Kit Kat, please write them down on the computer so we can read them. I've been waiting for a VERY long time. Please please please, and a thousand other pleases. *Looks up with a puppy dog face*

Ok, fine: To Follow a Brook 

Mysteries lie in the tumbling currents of the rivers, hidden under the water that forces them strongly on their way. To follow a brook, they say, is to follow dreams and hidden hopes. To find what you search for. And what awaits you at the end...is unspeakable. Who has the courage? The courage...to follow a brook.

A spring morning...insignificant. The sheep milled in their fields, the French castle ruins on the hills were coated with nesting birds. Over the ocean, a great war, but it did not lay a finger on our farm. At least I thought it would not.

"Ana!" My mam called out, beckoning to me from the threshold. I registered the downward tug of her eyes and mouth.

"What is it, Mam?" I queried. She sighed, and then Papa appeared behind her. He was carrying his musket...how odd. He eyed me from under his ruffled brown hair, and cap jammed low. He slid his arm around Mam, and she broke down, sinking into his chest.

"I'm so sorry." His voice was deep, but shaky. "But they told me to go...to the great war in the New World." My father was gone. It was 1812.

Months passed, years. The newspapers claimed that the war was over. But Papa did not come back. Mam cried. I cried. It rained for a week. God was crying for us. And he gave me a dream.

In my dream, I was walking along a brook, following it, through hills and through the forest. And at the end, there was Papa. It was a sign. And the next day it was sunny.

I left behind the home I loved, my mam sobbing in her bed, the sheep wallowing in the mud. I traveled through the hills, the grass flattening beneath my weary feet. I spent days along the dusty trail...nights restless in the tall weeds. Then I came to the brook.

Follow the brook. Follow it. I followed it, until i felt i could not go on anymore. Then ahead it seemed to disappear, plunging into a ravine. No. No more climbing. I could not take it. But I did. Stumbling down the cliff. Then I tripped. Swirling colors as I fell. The water all around. I was in a pool. The brook had ended. I lay in the forest nearest the sea, fine ships in the harbor a mile away. I closed my eyes. My dream was wrong.

Footsteps. Coming closer. I opened my eyes. No. It couldn't be. But it was. I had followed the brook. And Papa picked me up and carried me home. I had found the treasure spoken of...at the end of the brook. 

That's wonderful! I'd love to hear more of your stories! (oh, and just a suggestion - you might want to copyrite it)

ok, i know its been a while, but here goes "To Break the Silence"

Things were brewing. Some said war. Others said a revolution. But whatever it was, it had brought british ships to Boston. I was just awake when they came, puffing out their sails like jaunty cocks. They seemed beautiful to me, for I loved watching ships brave the storms. But my brother didn't like it. Sam spat on the ground, and viciously turned back the way we had come.

"Come along, Abby." His tone was sharp. I wanted to stay back and watche the ships anchor. Sam sensed my resistance. He grabbed my shoulders. "Listen, Abby!" His eyes turned angry. He started shaking me. "Listen! What do you hear? Silence!" Indeed, it was unaturally quiet. "That sound is our future, our fate! It is the sound of people hungry. Hungry for freedom!"

The days passed, Sam's mood never lightening. His eyes were broiling like storm clouds all through the crisp air of autumn. Snow was falling as I made my way across the square one day, eager to get inside the warmth of my father's tavern. As I crossed the square, I sawSam and a few other boys huddled together, eyeing theBritish patrols in their sharp-looking uniforms. I tried to catch Sam's eye, and as soon as he saw me, he vigorouslywaved me inside. I wondered what his problem was, but I went. Then, a commotion. Snowballs. Sticks. Bullets. And a red stained ground. Sam lay in the snow, clutching at his side. Red bloomed from it, an exotice flower. His eyes locked onto mine. His lips formed words.

"Abby. Listen...silence. All is...silent." And his breathing slowed and stopped, his eyelashed fluttering closed. My brother, my dear brother, was dead. And the world was still silent.

So now I have taken his place, to quench the hunger for freedom. And so I stand now I a row of my countrymen, gun in hand. The snaking red line approaches, and waites. It is silent. I cannot take it, this silence. It must be broken, for otherwards it shall destroy, as it did my brother. And I raised my musket to the line of red. I pull the trigger. The shot heard round the world. The British soldier crumples. The shot still rings in my ears.

"For Sam."

Please, go to the front!!!!