Carly Silver

School: Weston High School
Grade: 11 th grade
3 years at YWI
I love CWP because it has taught me so much about writing. Every year I larn new styles, techniques, and ideas to help me write. Also, I’ve made so many friends here over the years- it’s a staple of my summer.

Moses

The dry Egyptian wind sighed through the air, groaning its displeasure. It was weary of the endless sands of the kingdom of Kamet, the Two Lands, or whatever those humans wanted to call their country. Its heaving breath tousled the starched linen of Pharaoh’s daughters, wrinkled the shorn child-locks of Egyptian youths, and sullied the silken kilt of Pharaoh himself. The wind stopped on a tall, brawny young man hard at work, his handsome body clad in a soiled linen kilt. The kilt, littered with mud and dirt, was obviously once a pristine white, but was now quite soiled. The youth’s glowing brown eyes spoke of intelligence and sensitivity, while his muscular frame showed off his strength. His skin was not quite as tanned as that of the other slaves around him, his form not as bound by the Pharaoh’s chains. The young man grunted as he hoisted a large mud brick. “I shouldn’t have to be doing this,” he muttered, heaving the block.

A nearby slave, his face weather-beaten and desolate, snarled, “You didn’t have to do this, Moses. You could have lived a pampered life in Pharaoh’s palace instead.”

Moses’ face lit up in protest. “You know why I do this—because it is the right thing to do. I, too, am a Hebrew, so I stay with the Hebrews.”

The man snorted. “You’re hardly more a Hebrew than Pharaoh himself. Being born a Hebrew and being an Egyptian in your heart are two quite different things, Moses.” The man shuffled off, beckoning to a nearby water-carrier for a drop of the precious liquid.

These people are so antagonistic, thought Moses in disgust. How am I supposed to make them believe I really am a Hebrew, not a minion of Pharaoh, reared by his daughter? Mother! his soul cried. He shook his head and mopped his brow with the back of his hand. The Hebrews may never accept me. Wistfully, he thought of the cool wine served in Pharaoh’s palace, the servants ready to serve his every need. If I want to be a Hebrew, I have to think like one. I am a Hebrew by birth, but no one cares about birth. If I act like an Egyptian, my people will never accept me. I am a Hebrew now.

Moses bent over at the waist, struggling to lift another large block to carry over to the sledge waiting for it. Veins stood out, blue as lapis, from his broad forehead, and he panted, tottering towards the sledge. Dropping the block onto the sledge, Moses wiped his hands on his already filthy kilt. I want to go home, his inner child cried. He wanted his comfortable couch in the palace, his marble bathtub, his sleek linen. He did not ask to be a Hebrew! No, Moses chided himself.

Behind him, a whistle seared the air, and a smacking sound was followed by a man’s sharp howl of pain. “Work, slave!” cried the overseer. The whip sang out again, its song savage and filled with a perverse joy, landing on the slave’s back. Lashes crisscrossed his back, blood slowly dripping down to color the dull sand. With a shock, Moses recognized the slave he had argued with only minutes earlier! The whip rang out again, and the slave’s knees buckled. He sank to the ground, his head bowed in resignation and pain. As he fell, his eyes met Moses’. The Hebrew read humiliation, pain, and, more than anything, a sense of pleading in them. As if the slave had somehow gotten into his head, he heard a voice inside himself say, Help me, Moses!

Moses stared at his fellow slave. His own back began to burn, then sting. The overseer turned to him and smirked at the sight of the ex-prince in pain. “What is it, Your Highness?” he said mockingly. “Is the little prince tired of working already?” The pain in Moses grew to internal inferno. It burned, stoked by a divine bellows, and Moses shrieked in pain and rage. With a hiss, he drew the dagger he kept in his kilt and bore down on the overseer. The overseer’s expression changed from one of smug satisfaction to one of shock. As he put up his hands to defend himself, Moses’ dagger struck at the man. It dove like a pelican into the overseer’s black heart, blood spurting out like a fountain. The overseer gasped, then stepped back, clutching his chest. He fell, his head twisted around, onto the sand.

The slave turned, his back leering at Moses. He gaped at the young Hebrew, then shouted in pure, unadulterated anger at the youth who still stood in shock, his dagger dripping blood. “You idiot! What have you done? We’ll all be punished by Pharaoh because of you!” As he continued to rant at Moses, the Hebrew regained his senses. He dropped his dagger into the sand and began to carefully pour sand over the dead man. The slave stopped his oration for a moment. “What are you doing?” he croaked in astonishment.

Shaking his kilt free of sand, Moses gained a bit of composure. “What does it look like, my friend? I’m burying him. At least, they won’t find him for a little while.” He shoved the body under the sand a final time and patted the sand under which the body lay. Getting to his feet, he asked, “Are you all right?”

“As good as I can be, I suppose,” the slave replied, also getting to his feet. “Why will you do now? Pharaoh’s soldiers will be after you, Moses.”

“I know,” the young Hebrew shrugged. “I’ll leave, I suppose. Egypt holds too many memories for me now. I’ll be back eventually, I hope.”

The slave gulped. “Thanks, by the way,” he ventured timidly. “I was a bit angry.”

“No problem,” Moses replied smoothly. “Take care of those lashes, my friend. I’ve got to be off.”

“Just like that?” the slave asked incredulously.

A grin crossed Moses’ face. “Just like that,” he whispered, holding a finger to his lips. “I’ll be back, never fear.” With that, the young Egyptian-turned-Hebrew began to thread his way through the workers to where the Great Road led out of Thebes. The slave shook his head at the folly of youth and continued his neverending work.

Ballad of the English Royals: Volume I

O, the saga of the Kings of Britain is long
And no man knows all their wives
That’s why I decided to write this song
And to identify the royals I shall strive

England was conquered by the great French duke
William of Normandy, he was called—his cousin Maud he married
Although him she did for abducting her she did rebuke,
He married her and his children she carried

Their son, Henry, into a nearby royal family was wed
His Scottish Princess Edith loved him well
She bore him a boy and a girl—the boy was later dead
The girl, Maud, married Geoffrey of Anjou—this marriage produced sons, as one can tell

Henry’s nephew, Stephen, for himself claimed the throne
His wife bore him a son, Eustace by name
But Maud’s son Henry was now a man grown
And the throne of Britain he did tame

Henry was quite a lusty man
His wife was the lovely Eleanor of Aquitaine
She bore him five sons and from him (with her son Richard) she ran
Her youngest son, John, became king after Richard, just the same

John, once called ‘Lackland,’ took Isabel of Angouleme from her fiancé
She bore him a son, Henry, and daughters
But she was very vengeful, that I will say
And later married her ex-fiance’s son (he finally got her)

Now, the Count of Provence had several little females
One he wed to Louis of France; the other to Henry III of Britain
The Queen of England bore Henry a son, Edward, at the mention of whom men go pale
He was not content to be a mere king in a long litany

He married first Eleanor of Castile
She had only girls, except for one boy
He, too, was named Edward—for real!
She later died, and he remarried—oh, boy!

Edward II married a Princess of France
Isabel by name; she was adulterous
Edward’s son was also named Edward; she got into other pants!
Isabel became quite infamous

Their son was Edward III, a grand lad
He took to wife Philippa of Hainault, his cousin
They had many sons and daughters—they argued a tad
His grandson, Richard II, angered nobles by the dozen

Richard first wed a German princess
She, unfortunately, bore him no babies
She died, and he wept—such a mess
He married Isabel of France—she was too young for him, you see

Richard`s cousin, Henry of Lancaster, succeeded him as king
King Henry IV wed a woman, noble Mary de Bohun by name
She gave him desired sons, though he had many a fling
Their eldest son became a warrior of great fame

Henry V took to wife Catherine of France
She was young; he loved her
She bore him only one son, Henry, by chance
He was an ill-fated child, which caused quite a stir

Henry VI of Lancaster wed Margaret of Anjou
She was quite lovely, but only had one son
His name was Edward, but he died before many knew
The next heir was his cousin Edward IV—of Lancastrian heirs, he had none

Edward IV was the first king of the York house
He married the commoner Elizabeth—quite a wife
She bore him several sons—his brother Richard III (Anne Neville’s spouse)
Killed them, causing unending strife

That’s all I have so far
The saga continues—from York to Tudor
The British kings are without par
They don’t get much greater, richer, or lewder

The Traitor

Silk soft as sunlight
Wrapped around him
Slips down his throat
Like
A
Caress
Deceiving
He thinks the sun is
Benign
But it is v e n g e f u l
Slides down his body
Wraps around his stomach
Ties itself in a
KNOT
Squeezes so tightly
He gasps and
Wheezes
He’s gone