makes glad

And yet almost anywhere you gaze

Be it in the distance or somewhere through the sun’s rays

It’s there almost watching in a sense

Yet still friendly and calming

Often people think of the fun involved

Others think of the gloom

Some just think of the ocean

Red

Bright, yet dark

Powerful, yet deadly

It’s not only a sight, but a feeling

The emotion of love, but also anger

Some of us push it away, while others constantly need it

But no matter how much we try to escape it

It’s everywhere

It’s in hearts of children

And the roses given to us by a lover

It’s in the bully and the bullied

It’s in the son, and the father who beats his son

But it’s also in the very substance that keeps our heart beating

You see?

It keeps us alive;

We need it.

 

Color Poem

The Creative Writing Club has decided to integrate poetry to our writing! This month’s prompt is about describing a color to a blind person without directly stating what the color is. This can be done through feelings, objects, people, etc. The poem doesn’t need to rhyme and has a minimum of 4 lines. Be sure to check out what BUHS has to offer!

Angelic Possession

This month’s prompt is about a person who is suffering from angelic possession. We’ve all heard about demonic possession, now you must write about being possessed by an angel! Perhaps from the point of view from someone who has always been rather mean and is suddenly downright lovely or someone who knows they’re being possessed. The word minimum is 250 words. The possibilities are endless! Be sure to check out what BUHS has to offer!

Apartment’s Past Entry By Josie Dillard

I always hated moving. Mostly because I’m something of a hoarder, and that makes it difficult to pack everything up and I usually get forced to throw some stuff away. Parents just don’t understand that the scented pencils in my desk drawer have sentimental value.

Still, I’ve moved probably a million times over the last seventeen years; it doesn’t get any easier.

A few years back, I got this apartment by myself for the first time. Usually I’d lived with friends or my parents, and the thought of living on my own was both daunting and exciting.

I pulled up in an Uber right in front of the towering apartment complex. As I stepped out, I bumped my head on the ceiling of the tiny sedan and searched my purse for the note I’d made telling me what the apartment number was. It was pretty silly that I made a note, because I had already committed to memory the number and floor, but I guess when I’m put on the spot I need to have a reference or I’ll forget. Thankfully I made it, because my memory seemed like it was wiped right when I got out of the car.

“Floor 10 number 10-G,” I read quietly to myself, then nodded as I made my way to the front doors.

Before I knew it I was standing in front of the bold “10-G” engraved in the metal plate bolted to the rugged-looking door. I dug around in my bag for the small key and then opened the door slowly, holding my breath.

I let out my breath in relief as I saw the completely normal interior. It was pre-furnished with some crummy outdated couches and stuff, but I didn’t mind that. I dropped off my suitcase in the bedroom and started to explore the tiny place I would soon call home.

After my investigation was complete, I grabbed the remote and sat on the couch. There was a little CRT television sitting on a table in front of me, so I clicked it on and watched cable for a bit.

The mini-fridge had nothing in it, so I decided to have the granola bar I’d stashed in my purse for dinner.

Nothing really happened for around two weeks, but then things got spooky.

Believe me, I know it’s cliché, but the creepiness started around Halloween. A few days before the holiday I started hearing chatter at night. I say chatter but it was raucous laughter and hollering. But it only happened late at night. I would’ve sort of expected chanting like in Rosemary’s Baby, or I would’ve wanted to hear chanting more than maniacal laughing because if there was chanting I would know not to talk to any neighbors so I didn’t end up like Rosemary. Enough about that though, I don’t want to spoil the film for you.

The laughing sometimes turned into what I thought was drunken singing of sea shanties. The weird thing was that sometimes the voices got really close to me, almost like the owners of the voices were standing next to my bed or hiding in my closet. Even when they woke me up in the night because they were so loud and seemed so close, I kept my eyes sealed shut because I didn’t want to see if they were actually in my room. Ignorance is bliss, I thought.

One night, I think it was Halloween night, I couldn’t stand it any longer. Before I went to bed I knocked on the neighbors’ doors in 10-E and 10-I and asked them about the sounds I was hearing. They looked at me like I was nuts. I asked them to come by at 1:00 A.M., that I’d leave the door unlocked, but of course they refused probably because they thought I would murder them or something.

I pulled a knife from the block in the kitchen and I set it under my pillow. It would’ve been dangerous but I knew that I wouldn’t sleep at all so I couldn’t accidentally stab my hand.

I could have won an Oscar for my fake sleeping; I let my mouth hang open and everything. Before too long the voices started, pretty quiet at first, but then got louder and louder until I was sure they were standing right next to me. I opened my eyes and sprung up with the knife clutched in my hand. There was nothing in front of me.

A light shone from above me, though. A dim blue light. I brought my eyes upward, trembling in fear. A figure was swirling around, and as I stared at it I realized it was human and wore an eyepatch. “Ghost pirate,” I mumbled, “huh.”

The Ghost Pirate didn’t even seem to realize I was awake and armed, because he just continued to sing “Drunken Sailor”. Soon, another bluish figure (this one fatter, with a peg leg) floated through the wall and joined the eye-patched one in song. I wasn’t even scared anymore, probably because I accepted that I was going to die and there was nothing I could do about it.

Finally, the concert ended and the two pirates drifted out of my apartment via the East wall. I set the knife down on the nightstand, completely in shock over what I’d just witnessed. I felt faint, but when I tried I couldn’t sleep.

In the morning I called my parents and told them everything, but they thought I was mad of course. They thought I was just having anxiety or sleep paralysis or whatever, but I know it was real. I moved out of my apartment that day. I was able to contact a previous renter, and I found out that they’d experienced the same thing at Halloween. I researched pirates being near the coast of New York and discovered that three pirates had escaped custody in the mid-1700s while being sent from the West Indies to Britain, and had ended up on the East Coast of the United States. I don’t know why they chose my apartment, or why there were only two of them.

The Gingerbread House

Jeremy knew his new apartment was strange. The very moment he arrived from San Francisco with only a few boxes and a mattress tied to the top of his Prius, a haggard old lady wobbled over to offer him a batch full of fresh gingerbread cookies.

“You need more meat on your bones” She smiled, scraggly hands coming to pinch his flushed cheeks.

Jeremy politely accepted her offer despite his suspicions, deciding to discreetly throw the treats into a nearby trash bin as she disappeared into her house. To much of his dismay the sweet smell of gingerbread never quite left his senses. Even after taking a long shower and spraying Febreeze across the entirety of his apartment, the scent remained. Jeremy went to bed with a heavy head that night, twisting and turning through retched nightmares of witches cooking fat children in ovens. When at last he awoke in a cold sweat and decided to take a feverant early morning run, the old woman sat watching him from across the street. Jeremy waved only to be greeted with a cold and almost distant stare of hunger.

Street after street he ran, shaking off the discomfort scathing across his skin as he passed desolate houses and shops. Too much of his relief, another woman soon came into sight stopping to take several heavy breaths before jogging in the direction of Jeremy. Soon they were running side by side, exchanging quick and breathless conversation.

By the end, the woman by the name of April offered Jeremy a cup of coffee which he happily accepted, relieved to finally conversate with someone seemingly normal. Not long after he sat contently in a small chair, telling his oncoming friend of his recent move from San Fransisco.

“Where do you live now?” She asked, spoon circling lazily around her mug of hot tea.

“Some apartment on Line Street” He smiled  “A weird place I have to say.”

Her eyes widened at his words “Apartment 2b?”

“Yeah. A really strange woman lives across from me”

“You have to leave” Her eyes suddenly grew stern

“What?” He laughed

“Apartment 2b is a dangerous place” She took a small sip of her tea “Move somewhere else”

“What?” Jeremy nearly stammered “Why?”

“I-” She heaved an uncomfortable sigh “a couple years ago two kids were found dead in the ovens of that apartment. Some say…they-they were cooked alive”

Jeremy’s stomach churned, hands twisting together anxiously “Cooked alive?”

“Well according to the kid’s parents that were informed of their autopsy-” She scratched her neck uneasily “Yes, they were cooked alive”

Jeremy felt sick. How was he not heard of this?  “So this is the same apartment?”

“Well…” She paused “Not exactly. The apartment was condemned before being bulldozed…but many say it’s still standing”

He took a shuddering breath “What about the killer?”

“Gone. Never found, some think it was the crazy old lady”

“The one across the street?”

“Who else could it be?” She shrugged “Some say she’s even a witch”

Jeremy’s appetite had diminished by the time their conversation had ended. With a small and grateful smile, he thanked April for coffee before reluctantly making his way back to apartment 2b. All the while questions of anxiety and curiosity swarmed his head. How could an old lady cook children? Is there a reason his apartment smelled like gingerbread? Was this all a lie?  

In the midst of this confusion, he failed to notice that the old woman across the street had disappeared from her rocking chair to leave only scraggily black cats in her place. At last, he arrived at the base of his apartment door, entirely unsure of whether his blistering headache was only his false imagination. With unheaded frustration, he twisted the doorknob and pulled back only to have the entire half of the front door rip off.

Jeremy stared at his hands, momentarily puzzled by the giant chunk of what he believed to be wood. But the door was to light to be wood and smelled almost sweetly. The moments after passed in uncomfortable silence before realization smacked Jeremy forcefully in the face. In disgust, he dragged his tongue across the board to be met with the only the taste of gingerbread. Something was terribly wrong.

This was no apartment at all, This was a gingerbread house. And he was the witches next meal. As if on cue a chilling laugh rang from the window, the sweet smell of gingerbread dancing around his nostrils in almost a teasing manner.

Jeremy” She sang “I have more gingerbread cookies”

As if instinctive Jeremy turned from the gingerbread door and beelined for the car, ripping the keys from his pocket fervently. The witches voice sounded strangely softer and younger than he remembered, almost driving him to run back to the false apartment. But with a heavy breath, Jeremy managed to silence his lucid thoughts and slam the side door of his car shut, clumsily smashing his fist against the ignition.

The Prius lit to life before he forcefully pressed his foot on the accelerator and jolted forward, leaving skidded tire marks across the driveway as he attempted to distance himself from the apartment. Even when he swerved away from Line street, incredibly reckless and feverant, the laughing never seemed to stop. Soon enough his hands began to shake uncontrollably, causing him to let go of the steering wheel and sending the small car straight into a tree.

Jeremy spent the next minute trying to catch his breath and push away the marshmallow-like airbag that somehow managed to wrap around his head. When at last he emerged breathless to be met with the shockingly snide face of April he could not help but be surprised.

“April?” he croaked

“Life lesson Jeremy” she smirked “Never have coffee with a witch”