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Untitled pt 2The Werston Wing had been built to honor Henry Wernston, the man who had donated money to add to the school's already impressive structure. The lockers were lined up against the walls, clean and sparkling, yet worn from their constant use. The trio traced their way through the map and surged forward, their anxiousness building with every second. Then, the marked locker appeared to them.
"Awesome. You think anyone uses it?"
"Weren't the lockers from 320-330 banned from use because of rusting?" asked George, although he was well aware of the answer. John shrugged while Sally finally joined the two, her face red from the run.
"I can't believe you guys left me behind!" she complained, breathing hard.
"Girls shouldn't try and follow boys," said John, wiping sweat from his forehead. Sally glared at him angrily and then popped the tab on her can of apple juice. The ears of both boys perked up at the sound of escaping gas.
"Oh no! We forgot to get our drinks!" moaned John, bangin
Untitled"John, get up already!"
John laughed as Sally looked down at him. The sun was raging hot and George had already moved into the shade. John sat on his haunches and grinned at Sally, who kept lasering him like a disapproving mother.
"C'mon John, get up. You're going to get all dusty," she nagged, gripping the collar of his shirt.
"Agh, no! Stop it!" John croaked, clawing at his neck mockingly. She glared at him and pulled even harder. "No, ow! Really, stop! Ow! OW!"
"That's what you get for being stubborn," said Sally testily as she dragged John under the shade. "I don't know how in the world you can stay out there. It's raging hot."
"Ah, you're all just a bunch of vampires, I swear," said John, rolling his eyes. He stuck his hand out daringly into the sun. "See, it doesn't burn."
Sally pinched him in retaliation and John jumped with another OW!
"Say, get off!" said George, shifting his glasses back into place.
"Sorry, Georgie. Sally's fault, you know."
"Oh, sure, blame it on the girl."
And so I taking the string again, for what was I but a weaver? I take the string and offer it, ecstatic and flushed with excitement. Yes, take it! Take it with you! YES! This is my gift to you! Take it please!
Weaver I may be, but I can not force it upon people. Oh if I do, the string breaks so much more easily. That I found. And as that person looks at me with wary, but gentle eyes, I feel the acceptance course through my body. Oh yes, I am a weaver. A ghastly weaver. And I take the string easily in my hand, fondling the soft threads spidering themselves out at the end. I slip the string around the index finger, for is that not the most familiar of all? And the string is tied into a tight knot. Knot and all, it is solid. I tie the other end to my finger, a finger laced with dozens of threads, all extending out like a web reaching for support.
And then I feel the string pulling, pulling hard. And I'm so scared. Scared, scared as the fine web starts to shake, the string starts to
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