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Whistling Pines

a YA novel by Jamie Tomosunas

When I walked outside the wet heat pressed me down into the walkway, creating a heavy sweat as it touched my skin. If it was cooler than the dry heat of arizona I couldn’t tell. Hot days in the desert were bearable. I could at least breathe in that kind of heat. But here, in North Carolina, it dug its moist claws into my struggling lungs.

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I didn’t remember water bugs much from my childhood, or Palmetto bugs, whatever they were called. If I had remembered them, I’m pretty sure I would have dreaded my first interaction on that long drive from the roachless desert. Scorpions were by far more dangerous than this harmless, disgusting creature, but for some reason they had never bothered me. I was even fond of snakes, though the wrong move and I could be toast. But here in our new home, a defenseless, harmless bug sent me screaming into another room if I even thought I saw one.

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That night, while staring at my ceiling, unable to find that comfortable gateway into dreamland, I imagined little black shadows scurrying into the corners of my bedroom. They weren’t real, I hoped, but still I inched myself down the bed, putting some space between my head and the wall.

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Inevitably I did see one little monster that was actually there, but luckily he was on his way out through the crack beneath the door. I would have to as my mom about calling an exterminator in the morning. If she didn’t have time, I would even volunteer to take on the adult responsibility myself, anything to never see one of those creatures again.

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Then, there was a gust of wind outside my window, swirling the leaves in the empty lot next door. I wondered who it belonged to, and if there were any plans to build on it. It almost seemed too small for a house, but maybe it was just an illusion created by the density of the trees. I liked that it was vacant, serving as a privacy curtain between my bedroom and the neighbors beyond. 

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Somehow  wind created a whistling sound. Since I wasn’t going to sleep anytime soon, I got out of bed to go look at the trees. Even in the moonless night I could see the chaotic motion of the trees and wondered if they would fly away. The whistling grew louder, and as the wind died down I expected the whistling to die with it, but instead it turned into a creepy, beautiful song.

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