Writer's Journey

  The sky was shifting from burnt-orange to charcoal, clouds drifting lazily above the silent houses. Few people remained on the streets at this hour, having returned home from a long day of work. The only noise that permeated for miles was that of the crows calling out to one another from the rooftops. Aria clutched the key in her hand, a rust-flecked piece of metal that had certainly seen better days. Its ornate handle was engraved with daisies and roses, just as she remembered from her childhood. The young woman, about to leave her old apartment to move into a beautiful house across the city with her new husband, had been organising her things for the packers and movers. Old clothes and toys were donated to charity, broken items were thrown away, and everything else was placed into their appropriate boxes. It was then that she had found the key she now held in her hands. She remembered her grandmother holding the very same one in her wrinkled fingers when Aria was a child, unloc...

  It’s often said that people don’t like to involve themselves in others’ problems. Perhaps they believe that it isn’t their responsibility, or maybe they are afraid of bringing consequences down upon themselves. Either way, very few people will stand up to defend someone else in danger. Harper hadn’t truly understood this until she was on the opposite side of the situation; not as the person standing up for another, but as the victim to be defended. Even as she screamed for help, backing away in fear from the mugger who had cornered her, she knew she wouldn’t receive any help. Although the alleyway she stood in was dark and damp, she could see the bright street right outside it. Not a single person there stopped to help her. Sure, they hesitated at the shrieks, pausing to see what was happening, but not one of them approached the situation to offer help. They just glanced away with guilty looks and shuffled away, eagerly returning to their regular lives. She wasn’t such a hypocrit...