Storymakers: The Guard(ian)

Storymakers: The Guard(ian)

By Dandi
Eighth Grade
Odle Middle School
Bellevue, WA

The hall was dimly lit, and the glows of the cloudy sky outside seeping in from the bars only added to the sense of tightness, as if the stories held inside its occupants were too large to be contained. The guard trudged down the hall, holding a black notebook, stopping intermittently to talk to the inmates.

He stopped at the last cell in the row and looked down at his notebook.

"Lloyd Warner."

The man glanced up from his cell. The guard skimmed over his face. His dark hair was tasseled, his olive skin dirty, but his eyes were a light green, cutting through the muck. The guard's eyes stayed on his face for a second longer than what was needed for recognition. Something about Lloyd Warner's face startled him. It was too pure to be that of a murderer.

The guard looked down again.

"Your execution is to be in two days."

The man nodded heavily.

"Any requests for your last meal?"

"Pasta."

The guard jotted this down onto his notebook, his head bent down, intent on not meeting the man's eyes again.

"What kind?"

"My mom's."

The pen stopped moving. The guard looked up slowly, inching his head up, delaying the sentence that he would have to mutter, denying the man's request.

The guard's lips parted, forming the first syllables.

"Look, I don-"

"Please." The man's voice was flat, but his eyes were pleading.

The guard paused, and pressed his lips together. When he had opened them again to speak, his voice was low.

"I'll see what I can do."

He turned and walked away.

The guard woke up; the sky outside was still scattered with stars. He jumped into the shower, letting the warm pelting of water massage his sore muscles.

He wondered why the man in the first cell had bothered so much. Why he would skip a day of work to help him. He was just a number, like every other person there. Inmate #0013924.

The guard got out of the shower. After he had dressed, he picked up the phone receiver and dialed the number of his boss at the jail.

"Hello?" The voice was gruff.

"Hey Neil. It's me."

"Oh. When're you coming in today?"

The guard hesitated. He could still go.

"Uh...listen. I feel a bug coming on. I think I'll stay home."

"Huh."

"Can you just tell Wyatt to take over for me today?"

"Fine."

"Sorry Neil."

"Fine. Just get some rest."

"Right. Thanks. Bye."

"Bye."

The guard exhaled forcefully. He hated lying.

He threw on a coat, opened the door, and stepped outside.

It had been easy to find Lloyd Warren's address, where he had lived with his mother for years before going to jail.

The house was small and quaint. The outside was painted a light shade of blue and the white of the shutters contrasted violently against it.

The guard looked down at his notebook, on the page scribbled with the address. He made sure that he was at the right place, as he had done four times already since he had arrived at the door.

The guard walked up to the door slowly, every step in hesitation. He gently pressed the door bell. The ring resonated through the streets, too loud to fit in with the gentle rustling of the wind.

He heard someone behind the door walk up, pause to look into the peephole, and then grudgingly open the door.

The woman that stood behind the door was a tall, trim brunette. Her eyes were the same light green as those of Lloyd Warner, and her skin reflected the same olive undertone. She looked to be in her mid-twenties, early thirties at the most.

"May I help you?" Her voice rang clear and bright.

"Are you...related to Lloyd Warner?"

The woman's eyes flickered dangerously.

"How do you know my brother?"

"I work at the prison where he is currently held. I'm here regarding his mother."

The dangerous flame in the woman's eyes burned brighter.

"His mother?" She asked coldly.

"Yes. He pleaded with me to try and get a bowl of her pasta as his last meal."

The woman's shock was palpable.

She started to close the door. When it had gotten halfway, she stopped, the intensity in her eyes boring holes into the guard's skull.

"His mother-my mother-" she said menacingly, "is dead." Her voice dropped low. "He killed her 12 years ago."

The door slammed in the guard's face.

Mealtime came on the second day.

The guard walked down the hall, handing out the inmates' meals. When he had gotten to the last cell, he handed Lloyd Warner the usual aluminum plate of food.

"So you couldn't find it, huh?" the man asked, the plate resting on his legs.

The guard stared at him.

"You killed your mother."

The man smiled wryly.

"Is that supposed to be an explanation or an accusation?"

The guard started to turn away.

"Wait!"

"Why?"

Lloyd Warner hesitated, trying to find the right words.

"Now it makes a difference that I'm going to die. My death changes the world for you just a bit. It won't for anyone else's."

The guard's face was expressionless, his lips minced and thin.

"How do you know it won't change for the better?"

"I don't. I just hope.

"Then stop hoping."

The guard walked away.

12 years ago.

Lloyd Warner stood in the courtroom. He looked around him. At the faces that accused him. He took a deep breath.

"I plead not guilty."

Storymakers: A Creative Challenge for Young Writers, is a program inviting students in sixth, seventh, and eighth grades living in Washington State and British Columbia, Canada, to submit their own original creative writing pieces.