Mission FireFly: The creative niche for Christian Teens

From creative fiction to contemporary poetry, Mission FireFly features your works of art. Since the spring of 2005, MF has been an international gathering place for Christian teens who have a bent toward writing, drawing, photography, music & more. Whether you share the creative streak with us or if you'd just like to browse what we've done, we welcome you to our site!

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“Mom, Dad, Justin, I’m home!” I said wearily walking through the door. It was another rough day in kindergarten for this hyperactive 4 year old. “Mom? Dad? Justin?” I said walking into the living room. I screamed as I surveyed the scene.  I dropped my schoolbooks and ran to my parents and brother, who lay murdered on the couch. I didn’t understand the danger I was in.

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Sticky, sticky red.

Why does it have to be so red? She stood there staring, thinking about too many things. She'd be late for her date. Her clothes were a mess. How would she get back into her house? I can't believe I'm just standing here. I usually puke at anything gory--like the rats we had to dissect in lab last week.

There was no place to hide the knife. Nothing to wipe off her fingerprints. Nothing to clean the blade. The red stuff was everywhere now. This looks bad. This is worse than the movies.

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The wind whipped through her long silky brown hair as the glint of the wakening streetlight hit the corner of her eye. She looked up at the sky as it turned from an angry red to shadow blue. Her foot etched away from the tiny pebbles that lined the plain brick wall. She turned. Into the distance was her future, and she wasn’t going to let anybody hold her back.

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This was it. The big day; the day that she'd been anticipating for so very, very long. Megan's heart pounded as she walked out to the gate of the acreage, and opened it. There were two social workers outside the gate, with four children between them.

"Welcome to Healing Hearts," Megan said, smiling warmly at the children who looked so terrified. The littlest girl particularly captured her attention. She had brown hair and huge brown eyes, and she looked nervous; yet there was a stubborness in those big brown eyes that said she would not be held back. The look in her eyes was not a defiant look, more of determination and a strength that Megan couldn't immeadiately comprehend.

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The wind whipped about her dark hair as she crept through the streets. She tenderly laid her her first child, her baby daughter, on the doorstep of a house where there was no child, one where she knew her baby would be loved.

"Be safe, my child," she whispered, before placing a slip of old parchment in her daughter's hand with a single word on it: Davena.

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