Emerson Best is 14 years old and is a freshman at Treasure Mountain Junior High.
She loves writing because of the creativity that she is able to use.
“I love the idea of having an idea, something that no one else has ever thought of before and bringing it into reality,” she said.
Best has a true passion for writing, but her story, “We Gather Together,” below, marks her introduction of presenting a work in a competitive setting.
She went on to say, “This is the first time I’ve ever had the opportunity to write something for someone outside of myself or my friends.”
When asked what winning this month’s PCHS Writes Club competition means to her, Best said, “It means so much to me to have my writing recognized in a competitive setting. I want to keep doing creative writing, and getting some of my stories published would help me so much with accomplishing my dream of writing professionally.”
Best will continue to pursue her passion for writing.
PCHS Writes is designed to inspire more students to write and to write from their hearts instead of strictly within the walls of their required English classes.
The club holds a short-story contest every month, and the winning entry is published in The Park Record.
For information about PCHS Writes, email [email protected]
“We Gather Together” by Emerson Best
I slip out of my house and into the gathering dusk. I smile slightly as I see the sunset, bright red and bloody as if the gods had just finished a battle and not bothered to clean the killing field.
The full moon is just passing over the horizon, its pale light brushing the tops of the trees. The air feels untamed, a little wild, completely at odds with the manicured farmland and shacks in neat rows that make up our village.
It’s perfect for witching.
I hold my cloak closer against my side, where it’s bundled into a tight ball. Dark cloaks, like the one I have with me now, are a distinct mark of suspicion, as are the herbs and various other witch ways I have, tucked inside the dark bundle.
I move down from my house and start making my way down into the town square. Salem is always quietest at dusk and dawn when everyone with sense is inside. Dusk is an in-between hour; not quite night, but not quite evening either.
A witch’s hour. I quietly slip inside the small house where we hold our meetings and am greeted by the familiar wash of heat and the sound of laughter. I shut the door behind me with my foot, grinning.
I set my balled-up cloak on the table, unfolding it to show the selection of herbs I’ve brought with me. Murmurs of appreciation fill the space, and I begin to distribute the sweet-smelling plants among the women that surround me.
The door opens again, and my best friend, Agnes, walks in. Her night-black hair is tousled by the wind, and her skin is flushed in the room’s heat. She walks over to me, grinning.
“Ready?” she asks, and I smile mischievously.
“Are you?” I return, and she nods, laughing. Tonight is the summer solstice, which means that we are going to perform a little demonstration.
Our mother witch, Anna, gestures for quiet. We fall silent, watching her. She gestures for us to follow, and we do, sliding on dark cloaks and slipping out into the gathering dark.
About a month ago, 4 of our sisters were caught and hung. The people cheered as they died, and said that they should have burned instead. We’ve held on to the rage, let it grow, simmering in our hearts until the town feels safe.
I hear my sisters say the words, the feral heat of witching rising all around us. We say the words again and again, in an endless unbroken chant. When they find the gallows in the morning, they will be nothing but a ruin, a wooden structure overtaken by nature.
We protect our own and avenge them when we can’t.
An hour later, I slip back into my house, still wearing my cloak. I still when I hear the voice, a flash of trepidation going through me.
“Where were you tonight, Juniper?” It’s my father.
“Nowhere, Da,” I say, trying to peer through the darkness and see where he is. I reach up, slowly undoing the tie around my throat that holds the cloak in place. It slides off my shoulders with a faint hissing sound, like a snake, and pools on the floor at my feet.
“Is that so? I find it hard to believe that you were nowhere.”
“Yes, Da. I was at the cooking group in town. Agnes said she had a new recipe for me. I think you’ll like i-”
I’m cut off by the flare of a match and then the sound of my father banging his fist against the table. I flinch.
“Stop lying to me, Juniper. You reek of that- that abomination!” I go perfectly still. It’s true, though I wouldn’t go so far as to say abomination. I smell like witching, wild and sinful.
I open my mouth to protest, to explain, to do something, but he doesn’t give me the chance.
“Get out. If I ever see you here again, I’ll report you to the mayor.”
I spit at his feet and leave the house that had been my home for the past 19 years of my life. I wish I had the ways to burn it to the ground as I left.
It’s just past three in the morning when I arrive back at Agnes’s house. I slide into her window like I used to, back when we were kids.
I gently shake her awake, and she startles, looking up at me.
“Juniper?” She asks, and I shake my head, gesturing for her to be quiet.
“My father kicked me out. He knows,” I say, my voice quiet.
She peers up at me through the blackness of her room, concerned.
“I don’t know where to go,” I whisper, my voice breaking. Agnes sits up in bed and wraps her arms around me.
“We’ll take care of you. All of us,” she whispers to me, her words a silent promise before they are swallowed up by the darkness around us.
In the morning, she sneaks me out to talk to Anna. I tell her what happened, and says nothing, merely nods at me with a stony defiance glinting in her eyes. She whisks me away, and I shoot a baffled look at Agnes over my shoulder. She leads me into the woods at the edge of town and stops in front of a small stone cottage that is overgrown with moss and ivy.
“You can stay here as long as you need to,” she says, smiling at me.
“Thank you,” I say. The words seem too small, too insignificant in relation to what she’s done for me. Anna nods at me, still smiling.
“I’ll come by to visit, as will the rest of the girls. You can grow food?”
I nod, smiling at her. “Thank you,” I say again. Agnes comes up behind me, grinning.
“Agnes has offered to stay with you,” Anna says, looking over my shoulder at my best friend. I spin around, looking at her in shock.
“But your family — ”
“You are my family.” Her tone is full of so much confidence, such surety. It leaves no room for argument.
She lives alone with her father, like I did. He’s a lot like my father, and thinking about it now, I don’t doubt that he would kick her out without a moment’s hesitation if he knew the truth.
I throw my arms around her. This is what it should be like, I think. To have a family. To belong to someone, or in my case, a group of someones. To know that if you fall down, they will catch you. To know, in your bones, that they are there for you, and always will be. I look at Anna, who is smiling at us, and I smile back.
“Thank you,” I say. This time, it’s not for the physical home that she’s given me, but for this wayward community that she has built, and allowing me to be a part of it.