Writer's Journey

  “Help! Can anyone hear me?!” Teresa’s voice was beginning to become hoarse from her screaming. Her fists were stinging from trying to break the glass of the windows, but either she was too weak, or the windows of her normal house were bulletproof. They didn’t seem like they were abnormally thick, but not even throwing a mug at them would make them shatter. The paintings on the walls seemed to be glaring down at her, smiling faces hiding judging expressions. Teresa knew that she had distinctively fiery red hair. It was the first thing she had noticed when she passed by a mirror in the hallway. Seeing that same flame-like hair in the photos was unnerving. She certainly would have remembered all these people, right? But then again, Teresa didn’t remember anything. She didn’t even know her name before she saw it printed on the aforementioned mug that now laid in pieces on the living room rug. Her appearance had been a shock to her. She couldn’t even remember her parents' names, or ho...

  Sparrow was quiet as a mouse, standing still under the cover of the shadows in the dark alleyway. Although he knew that he wasn’t making a sound, he was irrationally afraid that someone would hear the loud thumping of his heart, seemingly echoing in the silence. He could clearly hear the sounds coming from outside his alley sanctuary, noises which would be impossible for any normal human to hear, much less clearly identify and distinguish. ‘But then,’ thought the costumed teenager, with a silent snort of amusement. ‘If I was normal, I probably wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place.’ The blaring of police sirens rang through the city, piercing through even the loud hustle and bustle of London at night. The anxious murmur of scared civilians could be heard from nearby, along with the happy chatter and laughter of people a few streets away. The clear disparity in situations never failed to surprise Sparrow, and disappoint him, even with how long he had been in his line o...