Young Writers Society

My palms shook. That was it. I was going to jail. Again. I knew that the police were sure to beat down the door at any minute. Anytime I was going to be dragged out the door, forced to spend a year, maybe two, in the jail at least. Yet somehow, no matter how hard I tried to, I couldn't bring myself to drop the diseased object.

Swallowing hard, I ran my hands over the leather cover, tracing the odd indents on the top. Never had I held something like that. It seemed like something perfect, something forbidden. Something like this only brings up two possible outcomes; one, the almost always possibility of being punished, which was something that I wasn't unused too; and two, that I would be able to keep this small, harmless-looking object a secret.

It all seemed impossible: an outsider appearing on our doorstep

My father allowing him to come inside our home.

The bruise on my wrist from where he had grabbed me.

And to top it all off, a novel was hidden in his leather jacket, which wasn't the typical garb in the village of Deadalus.

Something was up, and I was determined to find out what. Checking over my shoulder to make sure that no one was watching me, I cautiously slipped the hard-back book back into its home. I hovered over the young man for a short while, contemplating what to do.

"Who are you?” I whispered. Of course, he didn't answer me. It's never that easy.





The next night I continued the habit that I had developed. Once my parent's slipped upstairs with Joy, I pretended to turn in for the night by sluggishly walking towards my door. After I heard Joy's rushed footsteps above my head, I softly turned around and walked in the opposite direction.

Surprisingly enough, the short walk to the side room no longer seemed treacherous or like I was walking into to some sort of trap, never to return again. Instead, it was almost like I was venturing towards some unsolved mystery, searching for the answer that no one knew.

As usual, the fire had been lit to keep the wonderer from freezing to death. Assuming that I wouldn't get caught, I sat down next to the couch and examined the events of the day.

“Chance came by again today,” I reviewed out loud. “Chance is my best friend, by the way.” I knew that I probably
looked stupid right then, explaining my day to someone who couldn't even hear. It was almost like I was Joy. “My parent's won't let me see him anymore, so we have to meet at night usually. He keeps asking about you... I guess you've become quite the legend here.”

Despite the fact that I knew that I was rambling, I continued to tell this complete stranger about my life. “Chance, he wants to know why you were at our door... He thinks you're a drifter. I kind of convinced him that you were... Not that I know who you are, or anything.”

By then the bruise on my wrist was healing quite nicely, and I no longer felt the odd sensation of being in danger. I talked more that night than I had in weeks.

“Joy,” I went on, “my sister, she keeps talking about you... We're lucky that the village knows her as the local storyteller. Hardly anything she says is true, you know.” I smiled lightly at the memory. “Once she convinced my mother that a mouse was in our dinner, just so she could get some of the cookies on the table...” Suddenly my smile began to fade. “We hardly get sweets here. They're so expensive... No doubt, though, that you can eat all you want where you come from.”

From the looks of his attire and the amount of meat on his bones, I wasn't entirely far off on my observation. His arms were toned and muscular, and his stomach wasn't on the verge of caving in, which was drastically different from the rest of us.

“Anyway, Joy's been telling everyone that you just showed up on our door, and you're secretly some spy working for Talbott. No one believes her, from what I can tell... Well, other than Chance, but he'll believe anything.”

Not a trace of recognition appeared on his face. It was almost as if he was made of stone. My own personal statue, built for me to chatter aimlessly to when I had no other things to do.

I shook my head at the thought. No, he wasn't a statue. He was clearly alive and human. Stringy, slick hair that looked almost as if it were wet, a sign that he hadn't cleaned it in quite some time, fell over his closed eyes, and stubble was collecting on his face, which other wise would have looked young and friendly. His chest rose and fell in a steady pattern. All of it was proof that he was real. Not even the best artist could form something so full of life.

When the first light of day broke through the soot-covered window, I stood from my seat on the floor, deciding that getting some sleep wasn’t such a bad idea, after all. Fatigue hazed my vision as I slowly maneuvered through the hall into Joy’s and my room. As soon as my head hit the pillow sleep captured me.






Footsteps woke me. They were hurried and rushed- running from left to right. Clearly the owner of the sound was nervous. From the position of the sun, I could tell that I had only been asleep for an hour tops. How can no one else hear that? I angrily thought, untangling myself from the twisted sheets.

I stomped into the hallway to find my mother scurrying around, carrying plates, bowls, and glasses, anything that would be found in the kitchen.

“What's going on?” I sleepily demanded.

My mother gave me a sideways glance before returning to her outrageous movements. “See for yourself,” she ordered.

Pushing open the door to the front room, I found Joy huddled in the corner, her face staring at something far away; the side room.

“Joy-Joy?” I softly called, sinking down beside her. “What's wrong?”

“He's awake,” she told me, grabbing my hand. Despite popular belief, Joy wasn't that good around people that were unknown to her. Of course, once she had spent about ten minutes with that person, she was her usual, loud self, but anything before that, and she hardly talks.

I kissed her head, attempting to be light. “Its okay, Hun; he wont hurt you.”

Unfortunately, my tone was far from convincing. I was still trying to convince myself. Although the night before I had felt more at ease, I still remained on edge when in his presence.

“How long has he been up?” I questioned.

Joy shrugged, indifferent.

Gathering up my valor, I stood from the corner and crossed the room. Cautiously, I stuck my head through the door, examining the area. Our visitor was sitting up on the cushions, staring into the embers of the fireplace. I bit my lip cautiously, trying to convince myself to enter the room. Right when I was about to walk into the space, my mother swept passed me with a bowl of broth.

The young man's head snapped in the direction of my mother. He seemed paranoid in a way; as if he was in trouble for something. His eyes lingered on my mom for a short while before they moved in my direction. His gray eyes held mine for an unmeasured amount of time. He seemed perplexed, almost as if he were trying to solve a very hard puzzle. I was too stunned to look away

“How are you feeling?” my mother asked, oblivious to his staring.

“Fine,” he replied quietly.

“Your leg?” she pressed, her eyebrows raising an eighth of an inch.

“It's fine,” he insisted, breaking eye contact with me to make sure that my stubborn mom understood.

“It's broken,” she argued. My mother, before the fall of the Old World, was a nurse. If she said something was wrong, you had to believe her. She was always right.

Clenching his jaw, the man (or teenager, I still wasn’t sure), placed his arms on either side of him. After a few eager moments, in which my mother hovered closely to him with her arms out, he was standing, slightly lopsided on his right side. Sweat lined his forehead, and his breathing was slow and audible.

“See?” he insisted. “It's fine.”

My mother, not accepting his demonstration, urged him to walk. However, when he tried to take one step forward, he went tumbling, only to catch himself on the side of the sofa.

“Well, well, well,” my mother mocked. The whole thing was so strange that I just stood in the doorway, unsure of what to do. My mom looked up at me, a smile on her lips. Oddly enough, I think she found this whole thing entertaining. “Looky here, Kiara. We got ourselves a patient. Come ‘ere, dear. I need help with this.”

I slowly walked over to my mother, who was adjusting his legs with nimble fingers. Every now and then he would wince in pain, only to cover up any hint of emotion on his face.

“Does this hurt?” my mother asked in a strict tone, twisting his foot slightly to the right.

He sucked in a tight breath. “No.”

“Oh really?” my mom smirked. “Well, it seems that you do have a broken leg, no matter how long you can stand on it. I'm sorry, but you'll have to stay with us for a while.”

“Key,” she addressed me with my nickname. “Stay here. Make sure he doesn't try to stand up again, okay? I'll be right back.”

I nodded, nervous to be alone with him. I stared down at my hands, uncomfortably aware of the fading mark on my wrist. I could feel his eyes on me. After a while I hugged my knees to my chest, unnerved by his eyes.

“So,” he began. “Where exactly are we...?”

“Deadalus,” I whispered.

“Ah.” He nodded his head. “The center of Labyrinth.” He sucked in another painful breath. “Too far away from where I'm supposed to be,” he whispered, almost to himself.

“Where are you supposed to be?” I blurted out before I could think, mentally cursing myself for allowing my nervous habit to control me.

“Oh,” he dismissed the comment with a casual air, “nowhere important. Not that I'll be going anywhere soon. Your mother-” he looked at me with curios eyes- “she is your mother, right?”

I nodded.

“Well, as lovely as she seems, I doubt she'll be letting me go anytime soon... ‘Seems like you’re stuck with me.” I smiled a small smile at his careless attitude. “I'm Icarus, by the way.

“Kiara,” I replied automatically.

My mother had returned in the middle of our introductions. She placed a bowl of water on the table with a small washcloth.

“Well, Mr. Icarus,” she dubbed him. “It seems like you've got yourself quite the nick on your head.” Slowly, my mother removed the bandage that I had placed above his eyebrow two nights before.

A sickly looking scab had formed. When my mother began dabbing it with the wet washcloth, Icarus winced in pain.

“Who patched you up before you landed here?” my mother asked in a casual manner.

“No one,” he faltered. “Not that I can remember, anyway.” He looked hesitant, as if the idea of a band-aid scared him.

My stomach dropped. Surely they were going to find out about me staying up most of the night to talk to him, even when he couldn't hear me. I dropped my gaze and studied the wood's grain beneath me.

“Hm,” my mother hummed. “Kiara, did you do this? I rememberdoes he remember waking up the other night? Does he remember me begging for him to let me go? you said something about him being hurt...”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. Without meeting anyone's gaze, I nodded and tucked my arms into my sides. The two of them continued to talk while I sat there, not knowing how to help. I knew that what I really longed to do was get out of there, to go into my room and sneak out the window. But, then again, I also wanted to make sure that Icarus was okay.

I vaguely heard my mother shuffle out of the room to retrieve more equipment. I sat there, knowing that his gray eyes were once again trying to see through me. I wondered, does he remember waking up the other night? Does he remember me begging for him to let me go?

“I'm sorry,” he whispered, answering my unspoken questions. “I'm sorry about your wrist.” Self-consciously, I tugged on the edge of my sleeve, trying to cover up the evidence. Silence lingered between us for what seemed like years.

When my mother returned, I hurried out of the room. Joy remained in her hiding place in the corner while my father sat at the table with an odd expression on his face. I stood there for a while, contemplating on whether or not to talk to my father or flee the house. The latter, of course, was the more tempting offer.

“Papa?” I whispered, sitting across from him. His eyes met mine for a split second before returning to the table. “What's going on?” I didn't need to specify. He knew what I was asking.

“Kiara,” he began, “it's... complicated.”

I stared him dead in the eye. He was going to tell me. Seconds, minutes, an eternity passed, neither of us speaking. Defeated, my father rubbed his forehead and sighed.

"It all started about 50 years ago. My grandfather, Tristan Rynes, had just retired from the army. He had seen what they did to people they assumed were traitors... What they did to innocents. When he got back he was completely different. One day someone came in through one of his windows." A small smile formed on his lips as he went on. "Tristan about killed the man, as paranoid as he was. The only thing that got between the man and Tristan's shot gun was the man’s pleading.

"He claimed to be on the run. ‘Said he was framed. Tristan gave him a second chance... He let him sleep in his house until the next morning so he could escape. The man's name was Ray Anders." I heard myself gasp at the name. Ray Anders was a legend. He was known as one of the only alleged murderers to break out of court in the middle of a sentencing and flee the country. He was never seen after that night.

“Grandpa believed him,” my father sighed. “He told me, when I was about your age, that he saw something in his eyes that made him believe Ray.

“Later on he began a... charity. He took in runaways, spies, anyone who might need a place to stay. Eventually the
government found out about people running away, never to be found again. Tristan changed his name from Rynes to Merryweather after that. When he got married he came up with a code for the future Merryweather's to use.”

“Our names,” I deduced, not bothering to interrupt him.

Papa nodded. “Names go through phases. However, even 50 years ago, ours always stuck out. Rumors went around about our work. Our homes became a safe haven. People would come and go as they pleased, even before the Old World fell; before all our troubles began. We haven't had a patient since you were three...”

I sat there, not believing what I heard. My family saves... criminals? I tried in vain to form a coherent sentence, but nothing would make it passed my throat.

“Kiara?” my father called in a worried tone. “Are you okay?”

I shook my head. I was far from okay. My eyes gravitated to the open doorway. Icarus was smiling, despite the pain he was in, and he was jabbering on with my mother in a friendly way. How do we even know if he's safe to be around? What if he kills us in our sleep? My thoughts wandered on and on until all I could think about was Icarus with a knife in his hands. It was all too much. I had to get out of there.

Shoving away from the table, I darted out the front door, not caring where my feet took me as long as it was away from home. Chance wasn't outside from what I could tell, but then again, hardly anyone was outside. The wind was almost unbearable that day, so everyone was huddled around their fireplaces, hoping to keep the cold off their skin.

Regardless of the fact that my toes were going numb, I continued into the woods. Somewhere in the distance, a Cardinal was singing its song, scarcely audible above the wind. Exhausted, I sat down on one of the roots. My mind was moving at a record pace, yet I still couldn't grasp what my father had told me. Although I was safe under the canopy of the trees, I felt exposed, vulnerable.

Gathering myself up, I trudged through the trees and ventured deeper into the forest. An occasional squirrel or chipmunk passed me by, but other than that no signs of life could be seen. Even the animals were hiding from the weather.

Sooner or later I reached my destination. A run-down shed sat in the middle of the clearing. The weight of the wind made it look as if it were about to topple over at any minute. Shielding my face with my hands, I ventured out into the open and made my way inside.

After I had managed to shut the door behind me, I huddled next to the far end wall, holding my knees close to my chest. Inside all four walls and a roof, the feeling of being too exposed evaporated, and I allowed myself to cry, just a little. The tears weren't for only me, they were for my family. I thought of my father's face when he warned me, inconspicuously, not to go near Icarus. He knew how dangerous this could be.

How many times had someone gotten hurt when they risked their lives for others? How many had been killed? And now Joy and I were forced to help someone that we didn't know; someone that could possibly kill us. I cried for my mom. Did she know about this when she married my dad? She must have, I convinced myself.

Before long the sun dipped behind the trees, and I knew that I had to go back. By the time I stepped outside, the wind had died down so I decided that walking as fast as possible was the best option.

Instead of entering through the front door where I was sure to see Icarus, I crawled back through my bedroom window. By then the electricity had been shut off, just as they it always did after sunset. Neither Joy nor my mother was in sight, so I plopped down on my mattress and hoped that I would be left alone for the night.

No such luck.

My father eventually came in and sat down by my feet without a word.

“Kiara?” he whispered after a long length of silence. “Are you all right?”

I shook my head without looking at him.

“Look, I just wanted to clear something up. You left before I could really explain everything.” Donnovan waited for me to respond, but I remained silent. “We all knew that grandpa Tristan was crazy. When things in the country started to change, we changed some things, too. We only took in people who were working against Talbott -people who were trying to get him to expose him.”

After five minutes of silence, my father gathered that I wasn't going to talk. I wasn't angry; I just didn't want to talk to him at the moment. I was in shock. My father had kept the biggest family secret from me for 17 years. It was all too much.

My father left me, but I remained under my quilt. Before he had left, my dad had informed me that Joy would be spending yet another night in my parents' room.

Icarus was awake, and I was alone.

It was really good, and I appreciated how this was longer than most others. However, I do have a few nags, and these are mostly just me, sorry . When you say 'shot gun', it's one word, shotgun, and if you want to use a more specific title a 10 gauge should do the trick, if it's just a household item. If it's for more 'paranoid' purposes, then just kick it up to a 12 gauge. Another is the descriptions aren't as rich as I think they could be. I didn't get any 'pictures' if you get my drift. But the plot line was pretty good, and I liked the reference to Icarus and the Labyrinth, with all the Greek stuff.