Behold! The Works of the Horrific Minds of Teenagers!: Youth Anthology, #1

By Henderson Writers Group, Radon Lee Marafioti, Olivia Wheeler and 11 more

In 2022, eighteen teenagers competed to see who could write the best short story. No restrictions were given besides word count—students could write fantasy, mystery, science fiction, thriller, literary, or any other genre they wanted. This lovingly edited and compiled anthology is the result. In these pages you will find stories of teenagers and time loops and treasures, of mothers and magical books and mysterious killers, of forest sprites and fairy tale romances, of dragons and doors without handles. None of these stories were written, outlined, or conceived by adults. They are the early stirrings of our future Earnest Hemingways, Stephen Kings and J.K. Rowlings.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Henderson Writers Group
• Release date: Sep 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223694021

Henderson Writers Group

Beverly J. Davis, Brandi Hoffman, Pat Kranish, David R. Long, Keiko Moriyama, Rick Newberry, Chike Nzerue, Wolf O'Rourc, Lori Piotrowski, Donna Pletzer-DeVargas, Joe Van Rhyn, Valerie J. Runyan, Laura Engel Sahr, Judy Salz, Willow Seymour, Arleen Sirois, Nancy Sanders Tardy, Bryant C. Thomas, William Darrah Whitaker, and Duke Woodrick.

Book preview

Forward

I’m always amazed at the incredible breadth of ideas teenagers can come up with. This book should perhaps be titled Behold! The Immensely Creative Works of Young People, but the title wasn’t really up to me. I asked my creative writing class (all of whom submitted stories for this anthology) to come up with and vote on names. Ashlee Grubbs proposed the name that ended up winning. I told her we couldn’t do that title. I lied. I’m looking forward to the surprise she’ll get when she sees the book!

All of these stories were written by authors aged 11-18. The rules were simple: write a story. That was pretty much it. These young writers were given no prompts, no genre, no direction in what kind of story they should write, besides a maximum word count and a prohibition against profanity. Many of them are in creative writing classes at school or privately, so they had the benefit of a teacher to coach them into improving their prose, but beyond that the details of the stories were entirely up to them.

The stories were submitted to a panel of judges from the Henderson Writers Group, who rated how our young authors did on such issues as character development, setting description, strength of language, plot coherence, and many others. The rubric was harsh, with the highest scores reserved only for stories that the judges felt were good even by adult standards. The HWG also offered two prizes: a $50 Amazon gift card each for the best writers aged 11-14 and 15-18 respectively. The winners of the competition would also have their stories placed first in the anthology with an acknowledgement of their well-earned victories.

The winner for the middle school level is Cora Nielsen, for her immersive fantasy story, Hoa. The winner for the high school level is Raden Marafioti, for two works of intriguing flash fiction submitted together, The Door Without a Handle and The Road. And I want to make mention of a third story, The Little Moments Count Too, by Olivia Wheeler. Wheeler had the second-highest score among all of the judges’ evaluations, beaten only by Nielsen. At the young age of 13, she wrote a higher-scoring story than any of our high school students, which is an impressive accomplishment. Though she didn’t win a gift card, her story is included as an honorable mention immediately following the winners. The rest of the stories are presented in alphabetical order by author surname.

I want to thank the Henderson Writers Group for putting up the prizes, judging the stories and publishing this anthology. They are a fine group of professionals dedicated to improving writing and supporting writers in the Las Vegas area. You can find their website at https://hendersonwritersgroup.com/

I also want to thank Will Kelly, a talented creative writing teacher whose students form almost half of this volume’s authors.

Finally, I want to thank all of the wonderful teenage writers who submitted their works, especially those who I was privileged to teach. More information on my online classes can be found at https://outschool.com/teachers/Paul-McLerran.

I hope that you will enjoy these stories as much as I did!

-Paul McLerran

https://paulmclerran.com

Behold!

The Works of the Horrific

Minds of Teenagers!

––––––––

Cora Fey Nielson

Radon Lee Marafioti

Olivia Wheeler

Alexander Amador

Srijita Dutta

Augi Ford

Zkehia Griffin

Ashlee Grubbs

Danna Lima

Vienna Lisle

Juli Lisle

Alejandro Ponce

Avigayil Sentigar

Elliot Sheridan

––––––––

Compiled and edited by

Paul McLerran

Hoa

Cora Fey Nielson, Contest Winner

Whhhiiiieeeee! 

The sprite bolted up from the succulent that served as her armchair.  She snatched a shrieking bronze tea kettle off the stove and gulped down the fiery brew.  Dashing to her mirror, she wielded a manticore-hair brush and waged battle against her mane. Her reflection scowled at her as fiercely as an angsty teenage dragon.  Loose overalls of willow leaves hung over her jade-green skin, and her long, wild hair glowed a deep brown.  The little sprite hacked at the waving tangles, biting her lip in frustration. Finally giving up, her hair was left half neat and half wilderness.  She shifted her two-walnuts-high squat frame from side to side, glaring at the ceiling in exasperation. 

A breeze fluttered in from an open window on the other side of her tiny one-room cottage, filling her nose with the earthy clean fragrance of her clay walls.  She sighed and calmed down enough to unpurse her full lips and smooth her bushy eyebrows.  Tugging on the hood of her waterproof lotus leaf cloak, she leaned her head out the window and grumbled at the passerby, shaking her fist and pointing, Another day inspecting tap roots and removing parasites. Why did I have to be a ground-caretaker?  Do they not realize how many times I asked to be assigned to Her branches?  How many complaints I filed, day after day, year after year, how hard I tried to have the chance to run along the top of Menara?  To feel the cold breeze and rush of adrenaline in her uppermost branches?  And yet I’m stuck down here, sleeping in the muck, beneath Her roots. 

A caretaker of the branches sped by outside and whispered to her friend, She’s a strange one, that root caretaker. No one else complains. We all do our part for the community, but she acts like she sleeps in the wilderness, amidst the grubs.

The sprite frowned, grudgingly picking up her gooseberry lunch and shovel. She reached for her doorknob when a pint-sized, willowy satyr burst the door open and pointed to the fairy's back window.  Barkha!  It’s him. A blast of salty breath assaulted Barkha’s nose.  She swiveled around, desperate to escape her friend’s morning odor. 

An elfish, light-hued, and thinly mustached brownie stood in her garden holding a basket full of alabaster hoa flowers plucked from the vertical garden on her walls.  His expression switched from startled to downright smug.  The brownie, a prankster spirit of chaos, stood illuminated by the morning sun, his feathery gray hair outlined in golden light.  He smirked, and meandered away down the spongy dirt road with his basket as if nothing had happened.  The satyr’s mossy frog mount chirped and the sprite snarled in reply. "Yes, Mocha, I agree.  This is absolutely ridiculous, the worst stunt that little marmorated stink bug has ever pulled.  I spent years cultivating those flowers." 

She wandered over to her hammock bed and sat on the mess of ginkgo leaves, silently fuming.  Squeezing her eyelids shut, she struggled to keep from groaning.  All her thoughts turned to his face, and the roguish lilt of his lips.  She grimaced and thought, I’ve had to put up with that smirk for a decade now, though it feels like centuries.

The first time she saw the brownie, she had been picking out mushrooms from a small vendor on the side of the road.  She carefully plucked the darkest, ripest ones in the shadow of a huge, sprawling flame tree.  The spicy aura of the nearby tree blossoms tickled her nose, and she laughed at the sky, happy for once.  But then the rumbling started.  A brilliant red salamander came gallumping down the road, and a tall, lean brownie jounced on top of it.  The creature flew past the sprite, scattering the cremini everywhere.  The brownie deftly steered his mount back around, leaped off, and apologized extravagantly to the seething sprite.  She trudged about, grudgingly collecting soiled fungi and thoroughly ignoring the perpetrator.  He followed her, pretending to help, though in actuality he only picked up one shroom, slipping it into his pocket.  Finally, her basket full, they made their way back and he said his goodbyes, climbing back onto the salamander.  Whilst riding, he munched on the stolen fungus and looked back towards Barkha with a devilish sneer staining his face.  She had trembled with fury. 

Now she shuddered as her friend, the miniature satyr, took hold of her shoulders and shook her, bringing her back to the present, Hon, are you there?  Ah, thank Menara, I thought we lost you.  He paused and asked, So what do you think you’re going to do about him?  He's gone one step too far this time, I believe.  His whiskery face stared unblinkingly into hers.

She sucked in air and whispered, Yes, yes he has.  She stood up carefully, brushed off her overalls, and stepped out into the bustling green morning.  Rows of vivid tree blossoms shielded the little burrow. 

Are you going to see the Elder?  The satyr called out in disbelief. 

She didn’t answer.

She made her way down the wide street.  The moist air and earth filled her lungs and pressed against the soles of her feet, invigorating her.  She skittered past roadside vendor stalls, ancient temples carved into the rock, bridges, and trickling creeks.  Hundreds of beings buzzed through the streets on their way to visit Menara.  Despite the teeming crowds, not one soul stood in Barkha’s way.  They parted in front of her, making way like beetles scurrying before a mighty predator.  The sprite’s heart throbbed, but she did what she did best and kept her face defiant and her mind on her mission. 

Eventually she reached the center of the forest city, a clearing in the shade of a ring of colossal trees.  At the heart of the clearing, a minute and knobby tree crouched quietly on top of a thick quilt, patched and woven from every type of lichen and moss.

Barkha slowed down and tucked her legs underneath her, staring impatiently at the tree.  She shifted on the cushy green floor and siphoned foggy air in and out of her lungs.  Finally, the perennial’s old gray leaves fluttered in the wind and it began to creak, slowly rising up and stretching.  It unfolded itself until it formed a woody humanoid three times the size of the little sprite.  It rose.  A sound like branches slapping against each other in the wind resonated from its cracking back.

Settling, the tree folded its legs in front of itself.  It slowly pulled its eyelids apart and smiled at her with soulful eyes like crystal clear drops of persimmon colored amber resin. Hello, Barkha. I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.  She nodded, thinking of her many visits to the grove in the last month.  When she needed someone to talk to, she came running to