Short Story About 9/11 English

Nothing I did worked. His skin, so close, so warm against my own, did it distract me? Was that it? I had done my best to free myself from the darkness he had encompassed around me, but my efforts did next to nothing in getting him away. He evaded it all. I was floundering amidst my own failure, but he was still there, still overshadowing me.

As kids, we were all warned about the basics. Call 911 for emergencies, tell an adult if someone touches you or even tell the teacher when someone says a bad word. But what happens when something happens to the last person you’d think it would happen to.. Yourself. Who could you actually turn to, and when the time struck, how would the words flow out to confess the crime done to you. Or even worse, would the words come out at all? “Can you tell me what happened exactly?” “It's okay to talk to us, we’re here to help you, not hurt you.” The words kept ringing in my head. But was it okay to talk to them? Speak of the unspeakable with people... people I didn't know, nor trust? Being so young I had no idea what was going on. As my heart was racing,

BEEP! BEEP! “Already,” James moaned. “I thought I had the snooze set for thirty minutes.” James thought to himself. Before he could even get out of bed, James's mother swung open the door so hard that he could have sworn she made a dent in the wall. “JAMES! YOU’RE GOING TO BE LATE FOR SCHOOL AGAIN! THIS IS THE THIRD TIME THIS WEEK, AND IT IS ONLY WEDNESDAY!” James quickly sprang up from his bed and began to apologize until he was interrupted as she continued to give him a lecture. She calmed down but then proceed to sass with, “Not only are you late, but your room has also seemed to be hit with a tornado. I want this cleaned up after you come home from school or else I’ll be sure you can’t feel your behind after I am done with you.” James

The dog coolly watched the whole charade from the top of the hill and, having learned his lesson about going straight down, turned away from the steep hill and trotted down the service road. We half-walked and half-slid our way to the bottom, where he was waiting for us with his stupid dog grin.

It was dark as night outside yet still early, and the heavy winds were causing the rain to smack in to the house. Dime stood peeping out of the window as she hid her naked body behind the curtains, staring at the trees dancing in the storm.

All I wanted was moments with my mom when I was nine; I did not get it. What about age ten, eleven, and twelve? My whole childhood was snatched out from under me, and I had to grow up way to fast. Don’t worry, I did not blame you. I blamed myself until I was fifteen. It was my fault my mother tried to drown my sisters and me. I saw signs and clues. I could tell she was not acting herself, but I said nothing. I didn’t go and ask another grownup for help. I put my sisters’ lives in danger, because I didn’t protect them.

"This is 911, what is your emergency?" A desperate eleven year old girl tried to answer the operator's question, but all I could manage were sobs.

Claire Alistar shifts in her seat to cross her right ankle primly over her left and readjusts her large, black sunglasses so that they sit farther down on her nose so that she looks even more unimpressed. "Beck got caught during a job in cicily? Really? Cicily?"

She had given this up. All of it. The path of the witches, she had decided, was not hers to take. Wielders of the gift were meant to maintain balance in a world of evil. But those same protectors had fallen prey to greed, pride and an overbearing lust for power. Bethany was raised on the stories of covens going to war and even siding with the monsters they had sworn to destroy. Beth had promised never to choose a side. And to fulfill her promise, she rid herself of her powers. So why was she here, staring at the tattered notebook that contained not only her history of witchcraft but also her magic? Pale, slender fingers flipped through the makeshift grimoire. The nightmares hadn’t stopped. They wouldn’t. Bethany was normally conscious enough to dream lucidly, but the dreams were spiraling out of control. She was aware of the old phrase, “if you die in your dreams you die for real”. That’s what frightened her. Every night she died. Her lack of magic made her vulnerable to attack. The identity of the attacker was unknown. But not

Thunderous roar reverberates in the sky, hole after another fill the world, from within, lay another roar which makes us shudder in fear.

Nothing was heard, only the water droplets that drops from the crack ceiling. Making a small puddle on the ground, having mice roaming around the place.

After close to four hours of waiting at Java Jolt and endless cups of coffee, the bell on the crowded coffee shop door rang, and London walked in looking around for us. “How’s the scene? Do you know how many casualties?” I asked.

23 years have past and Irene is at the emergency office making phone calls to people who need her. “911 what’s your emergency?” She asks to a little boy on the phone.

“The blood can’t be hers. Not all of it anyway.”Danny looked a ways off, seeing how far the rain from the previous night carried the blood. It flowed just out of the alley way, peeking out where cars could just see it. Peeking out just enough so that one might stop, gripped by curiosity, and see it. Was this deliberate? Had the assailant predicted the rain fall? Was this body meant to be found? Or was it the simple justice of the universe, striving to right wrongs?

“Swingin’ my legs eating cereal,” Star Butterfly sang as she ate her favorite Earth cereal, Honey Crunchers. Her long, blonde hair was in a simple Dutch braid and was wearing something new, a white short-sleeved button up shirt, a teal overall dress, dark purple tights, and dark blue rubber boots. Across from her was Marco Diaz, her best Earth friend, wearing his usual red hoodie and skinny jeans.