“First and foremost,” Angela said, standing maybe three feet from me. “You’re going to learn to string this bow. Notice how the arms are curved, you see?”

I nodded. For the first time I was really getting a look at my bow. It was made from a sleep black wood, very simple, but also a bit heavier than I’d expected. I couldn’t help but feel a little bit of contempt looking at it, as Meredith had forced me to run the obstacle course over and over again while holding it. Still, it was something Angela wanted me to have, and that was enough to make me love it.

Stuck in a Rut.
By Rosalie Redd

Casey Church is a normal 13 year old girl, full of hopes and dreams and fears and anxieties. But in a world where there hasn’t been a girl born in over a century, what is normal?

Chapter 13.

Sunday afternoon, after services, was the time set aside for the women of the foster home to sit down and enjoy a little afternoon tea and unwind from the week and get ready for another one. Sunday was considered a day of rest in the Forest Home, some of the children attend services either at the local Catholic, Episcopal or Methodist Churches. It was those three that supported the foster home with donations of either money or canned goods, but mostly money as cold hard cash was the sinew that kept the house running day to day, month to month and year to year.

I opened my eyes, though I don’t know why I bothered. It was the same room, every day. The same white walls, the same tall barred window, lined with steel lattice just in case I somehow managed to squeeze my way through the iron verticals. A white tile floor, a white bed, everything white. At least they’d unstrapped me from the bed. Why was I here? What had I even done? As I surveyed the white plaster ceiling I remembered my father’s words. “You’re no son of mine,” He’d said. How fucking cliché. I couldn’t tell you why he hated me so much. Well, I could, but does it really matter?