Fiction
The Life of a Shark
A Short Story by Julia Morton, 12th Grade
A shark is consistent above all else. He lives in constant motion. He wakes from his
unconscious state each morning. He stalks, hunting for his next bloody victim. He chases any
moving animal that is willing to give his life for the shark – fish, turtles, birds. A shark races to
achieve his primary objective, one necessary for life: nourishment. When the shark has met his
gruesome goal, he hunts again. After his final meal of his day, the shark drifts to an unconscious
state, the closest he comes to rest. A shark spends his days swimming and chasing. He swims
day in and day out without ceasing for his life is truly dependent on it.
It is said that one Greenland shark may be as much as five hundred and twelve years
old. It may be the oldest vertebrate known to man, surpassing the bowhead whale at two
hundred and twelve years old. Can you imagine living in such a routine for five hundred and
twelve years? Does he get bored of the monotony? Does he yearn for spontaneity and
excitement? Or does the excitement of a new conquest provide enough satisfaction?
_____________
I first truly thought of sharks as a nine-year- old visiting the Virginia Beach aquarium – not
far from my home. I had traveled there on a school field trip. My classmates and I ran from
exhibit to exhibit, never stopping to truly look at any one animal. Then, I found the bull shark.
Within that aquarium, home to thousands of aquatic animals, the bull shark stood out to
me. I paused – cloaking the glass with every breath – peering into the shark tank. It felt odd to
have a private viewing of these animal’s personal homes. They had their whole lives on display
without ever getting to know the viewers.
_____________
The shark swam past me on the other side of the glass. I was hooked. He whipped
around and swam past me once more, allowing me to view his full form. His body was
intimidating, a lengthy combination of cartilage and bone. He had beady eyes on opposite sides
of his face. He had a mouth full of souvenir pendants.
The shark seemed not to notice me. He was either adjusted to life as an exhibit or he
was intensely focused on his routine. He was fed at the same time each and every day. The
museum lights would turn on and off at the same time each and every day.
I didn’t understand at the time that both sharks in the wild and sharks in captivity
experience monotony. Sharks in captivity swim mindlessly, waiting for the next meal. Sharks in
the wild swim, persistently searching for their next prey. They will die if they stop hunting. Their
life is dependent upon movement. If you think about it, all sharks live in cages, don’t they?
Sharks are enclosed by their endless daily regimens. Some have larger aquariums. Some have
smaller.
_____________
I wish I could live a truly spontaneous life. I visit aquariums and remind myself of the life
of a shark. Sharks don’t choose to live this life of incessant procedure. Unlike sharks, our lives
don’t depend on constant movement. However, people continue to hunt for their next
accomplishment. Why aren’t people satisfied with simply living? We graduate high school only
to focus on our collegiate studies. We graduate once again and focus on our careers. After that,
we focus on marriage and children. We are conditioned to believe that our lives are pointless
and unworthy if we have no goal. We live in a constant pursuit. Unlike sharks, our lives are not
dependent on repetition and movement. We choose to do that. We choose how to spend our
lives, yet we continue to choose this practice. Humans - and sharks - are creatures of habit.
I should have taken the life of that shark closer to my nine-year- old heart. In the years
since, I should have had more impulsive moments of fun. Instead, I spent many afternoons with
work on my mind. My life has since become a pattern – just like the bull shark’s. I’m trapped in
my cage of practice and cycles. I would like to live not as a shark but as a deer, traveling where
he deems fit. Does it really count as living if it is rehearsed and premeditated? I want to live a
carefree life of independence rather than one of routine.
A shark is consistent above all else. He lives in constant motion. He wakes from his
unconscious state each morning. He stalks, hunting for his next bloody victim. He chases any
moving animal that is willing to give his life for the shark – fish, turtles, birds. A shark races to
achieve his primary objective, one necessary for life: nourishment. When the shark has met his
gruesome goal, he hunts again. After his final meal of his day, the shark drifts to an unconscious
state, the closest he comes to rest. A shark spends his days swimming and chasing. He swims
day in and day out without ceasing for his life is truly dependent on it.
It is said that one Greenland shark may be as much as five hundred and twelve years
old. It may be the oldest vertebrate known to man, surpassing the bowhead whale at two
hundred and twelve years old. Can you imagine living in such a routine for five hundred and
twelve years? Does he get bored of the monotony? Does he yearn for spontaneity and
excitement? Or does the excitement of a new conquest provide enough satisfaction?
_____________
I first truly thought of sharks as a nine-year- old visiting the Virginia Beach aquarium – not
far from my home. I had traveled there on a school field trip. My classmates and I ran from
exhibit to exhibit, never stopping to truly look at any one animal. Then, I found the bull shark.
Within that aquarium, home to thousands of aquatic animals, the bull shark stood out to
me. I paused – cloaking the glass with every breath – peering into the shark tank. It felt odd to
have a private viewing of these animal’s personal homes. They had their whole lives on display
without ever getting to know the viewers.
_____________
The shark swam past me on the other side of the glass. I was hooked. He whipped
around and swam past me once more, allowing me to view his full form. His body was
intimidating, a lengthy combination of cartilage and bone. He had beady eyes on opposite sides
of his face. He had a mouth full of souvenir pendants.
The shark seemed not to notice me. He was either adjusted to life as an exhibit or he
was intensely focused on his routine. He was fed at the same time each and every day. The
museum lights would turn on and off at the same time each and every day.
I didn’t understand at the time that both sharks in the wild and sharks in captivity
experience monotony. Sharks in captivity swim mindlessly, waiting for the next meal. Sharks in
the wild swim, persistently searching for their next prey. They will die if they stop hunting. Their
life is dependent upon movement. If you think about it, all sharks live in cages, don’t they?
Sharks are enclosed by their endless daily regimens. Some have larger aquariums. Some have
smaller.
_____________
I wish I could live a truly spontaneous life. I visit aquariums and remind myself of the life
of a shark. Sharks don’t choose to live this life of incessant procedure. Unlike sharks, our lives
don’t depend on constant movement. However, people continue to hunt for their next
accomplishment. Why aren’t people satisfied with simply living? We graduate high school only
to focus on our collegiate studies. We graduate once again and focus on our careers. After that,
we focus on marriage and children. We are conditioned to believe that our lives are pointless
and unworthy if we have no goal. We live in a constant pursuit. Unlike sharks, our lives are not
dependent on repetition and movement. We choose to do that. We choose how to spend our
lives, yet we continue to choose this practice. Humans - and sharks - are creatures of habit.
I should have taken the life of that shark closer to my nine-year- old heart. In the years
since, I should have had more impulsive moments of fun. Instead, I spent many afternoons with
work on my mind. My life has since become a pattern – just like the bull shark’s. I’m trapped in
my cage of practice and cycles. I would like to live not as a shark but as a deer, traveling where
he deems fit. Does it really count as living if it is rehearsed and premeditated? I want to live a
carefree life of independence rather than one of routine.
Respite
A Short Story by Julia Morton, 12th Grade
The thick, muggy heat of Virginia’s summer envelops us as we run, jump, and
swing. The familiar sound of the gate swinging open warrants a pause to the play. I
squeal when I see my father emerge from the alley behind our house. I jump from the
monkey bars, bound towards him, and welcome him home with a hug.
My family gathers on the deck in the backyard for our evening ritual. We eat as
we reflect on our day. We tell stories, share jokes, and most importantly, we laugh. We
welcome the setting sun that relieves us from the intense warmth. Oblivious to me and
my brother, my parents exchange knowing glances. It would only be a few minutes until
we heard the trademark jingle. Brian and I shout. The ice cream truck! It’s here!
We run to the front yard, greeting the man who now knew our names. Brian and I
receive our popsicles resembling animated characters. Mine was Spongebob. His was
Spiderman. Within minutes, they were melting under the relentless heat of the summer.
It was not long until our faces were tattooed with rainbow colors - a result of our messy
eating. Like our face, our hands too were sticky and slimy, but we did not have a care in
the world.
Despite a new house, I know today that the ice cream truck arrives every
Tuesday afternoon throughout the spring and into the early fall. He has learned that we
are reliable customers, and he never fails to stop directly in front of our house.
Chilled and sweet, ice cream was regarded as the only positive break available in
the stifling, humid weather of Virginia’s summers. My family needed a treat after a
sweltering day when the sun never seemed to set. Now, the ice cream truck is a similar
pause to my day. After many hours spent studying, I am rewarded with the arrival of the
truck. I put down my books and step outside to order. My dad comes home and we
engage in the familiar evening routine. We sit around the table, share stories about our
day, and laugh. Once our meal is complete, Brian clears the table. I load the
dishwasher. Then we open the freezer and pull out our much needed respite.
The thick, muggy heat of Virginia’s summer envelops us as we run, jump, and
swing. The familiar sound of the gate swinging open warrants a pause to the play. I
squeal when I see my father emerge from the alley behind our house. I jump from the
monkey bars, bound towards him, and welcome him home with a hug.
My family gathers on the deck in the backyard for our evening ritual. We eat as
we reflect on our day. We tell stories, share jokes, and most importantly, we laugh. We
welcome the setting sun that relieves us from the intense warmth. Oblivious to me and
my brother, my parents exchange knowing glances. It would only be a few minutes until
we heard the trademark jingle. Brian and I shout. The ice cream truck! It’s here!
We run to the front yard, greeting the man who now knew our names. Brian and I
receive our popsicles resembling animated characters. Mine was Spongebob. His was
Spiderman. Within minutes, they were melting under the relentless heat of the summer.
It was not long until our faces were tattooed with rainbow colors - a result of our messy
eating. Like our face, our hands too were sticky and slimy, but we did not have a care in
the world.
Despite a new house, I know today that the ice cream truck arrives every
Tuesday afternoon throughout the spring and into the early fall. He has learned that we
are reliable customers, and he never fails to stop directly in front of our house.
Chilled and sweet, ice cream was regarded as the only positive break available in
the stifling, humid weather of Virginia’s summers. My family needed a treat after a
sweltering day when the sun never seemed to set. Now, the ice cream truck is a similar
pause to my day. After many hours spent studying, I am rewarded with the arrival of the
truck. I put down my books and step outside to order. My dad comes home and we
engage in the familiar evening routine. We sit around the table, share stories about our
day, and laugh. Once our meal is complete, Brian clears the table. I load the
dishwasher. Then we open the freezer and pull out our much needed respite.
Tomato Soup + Grilled Cheese; A.K.A. the Greatest Couple that Ever Lived
A Short Story by Andrea Eichenberger, 12 Grade
In theory, tomato soup does not sound good. Tomato water, sometimes with cream. In
reality, it often is not good either. Only one person has ever gotten it right, and that is
Campbell’s. Campbell’s Tomato Soup has reigned supreme over the soup land otherwise known
as my heart for many, many years.
When I think of winter as season of my childhood, one routine is clear. We would have a
snow day. Surprise! The weather forecasts were wrong, the schools were disappointed, and the
children were overjoyed. Early in the morning, back when sleep didn’t matter, I’d wake to the
glorious view of a snow-blanketed neighborhood out my window. I’d run downstairs, rush
through breakfast. I’d dress warmly, then dance my way into snow pants and snow boots and
snow gloves. My mom, much to my disdain, would throw on a fleece hat and scarf as I dashed
out the door. Oh, it was glorious! I would make a snowman in the backyard. I would trudge up
the giant hill across the street and spend the whole day sledding. But coming back inside was
the best part, because I always knew exactly what was waiting for me.
There on the granite countertop was a warm bowl of tomato soup, sandwiched by
grilled cheese halves, next to a steaming mug of hot chocolate. Behind the counter was my
smiling mother. My sister and I would hurry to kick off our snow-caked boots, tummies
rumbling after trekking uphill in the snow then sliding back down for so long. There at the
counter we’d sit, beginning with the grilled cheese. Often one side would be blackened—the
result of a stray thought and a stove set on high. It didn’t matter, because in the soup it would
go, the butter coating my fingertips. A bite was misleadingly complex for a meal so simple; first
there was the crispy bread top that scraped my teeth, (often due to its blackened state) which
brought with it the vague taste of charcoal but also the deliciously salty taste of the bread’s
only defense against a sizzling pan. Then there was the cheese. It could be any cheese, but all
that mattered was the double layers and the gooey strings full of so much love they couldn’t
bear to part with one another as I tried to pull pieces apart. The creamy cheese only enhanced
the nature of the soup, which coated the sandwich in a faintly orange glaze. Together they
became a salty Trojan horse, smuggling in a hint of sweetness and the tiniest whisper of tomato
flavor. This is the key. I would not even recognize it as tomato soup if not for a lifetime of
smelling and seeing such a distinguishable shade of reddish-orange.
Now the sandwich had been consumed, and I was left with a boring bowl of crumb-
infested 99¢ soup. WRONG! The possibilities are endless! A plain bowl of tomato soup is as
close as one can get to a blank canvas in the culinary world. It could become the oceanic home
to my school of Goldfish. Alternatively, it could become the ocean which slowly swallowed an
entire mountain of crumbling Saltines. As an 8-year- old, crushing a whole bunch of crackers
with the sheer might of my tiny fists was incredibly satisfying, as was the follow up of watching
my handy work sinking and then ultimately disappear into a murky abyss.
Eventually, the endless spooning would relent to the final tilt of the bowl to my lips,
revealing the last hidden fugitive crumbs at the bottom. Off I would go to warm my feet at the
fire, having been warming in my belly and my heart.
It never matters what the quality of the sandwich is, or the fact that the soup comes
from a can. It’s the memories I have attached to them, and not just because it’s one of the very
few things I can manage to cook, that makes grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup a
comfort food I will eat for the rest of my life. I will also serve it proudly to my snow-caked
children from across the countertop as they rush in with red cheeks from an unexpected snow
day.
The Accident
A Short Story by Anna Eliasek, 10th Grade
As the happy families walked down the streets of sunny Florida heading to a neighborhood potluck, no one had any idea of the events that would transpire in the next few moments. They were all unaware of the car that would come speeding by any minute now, killing a young boy with his whole life ahead of him. The Andersons, a very big happy family were late out of their house, but who could blame them; they had ten kids. In the house that morning there had been some conflicts that couldn’t be solved. A small conflict was often blown out of proportion in their family because of how large it was. Including Mr and Mrs Anderson there were eight of them; Sarah, John, Martha, James, Abby, and Leo. While they were walking, no one seemed to notice little Leo walking out into the street chasing a ball that caught his eye after rolling past his feet. Suddenly, a bright red car comes speeding around the corner. Little Leo didn't even see it coming. He was killed on impact. The only questions that could be asked were; what if Sarah hadn’t have gone to the bathroom before hand, what if the car actually had started, and what if little leo’s parents had told him not to run out into the street after the ball. All these things could have changed his life.
As the happy families walked down the streets of sunny Florida heading to a neighborhood potluck, no one had any idea of the events that would transpire in the next few moments. They were all unaware of the car that would come speeding by any minute now, killing a young boy with his whole life ahead of him. The Andersons, a very big happy family were late out of their house, but who could blame them; they had ten kids. In the house that morning there had been some conflicts that couldn’t be solved. A small conflict was often blown out of proportion in their family because of how large it was. Including Mr and Mrs Anderson there were eight of them; Sarah, John, Martha, James, Abby, and Leo. While they were walking, no one seemed to notice little Leo walking out into the street chasing a ball that caught his eye after rolling past his feet. Suddenly, a bright red car comes speeding around the corner. Little Leo didn't even see it coming. He was killed on impact. The only questions that could be asked were; what if Sarah hadn’t have gone to the bathroom before hand, what if the car actually had started, and what if little leo’s parents had told him not to run out into the street after the ball. All these things could have changed his life.