Tales of Tenth Grade

His footsteps echoed through the courtyard. The clanking of chainmail swallowed the hushed whispers of the crowd. All eyes were focused on Creon. He was marched down the polished marble steps, soldiers lined on either side. As the precession turned, Creon could finally face his fate. The group paused before slowly making their way down the dingy hall. "Hands at his sides, head held high, back straight;" the only thoughts which flooded Creon's mind. He knew he should have let Antigone live, however her demise left him with guilt panging through his body. One step at a time, one breath at a time, one second at a time he moved forth. His destination loomed ahead; wood, rope, and steel. Creon mindlessly marched on, he knew his only job was to keep his dignity, his pride, his power. Creon approached the guillotine, his heart rate rising. The declaration of exacution began, though Creon paid no attention. His focus remained on the area where his body would lay. At last, he w...

It should have been home to none. The land had nothing to offer, nothing to give. It is here the days blend into weeks, blur into months, bleed into years until time ceases to have meaning, ceases to exist. Naught but the fever trees and marulas and aptly named whistling thorns may grow, albeit sparsely, their scrawny sun- darkened limbs hesitantly reaching to greet the eternal dawn. It is in this place the sand has long ago molded into a solid mass, and unforgiving and harsh it yields to none. Cracks run across its expanse, crumbling bits of sand into motes to be spun around by the fury of the wind.  Inhospitable. Here the days give rise to nothing but half-hearted winds and temperatures so sweltering they render the already harsh land all but uninhabitable. The nights offer little reprieve, the cloak of darkness masking all former signs of warmth a little too well, drawing the land into a frigid embrace. Water is even scarcer than the starved trees here, a ...