THE MOST HAZARDOUS THING ON EARTH
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JEFF'S BUTT
When the doors of creativity are opened, anything is
PURPLE
possible. The Reader Writing Contest was such a
success we have decided to continue it forever. Join
us this month as we journey through a sneak preview
from the outfield of our reader's minds, S
where their dreams and ideas get...
ublished
Art Imitates Life by Nico Berry
The lowering sun fell in hazy shafts through the small windows of the
artist's apartment. In the middle of the room, the light fell onto a limp
body that lay sprawled in a chair. The head hung at an unnatural angle.
The throat was slit from ear to ear. The body's previously white shirt was
soaked to a deep crimson from the blood that ran down from the neck, across
the body and slowly dripped into a puddle on the floor.
Cheve
LAND
The artist's portfolio case crashed to the ground, breaking the silence that
oozed from the room. His neck and ears were boiling hot. His mind.
flashed to the man dressed all in black who had hurriedly bumped him as
he approached his apartment that afternoon. The room started spinning.
He staggered over to the couch and sat down, overcome by nausea.
He reopened his eyes to the bloody body sitting across from him and
stared at it. A droplet of sweat trickled down from his forehead and rolled
into his eye. He blinked to remove the irritation, his focus readjusted and
he noted the way that the soft evening light fell across the body, he studied
the shadows and long lines of the slumped figure. The artist got some.
paper and started sketching furiously. He drew all night.
When the first rays of natural morning light fell on the subject he began
painting. He worked through the whole day without food or rest. As the sec
ond night fell, he collapsed from exhaustion.
TARAS
He reawakened to the rancid odor of the rotting corpse. He looked at Who Are You? by Keith Estes
his work. It was immaculate. Every detail was impeccably painted, the real-
ism took on an almost photographic quality. Unsatisfied, he picked up his
brush and began painting again. Soon, he began to get frustrated. He set
up another chair and a mirror next to the
body. He carefully sliced his own
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CONT
HRASHER
avas
throat until the warm blood ran
down over his chest. He studied
Cmy Chambert 93
He looked all around, trying to find her. He looked toward the pit. That
is where he found her. Moving fast, like the music was the wind, the pit was
a storm and the strobe light was lightning, he raced to reach her. She was
in danger from her ex-boyfriend, who was now in a killing rage. Faster he
went, pushing people away to the side. He grabbed her and pulled her out
of the pit. But it was too late. The band stopped playing as the perp pulled
out a gun. Run faster was all they could do. Then everything was black.
He heard gunshots. But she knew where the exit was. This time she was
leading him. As they ran faster, gunshots were going all around. Now, reach-
ing the exit, they ran for his car. The enraged man headed for the light of
the exit, but the car was out of sight. As they got home, she kissed him for
saving her. Then she kissed again. Then he kissed. And the rest is obvious.
Within hours he passed out from Captivity by Bicy
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the way that the liquid bubbled
up and over the edge of the inci-
sion, cascading down his neck,
seeping into the material of his
white shirt collar. He stood up
and walked back to the painting.
the loss of blood.
The light of another dawn crept into
his eyes, prying them open. He forced him-
self to ignore the pungent smell and stared bitterly at his painting
Something wouldn't let him be satisfied. The sunlight glinted off of the
blood-stained blade laying on the chair and grabbed at his eye. He stood up.
walked over to the closet and pulled off his blood-stained clothes. He got
dressed all in black and walked back to the chair. He picked up the knife
and wiped it clean. Before he walked out the door he looked back at the
painting and the body. A satisfied smile crossed his lips and he slammed the
door shut behind him.
They heard the signal bell and walked sluggishly, with less than enthusi-
asm, to their feeding area. With the clang of another bell they stumbled
slowly to the food window and tried to block out the screaming commands
of their keepers. These people had been sentenced to a minimum of thir-
teen years of humiliation and useless work by a society that had no idea
that the prisoners were really innocent and good, that they had done noth-
ing wrong and deserved freedom. Sometimes the inmates questioned the
morality of their unjust sentence, but they were punished and further
degraded. Then the command bell rang a final time and the young con-
victs ran home to their families for a short rest before the next day of school.
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