I told the wrinkled woman, who looked so much like my grandmother, that I was scared. She held my hand tightly, I felt the rings on her fingers branding my flesh with her grip, "Breathe deep, sweetie, breathe deep." I did as I was told. I felt my eyes closing, the tears clinging to my lashes as the world faded to black. When I woke, I was the youngest in the room. The only white girl too. I was in an old recliner chair, with a pale green blanket, the color of sea glass, pulled up around my shoulders. There was a wet smudge on the front. Apparently, I'd been drooling. I looked around at the unfamiliar faces, seeing my pants on the table beside me; the older women with skins of every shade of soil, eying me reproachfully. I closed my eyes, turned my head to the side and tried not to cry. This was the first time I realized I was a murderer.

Sara DeLaVergne is a junior at Franklin Pierce University, majoring in creative writing. Over the past semester she has been Editor-in-Chief of  Nevermore, the school's literary magazine. On campus, she is famous for wearing a flower in her hair that is color coordinated with her daily outfit.

As a writer, my main focus is fiction and creating a novel length work that I can be proud to call my child. This snippet of prose would be a small blade of grass in the meadow that is my writing. However, it is this blade of grass that possesses an emotional tie to my heart as I intend it to resonate with anyone that's ever made a life changing choice and wondered about the outcome had they taken a different path.  



Copyright 2009