Today's tribute is to my oldest son, Ammon. I haven't shared his writing before because it is dark (read: dark as in violent like The Hunger Games, not dark as in evil.) I asked his writing teacher about this and she said it is" normal for this age and not a sign that he would some day need therapy like his mother." Ok, that's not really what she said. She did say that it is normal for teenagers to write in this dark genre. This is reprinted with permission, of course. Thanks Ammon!
“I don’t care if you don’t want to go, you don’t have a choice. You were chosen to come with us,” said the man in the dark blue trench coat, and captain’s hat that cast a shadow over his face all the way down to his long unkempt beard.
“But mister, I’m cold,” complained the little boy who was still in his rocket ship pajamas.
“We’re here” announced the captain. Then he swung his lantern three times and slowly the schooner appeared forming from the mist. When it was fully formed, dark mist started to emerge. It soon consumed the entire city with a mist that was darker then death itself.
When the suns first rays peeked over the mountains the mist simply vanished, leaving nothing but death and destruction in its wake. Where there was once a happy home there was now a pile of rubble, where there was once a busy street there was now only broken glass and twisted metal and where there were living breathing beings there were now only corpses, but the schooner was not amidst the wreckage, and the captain and the boy were not among the corpses.