Julia was sitting down beside a window which overlooked the entrance of her house. She was worried because her elder brother was sick and her parents took him to the hospital. Earlier in the morning she was playing with her brother when he suddenly collapse and fainted. She didn’t know what to do, so as most six-year-olds do, she started to cry. Her parents rushed into the room and made a few phone calls before driving out to the hospital. Just as she was about to doze off in the morning sunlight, she saw her parents’ car pulling up in the driveway, and her parents got out of the car and made their way into the house. Julia hopped downstairs to greet them but didn’t know what to say when she saw her mother in tears. Finally, she managed to squeak a question. “Why are you crying, Mommy?”

Her mother wiped her tears on her sleeves before attempting to answer. “Sweetheart, your brother has something bad inside him,” she stuttered. “He will have to leave us for a very long time.” At this point, she started crying again. “If only I noticed earlier,” she mumbled, trailing off.

Her father tried to comfort her mother. “We may not have any money now, but we’ll find a way, okay? We’ll find a way,” he assured her, though his voice was hollow and weak.

“Daddy, why do you need the money for?” Julia piped.

Her father seemed lost for an answer, before he sighed and said, “A miracle. We need to buy a miracle.”

Her parents simply sat down on the sofa in silence, thinking of a way to cure their son. She knew she shouldn’t ask any more questions and she didn’t need to. She walked back to her bedroom and opened her cupboard. She pushed aside a neatly-folded pile of clothes and took out a small jar which was kept hidden at the back. “Julia” was scribbled on a piece of paper which was glued to it. She took off the cover and poured out the contents of the jar: a myriad of coins, some marbles and a few bills. She separated the marbles from the money and started counting. After she finished, she counted again, just to make sure. She had saved a total of seven dollars and twenty-five cents. She smiled to herself; that was a big amount of money. She carefully placed them back into the jar and twisted the cap back on. She picked the jar up and walked downstairs. Her parents were still motionless on the couch. She tip-toed out of the house through the back door and made her way to a clinic nearby. Her father had brought her there once before when she was sick and she was miraculously cured within the next two days. All she had to do was drink a spoonful of some sweet syrup. If anyone could sell her a miracle, it was him.

She struggled to push open the doors with one hand. She entered the clinic and stood in front of the reception counter, her head barely visible. The receptionist was busy talking over the phone and didn’t pay any attention to Julia. Julia waited patiently for her to be noticed but after realizing that the receptionist wouldn’t be done anytime soon, she coughed. There was no response. She cleared her throat in the most disgusting sound she could muster. Still the receptionist paid no heed to her. Finally, she took her jar of money and banged it on the counter. The receptionist, clearly annoyed for having her conversation disrupted, asked, “And what do you want?”

“Well, I want to talk to you about my brother. You see, Mommy says he has something bad inside of him and he will have to leave us for a very long time. I love my brother very much, so I don’t want that. I want to buy a miracle so my brother can continue to stay with us.”

“I beg your pardon?” the receptionist asked in a softer tone and putting down the phone.

“My brother,” Julia started again, tears welling up in her eyes. “He is very sick. I don’t want him to leave us. Daddy says we need a miracle, but he doesn’t have any money. So how much does a miracle cost?”

“We… we don’t sell miracles over here, little girl. I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.”

“But Daddy bought a miracle for me here before. Listen, I have the money to pay for it. If it isn’t enough, I will get the rest. So please, just tell me how much it costs.”

The receptionist was speechless. Julia started to cry. The doctor at the back overheard the noise and came out. His friend followed behind curiously.

“What’s the matter?” asked the doctor.

“This girl says she wants to buy a miracle for her brother,” the receptionist replied, not knowing what to do.

The doctor turned to look at Julia. “What kind of miracle do you need?”

“I don’t know,” she replied, trying her best to stop crying. “I just know that my brother is really sick; he has something bad inside him, and we need a miracle but Daddy doesn’t have the money to buy one, so I’m using mine.”

The doctor was dumbstruck. He could guess that it was most probably a tumour, and an operation to remove it would cost any family a fortune. The doctor was silent, but his friend spoke this time.

“How much do you have?”

“Seven dollars and twenty five cents,” she muttered softly, realizing that it probably wasn’t enough and feeling like a fool. “It’s all the money I have, but I can get some more if I need to,” she added desperately.

“What a coincidence,” the man said as he patted Julia’s head. “That’s the price of a miracle to save a brother.”

He took her money in one hand and took her hand in the other. “Take me to your home,” he said. “I need to see your brother and your parents to be sure that I have the miracle that you need.”

The doctor’s friend was a leading specialist surgeon, well known around the world for performing surgeries that had little chance of success, and succeeding anyway. The operation and follow-ups were completed free of charge and her brother returned home and was able to live a normal life. Julia’s parents liked to talk about the chain of events that saved their son. Her mother would whisper, “That surgery was a real miracle. I wonder how much it would have cost.”

And Julia would always smile to herself when she heard her mother because she knew exactly how much a miracle costs; exactly seven dollars and twenty-five cents.What she didn't know was that it also required faith, sincerity and a little bit of kindness from a stranger.

Written by,

Terence

“It’s this late already?” I grabbed all my books and papers and stuffed them in my bag and rushed out of my university’s library. I slid my student card over the scanner but I hit my head against the glass door. I did it again, and another time and finally I was allowed to push through the double doors. I hopped over a bench while rubbing my forehead and holding in my tears and spiraled down a flight of stairs as fast as my legs would take me. I ran out to the main entrance only to realize I was a few minutes too late to take the bus home.

I trudged on to a train station wearily. The time was half past twelve, midnight, and I was sure I had already missed the last train home. Even so, I made my way to the station just to see the train schedule and maybe, though highly unlikely, there might still be another train running this late. It was quite unsettling, walking alone on the dimly lit streets while the only sounds I heard were my footsteps, heavy breathing and the occasional squeak of rats or crows cawing. That night was much colder than usual, and I could see my breath well up in a fog in front of me. I zipped up my jacket and put my hands in my pockets.

I arrived at the station and found the place in total darkness, and I really felt like crying. I would have to walk for more than two hours just to reach home. As I was about to turn away, I saw, in the distance, the lights of a train coming. I jumped over the fence and ran to the side of the tracks. The train slowed down and stopped for me. The doors opened and I saw that the interior was dimly lit but, surprisingly, filled with people. As I walked into the train, I was stopped by the conductor, a pale old man with a cap and blue uniform.

“Are you sure you’ve got the right train? He asked me while looking straight into my eyes.”Yes,” I mumbled while averting his gaze; there was just something weird in his eyes, as if he saw straight through me. He shrugged and allowed me on board. I sighed and looked around for a seat. I noticed all the passengers had the same kind of expressions, or rather, they were expressionless. As I walked, some turned to look at me. It was creepy, some of them just sitting there and staring at you with their blank faces. I finally managed to find a seat beside a woman who wore a light pink sweater and had her face covered with a hood. I approached her and asked if it was alright for me to sit there and I was shocked when she turned to look and me and say that it was fine. Her face was pale, maybe even white, but her lips were as red as blood. She shifted inside and made space for me to sit down.

After sitting down in silence for a few minutes, I noticed that she was looking at me. At first I simply ignored her. After all, I was pretty confident in my looks, but after a while it got pretty disturbing. Just as I was about to ask her if there was anything wrong, she whispered, “You are not supposed to be here.” I got a little upset over her statement. I know I didn’t buy a ticket to get on, but what was a desperate teenager to do in the middle of the night with no way back? “You need to get off now,” she added. There was urgency in her voice, and I noticed her eyes darting around. I instinctively looked around and saw a number of other passengers staring at me with their blank faces.

She grabbed my shoulder and forced me to look at her. “This is a train for the dead,” she said gravely. “These “people” will eat your soul if they find out that you’re still alive so that they are able to live again. You’ll be worse than dead; you’ll be an empty shell, unable to go to heaven, or if you believe it, hell.” I froze in my seat as cold sweat drenched my shirt. That was a bad joke; a very bad one. I looked around again and the sight sent shivers down my spine. In the dimly lit carriage, I saw all the passengers turning their heads to stare at me. Old men, women, and children alike had the blank face, expressionless, with their eyes unblinking at me. Some were even standing up already. At the doors that separated this carriage from the other, I could see even more faces looking in my direction. I jerked away from the woman beside me. I heard footsteps; some of the others started to walk towards me. My brain refused to think and I was stuck surrounded by “dead” people.

“Won’t you just eat me as well?” I opened my mouth for the first time since I got on the train. “Look, you need to get off, and I’m the one trying to help you here,” she replied exasperatedly. I nodded stiffly and looked at her for instructions. She grabbed my hand and started walking, slowly, towards one end of the carriage. Her hand was as cold as ice. “Breathe slowly and don’t panic.” All the while, I couldn’t stop myself from looking around. As we passed from car to car, all the passengers seemed to follow us. I noticed some of them had reddish coloured clothing. The atmosphere was unbearable. Suddenly, something grabbed my other hand. I turned around and saw a young man pulling on me and bringing his head closer to me. I struggled, which caused more of them to come towards us. Finally, I couldn’t stand it any longer and I kicked him hard. He fell down and seemed lifeless for a while before getting up again.

Suddenly, the woman started to run and pulled me along with her. The train became chaotic; everyone was making weird gurgling sounds and low growls. She cleared the way in front by pushing through the crowd; they were not interested in her, but they tried to latch on to me whenever they got too close. We reached the end of the train; it was a dead end. I looked behind us and I saw a group of them coming towards us. I felt like I was in a high-budget horror movie. It just felt too real to be a dream. She pushed open the door and jumped out, pulling me with her. The following seconds seemed to be in bullet time. I saw of the “people” standing at the edge of the door, but refusing to jump off. I saw the concrete come closer to my face. On impact on the ground, I rolled for a good 10 seconds or so, and remained on the ground for an even longer period. My face was bleeding all over, and my clothes were torn in many places. I lay there panting in pain, but I was alive.

The woman approached me and stared at me on the ground. She was pretty much unscathed. I managed to mumble a “thank you” to her through constricted breaths. I tried to get up, but my arms wouldn’t support my body. She kept staring at me, which was very unnerving. She bent down and brought her face closer to mine. I started to panic again, but my body wouldn’t move. She licked her lips and placed her hand on my face.

“Now, you’re all mine.”

-Terence

I am a pencil, but not just any pencil. I was special. I was longer than the others, sharper than the others, pointier than my peers, stronger, and bolder than anything else used for writing. To further emphasize my superiority over the others, I was placed on a higher shelf, alone on a stand, enclosed within a plastic casing which had a beautiful blue ribbon tied on it. I was THE pencil that children dreamed to have; and one such child had his dream come true when his parents bought me for him. I can still remember the ecstasy in his face when he tore open the wrappers and saw me inside them. Yes, I was a birthday gift for a poor boy barely six years of age who was going to begin his journey through school that week; and I was his sole weapon against the hordes of work that his would-be teachers would force him to do. I felt important, and I was probably right.

The little boy grew up to be a diligent worker, and he worked me hard. I was used to write thousands of words and solve hundreds of sums every day. Sometimes, he would lose hope of ever finishing his homework, but I was his shining star; his ray of hope, and whenever he stopped to look at me, he would feel refreshed, and we would continue the battle again with renewed vigour. The work was endless, but I thought that if we were together, we could overcome any obstacles his teachers might throw at him.

Over the years, I acquired many battle scars; a chipped head, scratches along my sides, and a broken point. Worst of all, I became short. However, I had some new comrades; pens. But I never liked them; they were always so smooth and sharp. They were different from me; they didn’t grow shorter when used, they didn’t need to be sharpened, and whatever they wrote couldn’t be erased. And they were slowly taking over what I used to do. They were relentless in their assault, and the boy relied on them much more than me.

Then, a tragic day came. As the boy was writing as quickly as possible, his hand bumped into me as I lay by his side. I rolled slowly towards the edge of the table. Normally, he would rush to grab me again, and place me securely in his pencil case. I was hoping he would do the same that time. I hoped, and I prayed, but the distance between me and my immediate demise became closer with each passing second. Right at the edge of the table, I hung momentarily, and spun around so that my tip was in the air. And then, I fell.

It was a long fall, and the moment I hit the ground my crooked graphite tip shattered into a million pieces. My fall echoed in his room and he stopped writing in alarm. He picked my broken body up and looked at me sadly. At the corner of my eye, I saw the pens grinning to themselves. I knew it too; I was broken and useless, too short to be sharpened again. The pens would completely erase my existence; all my glories would eventually be thrown away. The boy walked over to a dustbin, and with one last look and a sigh, he dropped me down.

I am a pencil, but not just any pencil. I was special. I was longer than the others, sharper than the others, pointier than my peers, stronger, and bolder than anything else used for writing. But that was a long time ago, when I could still be used. I do not regret my life, for I have been used as I should have. However, I have been thrown out; picked up by a truck, and dropped off into a landfill, away from my home. I lie, together with other betrayed and forgotten things, in the open, in the rain or shine. I lie, waiting to rot and be eaten by termites. I lie, waiting to return to nature, to come from a tree again, to be used as the pencil that I once was, and to be loved by another little boy again.

-Terence