A small collection of second-year writing pieces.

1. Steven Saunders
Winter
I always feared the forest. I say this, now after my years hunting and exploring the deep
woods, I hate the unexplained noises, the shifting grey trails, the blood streaks that lead nowhere.
I lay down in my cot in the basement of my parents’ cabin. My leg itched from my last encounter
with an aggressive rose bush. I was alone, my father in his workshop, my mother shopping, both
down the hill at the marketplace. I was confined to my bed, set near the fire to avoid the cold that
had just taken the blacksmith’s boy. He had been screaming about bells when he left this world
for paradise, and no one knew what meant. I continued lying down, not causing any undue harm,
when I started to hear a rustling in the trees behind the house. After my years of tracking, it
sounded like either a wolf, or young doe. I wasn’t sure. I stood up, grabbed the poker I’d been
using to stoke the wood. I would have grabbed my bow, but it was unstrung and unneeded.
I didn’t take a step towards the door when I heard the most beautiful music I’d ever heard
in my life. It brought back memories of nice simple things, warm milk on a cold night; the
cuddling of a sheep before it’s to be sheared; The hopping of the kids on the wood piles. I was in
total awe of the music, that I dropped what I was doing to move to the source. I walked off,
hearing the lyrics in the song.
“Come boy, come boy, To my waiting arms,
You’ll never suffer the nettles sting, the dogs bark, the thunder’s crash,
You’ll be safe and protected from all harm, in my waiting arms,
come boy, come boy, don’t be rash,”
I walked forward, shuffling my way to my new home, my new wife. I was 15, but that
was time for a man to strike out on his own, right? Oh Lord Jesus Christ, my savior, I want to
thank you for this miracle of mine. She would take care of me. I took another step. I would need

2. to pack, wouldn’t I? I should. I turned back to pack my meager belongs. I should impress my
soon-to-be wife. I heard the wedding bells off in the distance. I heard her lovely melody again as
I packed. Her voice was somber and sweet. I couldn’t wait to meet her. Oh, She was somber and
sweet, and she started to sing to me again.
“Come boy, come boy, to my loving arms
I have silver and gold, delights in store,
come boy, come boy, to my loving arms
all you have to do is walk out that door.”
My Beloved was calling to me. I had my bag of clothes, I stung up my bow. I drew a
heart with the ashes on the door and took another plodding steep towards the door. I still could
not see my beloved. I was nearing the doorway ready to meet the women of my dreams. If I did
not meet her soon, my heart would burst like a damn and flood my body with sadness. I flung
open the door, but she was still in the inner woods. She must lay at the heart of that sacred
darkness, unseen by man.
“Come boy, come boy, to my giving arms. I’ll protect you in my glen.
They’ll be a hundred guests, a thousand servants, a million more to tend the land.
you’ll rule a kingdom, Out in the Fens,
Ten thousand horses, and ten thousand men, all wait to serve at the waves of your hand.
Come boy, come boy, to my giving arms.”
I slipped out the door, poker, bag, and keepsake of home. I kept moving. She sounded farther
away than when I expected but her beautiful voice must have been aided by the father above to
connect us. I walked, the snow, falling as ever. I bundled up my skins and kept trudging through
the dim woods. I still heard the weeding bells, calling me to the ceremony. I yearned to hear my

3. beloved a 4th
time. It’s quite rude to be late for one’s wedding. I do wish my dear had given me
more time to pick a nicer outfit for her. I was granted my wish when I heard her voice.
“I’ve shown you my song, now what is yours?”
I started my song, plucking my bow like a one string lute. I thought of the song the bard from a
few towns over had sung and started my verse. My voice was all too human compared to her
majesty.
“Gold is for the mistress - Silver for the maid" -
Copper for the craftsman cunning at his trade!"
"Good! " said the Baron, sitting in his hall,
But Iron - Cold Iron - is master of them all."
So he made rebellion 'gainst the King his liege,
Camped before his citadel and summoned it to siege.
"Nay! " said the cannoneer on the castle wall,
" But Iron - Cold Iron - shall be master of you all!"
Woe for the Baron and his knights so strong,
When the cruel cannon-balls laid 'em all along;
He was taken prisoner, he was cast in thrall,
And Iron - Cold Iron - was master of it all.”
I continued the tale of the misguided baron, who failed his mission, and was spared by his good
king. I wandered in deeper when I finally came upon my missing love. She lay on a bench under
a empty willow, it’s boughs done with weeping. Her however, her hands in her face, covering
her visage of beauty in a mien of tears. “Why do you cry, my love. I am here. Let us depart from
this forest.” I noticed her purple skin, her pale lips, and her piercing blue eyes. She was as lovely
as any woman I’ve ever met.
“Oh, I’m deeply sorry. I’ve played this horrible trick on one so young. You don’t love me,
you love my song. I’m only 140 years old. I’m sorry I caused all this trouble.”
Not Enough

4. We sat in the reading room of the old house. Painted orange, it always
smelled of burnt dust in the warm summers. I’d used it the most, covered in a soft
purple blanket, a pile of book on the table for easy access. No one else used it
except for entertaining or holidays. But the rest of the year it was my corner of the
house. It was sparsely populated, an underused piano, my favorite couch, a glass
table. Two other chairs rounded out the room. But the whole family was here now,
and the room’s smell changed to sweat and cologne. My mother sat with her hands
in her lap. She wrung them constantly. He sat with the quiet confidence of a man
who knew what he was about to do. He was impeccably dressed, normally
eloquent in words. Then he opened his mouth. Dulcet tones that hid shards of
cutting truth. I grew cold, not from the air conditioning, but the simple message
contained in his 10-minute talk. His voice gave a pronouncement like Gabriel from
high, an immaculate chorus of shattering glass. It was the sound of my world
breaking. He cared about us, but that was not enough, was it?

5. Walking While Black
You stand out of your chair, ready to face the cold night. Two layers, a hoody and winter
jacket seal in your body heat. You wear gloves, but no scarf, no face cover. You trudge out of the
warm house; the destination is just a few blocks down the streets.
You pass vibrant store fronts and see a group of people. All white, slurring words,
jostling each other and joking. Acrid smoke fills the air around them. You slip past and shrink
into yourself. Shoulders slumped, you try and give off an aura of ‘leave me alone’. You feel
stupid for suspecting them of doing anything, but the last time you passed that bar, some drunken
bastard tried to fight you and your friend in the middle of the day. Remember Emmett? He was
just minding his business.
You continue on, deciding to pull on one hood to warm up frozen ears. You see a cop,
blue uniform against navy sky. You pull down the hood and keep your posture from the group.
Cops are descended from slave catchers. Keep your head down, hands out of your pockets, ask
for a lawyer. Don’t run away, they shot that guy. Don’t run at them, they killed that other guy.
Follow their instructions, or don’t. It won’t matter, ask Philando and Shaver. Thanks brain, all
the facts you don’t need right now. Your brow sweats in the frozen night and that string of
thoughts is enough to ruin your gait. You wait desperately for the light to turn green, so you can
avoid his gaze. You give a queasy smile to the officer. You haven’t committed any crimes, but
maybe you fit the description. You shiver despite the layers.
The light changes and you pass without incident. A thousand stories of your family still
remain floating above your head. You reach the murder mart and stop in. You browse the stacks,
readying a cup of noodles. You tilt your head to see where they put the cool ranch Dorito’s,

6. when you notice an employee moping while staring straight at you. You scurry to the counter
and pay quickly. Safe with the prize, you began the journey home.
The two kinds of humans you met made you so worried. Why? Because you are other.
Stop it. It’s uncomfortable but you must accept the truth. I’m not listening. You continue stalking
up the hill. You take the alley exit. More and more reminders slam into your mind. You’ll work
twice as hard for half as much. We need to talk about your ancestors. This was Dr. Martin
Luthor King, Jr. He was a great man. You wave your intrusive thoughts away as you take the
turn to your dorm. You swipe in, setting your prize in the microwave. As you wait for the
noodles to cook, you get assaulted by more reminders of your otherness. The teams aren’t
unbalanced, you only count as 3/5th
’s of a person. Laughter from everyone involved at that jab.
“In 1865, the slaves were freed from the emancipation proclamation.” You find 18 pairs of eyes
staring at the back of your head. “Why do you make everything about race?” you obsess over
that question for nights, staying up late questioning all of your interactions. You walk into 11th
grade history, the Klu Klux Klan symbol at the start of the power point. Your white friends sits
down and remarks how cool the symbol is. The ever-present one, “Can I touch your hair?”
The beep of the microwave saves you from your dual soul. You slurp noodles and browse
reddit, trying to stop the bubbling up of a lifetime of chips and slights. Every incident is never
large enough for you to blow up at, to really eviscerate the perpetrator. If you did, they wouldn’t
listen ever again, He’s just an angry black man. You can’t help but feel like a token, a black
pawn on a white board. You’ve learned to hold it in. This month is a celebration of all of African
American’s achievements. You get used to reading about the side kick, never the hero. You get
used to being told that your movement of equality is really asking for special treatment. You get
used to anchoring yourself in a world that both fears and fetishizes your culture. A culture you

7. were never immersed in because of a middle-class childhood. You get used to the eternal burning
question. “Why don’t you act black?”
God’s Plan
The willow tree was my escape from the beating sun and disapproving looks of my peers.
I lay on the soft dirt ground, the gently sloping roots rising up to support my rest. I took my
laptop from my bag and began to grind away at some math homework before my next class. I
could only see feet passing by my perch when I heard a scream. The feet which were just now
walking calmly were now sprinting away. I remained where I was, not wanting to draw attention.
A golden arrow hit someone's heel as they ran. They stumbled and fell into my hiding
space. She landed with a thump. Sever more arrows shot into the tree, but they luckily missed us
but did get stuck in my laptop. The arrowhead was both monstrous and beautiful at the same
time. I needed to comfort her without bringing more attention to our space. She was wheezing in
pain, the golden shaft quivering in time with her legs. "look at me, It's fine. Let me get that out of
you.", I whispered. Looking at the arrow that pierced my laptop as a reference, I saw how to
maneuver the object out of her leg. It was shaped like a key, with hooking barbs made of
lightning. I dropped the blood-stained projectile to the ground. It was soon joined by the clean
one that was on my computer. I took off my sweatshirt to staunch the blood. I heard voices pass
near again. "Damn, no more sinners in this area, I'll need to find some more." A radio crackled
out urgings to find more of us. I knelt near the gap to see a dark leather cape, he started to walk
towards in the directions the others had fled. I grabbed the two arrows and held them like
daggers. I needed to end this soon or more would be hurt. I looked the girl in the eyes and ran out
of the willow tree.
Before we crashed together, I saw some jackass in a mask and long coat. He had a golden
bow in his hands. I hit him in the stomach, the two arrows hooking his flesh too easily for my
comfort. He fell backward and stared at me. "Sinner, you shall be judged by the lord for stopping
our plan." With this declaration, he ran to grab the bow. I was faster. I swung the bow in scything
blow. It caught him in the head. His mask cracked under the impact. He was stunned, which lead
me to grab the arrows and pull. The result went as expected with receiving two long barbed
objects into the lower stomach. He was disemboweled. He started screaming for mercy and help

8. but succumbed to the wound after a few torturous minutes. I went back to the willow tree to hide
again. My hands were red and slick. They shook with the weight of what I'd just done. The girl
stroked my back as I retched. He lay there on the concrete path for what felt like another hour
when the radio crackled again. "Azazel, are you there? Say something." The girl grabbed my
hand in hers and lead me to the nearest building. "we'll just leave, no one will fault us for
leaving." Her logic was sound, and I didn't need to go through that again. We ran down empty
halls until we saw the police cars blocking the campus. We held our hands up as we left and
started to walk slowly towards the line. The guns changed aim from the glass doors of the
auditorium to us instantly. "Stop where you are. Get on your knees.” I had grabbed the long coat,
as evidence, but it was taken away by the men. Is that all, officer?”
The detective looks me in the eyes and stares hard. "Do you know who was under that
mask?" "Look, everything happened so fast. I'm going to medical school to save people. That kid
didn't need to suffer so needlessly." "That ‘kid' was 33 and a terrorist. He was wanted in
connection to the other's we captured in an earlier raid. He was a member of the Church of the
Black Goat. I just wanted to congratulate your heroism. You saved my daughter." He turns off
the tape, and I'm free to leave the interview room. I give him a short nod and leave into the night
to meet the press who wait anxiously outside.