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Stella Chrystler ~ February 2020

Page history last edited by michianawriterscenter@... 2 years, 3 months ago

Featured Author~ Stella Chrystler









Meet Stella...

My name is Stella Chrystler and I am 14 years old. I love reading, writing, playing the cello, and acting. I started creative writing when I was in 5thgrade and have loved it ever since. I like writing epic fantasy because of the ability of being able to create worlds and characters straight from my imagination. I love sending my characters on adventures through mystical worlds full of magic and danger. Another thing I like to write is short stories, small and meaningful pieces in which I can express my emotions, feelings, or play out a version of something that is happening around me. Writing is a passion that lets me get lost in worlds of my own creation, helps me to express my feelings, and helps me feel content. 




The Monster Inside the Mirror


            The first time I saw it was when I was doing my math homework.

            Apparently, Max, the imaginary kid got an F on his algebra homework and wanted me to point out the mistake he made and fix it. And there I was, frustrating over that one math problem when I happened to glance past my neatly made bed and my stark clean carpeted floor and my nicely dusted oak dresser to the five-foot mirror leaning against my wall.

            And what did I see?

          I saw my nicely dusted oak dresser and my stark clean carpeted floor and my neatly made bed and the very chair that I sat in, but what I did not see, was me.

            In my place was a feral beast who took what it wanted and tormented for the fun of it. It was scaly skin and bright, yellow eyes with jagged teeth and horns coming out of its head covered in a moldy rot with overgrown claws.

            I could almost smell its stale breath that wreaked of hatred and despair, could almost feel it's scaly skin brushing against mine and its jagged teeth putting a cut through my throat.

            I could almost hear its beastly growl and its heaving breaths as it walks towards me, its claws putting unfixable gashes on the carpet.

            And through all of the fear and despair and hate for that creature, I couldn’t help but notice that it starts to look more and more like me. This was not the last time I saw the creature.

            I see it in the bathroom mirror when I wash away my tears and in the glass window of the classroom when I want to escape reality. Yet soon, instead of jumping back in repulsion, of looking away, I embrace that creature. I smile at it.

And it smiles right back at me.








~Stella Chrystler~


The Siren in White


            The ship was about a mile away, and she was ready. Her sheet music out, her cello poised, her bow on the strings, ready to play the ship to its doom. When they had seen the giant sea vessel drawing closer and closer, her crew had told her to get ready, and so she had, strapping three different daggers to her right thigh (and one smaller one on the side of her foot) while her other leg lay visible in the afternoon sun over the long, white, gauzy dress that trailed behind her in the wind and over the stern like a puff of cloud.

            The cut down the side of her dress, not just for the convenience of playing or just to look beautiful, but so to help her bathe the decks of their ship in blood that she would later use it as a polish for her cello. She would get revenge from the men that took her voice, that took her life, that took everything from her. Those five words that she had spat at those five men had changed her life. “I won’t come with you.” Those were her last words from her mouth unless you counted the screams from the alleyway after they had left her for dead with a cello and without a tongue. She had made the most of it.

            Her long, thick dark brown hair was beautiful pearls and diamonds weaved into it as it waved in the wind, her locks glittering with them as her bare feet scraped the calloused deck of her ship, The Dying Pearl.

            While she would have the looks of a siren, it would have the sound of one.

            The maidens on the ship, all in beautiful black robes and coats, some even in veils, cheered with delight as the boat drew closer and closer. Some of them had scars on the outside, while many others had ones on the inside. The men might as well have written their own death sentence.

            She let her bow sail over the strings with a magical grace, allowed her fingers to hold the tune at a perfect note. She had no need of the pages of music in front of her as she closed her eyes and continued to play, the beautiful melody rising and falling like the waves that rocked the boat.

            She could hear the other ship drawing closer and closer by the second but stayed in tune as a hatred flared deep inside her heart.

            The shouts of the woman on board showed that she had succeeded at getting the men in her grasp. Ropes swung as her crew jumped to the other boat, and then the screams began.


            By the end of the crusade, smoke filled the sky and pained groans filled the air as dead bodies littered the ship. Blades sang as the last few pleads were silenced, leaving only Captain Trever alive. Never had he seen such swordsmanship, such beauty, such sorcery. Yet through his fear he kept his head up high as the maiden in white approached him, a bow in one hand and a dagger in the other, her dress waving through the flames as she approached him.

            “How?” He mustered through his pain as he tried to keep his blood from pouring from his side.

            “Madame, we found this one hiding in the captain’s quarters. He wounded one of our women, and sacrificed one of his own.” One of the women in black reported, this one with a black leather overcoat that reaching to her knees the color of ash and a blonde french braid running along her back. “He is the captain.”

            “How could you do this to us? We have done nothing but sail the seas in peace.” He said, fear coating his eyes.

            The woman in white smirked as she looked down at him. “Tell me, captain, what do you see?” She questioned in a mesmerizing voice as she opened her mouth. There was nothing there. She had no tongue.

            “H-how can you talk? Y-y-you witch! Y-you will burn for what you have done! Burn!

            The woman smirked, her white eyes reflecting his fear. “I was given a gift from the gods. When my tongue was cut out by your kind, I made a deal with the gods. I was able to get my voice if I help kill the men that destroyed our lives.”

            The tips of her mouth curved up. “But I will give you special treatment. I will make your screams fill the seven seas.”

            “P-p-please no. We haven’t done anything. We-”

            “Men had cut out my tongue.” She said coolly as her crew surrounded her. “So women shall cut out yours.”





You stand there, hopeless, as that monster holds your leash. Red shards of despair move in front of your eyes, dancing and taunting you they make you remember who you used to be as you try to shake them away. Your brain screams, your heart jerks, your lungs ache as they try to get air. Why even try to get up, to leave your room, to stop those tears from falling like rain? I try to understand the pain that you have, but nothing helps that endless pain. It’s just hopeless. So go ahead, crawl under your blanket, stain your T-shirt with your tears. That won’t stop me from wishing that you’d come out and talk to me again, and laugh at my jokes and debate with me. That was before the monster took you. Before depression took you. Heart-Wrenching to heartbreaking. We can’t fight that monster living inside your brain, you can; only you. So smell that fresh air again, laugh under the blue sky again. You’re like a piece of glass about to shatter, but shattered glass can still make a mosaic. Keep fighting that monster. You are not hopeless.


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