Beyond Life

"God and Country" (preview) By Daniel Norvell I was 20 years old when that cannonball hit me in the chest. When I signed up, I never thought I would die in the war. I always hoped that I would someday meet President Lincoln and shake his hand. I respected the man and never gave a second thought to serving in the Union Army. I was Corporal Jeremiah Deakins, Union Soldier, and I vividly remember the day I died. It was a warm, sunny fall afternoon. I was moving my men to another position on the battlefield when I lost my life. I heard the cannon blast just about the time the ball ripped a hole through my chest. Death came very quickly for me; I hardly had time to feel any pain. I remember lying on my back, or what was left of it, and I turned my head to the side and gasped my last breath. As I stared into the eyes of one of my men, whom had also been killed, I noticed a bright light on the hillside. Instantly, I was on my feet and walking toward this brilliant light with about 23 other men. I looked at the other men walking with me. There was yelling and confusion, cannon fire and gunfire all around us. I remember looking back at my lifeless body and thinking, “Well, at least Momma will have something to bury.” "The Asylum" (preview) By Sandra Wells I remember the day my mom brought me to this place in the spring of 1895. Just looking at it as we came up over the hill scared me. I asked my mom why we were going to such a place. She did not respond. As our carriage arrived at the front of the building, two men in what looked like uniforms of some kind were waiting outside. As my mom stopped the carriage, they reached in and grabbed me, pulling me out. “Why are you doing this to me?” I screamed. “Help me! Help me, Mommy!” After they dragged me up the stairs toward the front door, I managed to twist myself to be able to see my mom driving away. “What have I done?” I yelled. “Mommy! Mommy!” The men pushed me through the front doors and into a chair. They strapped my wrists and ankles down so I could not move. One of the men called to a woman named Miss Dottie. A harsh-looking woman in a long, black dress appeared from an office to my right and asked the men, “Who is this boy? Just another mouth to feed?” she asked, sarcastically.