Hi Poe fans! So this is a short story I had to write for school. I thought it was pretty cool and decided to post it. It's about Edgar Allen Poe as a teenager in 2011. See if you can spot any cameos from Poe's stories! :)

As for my other stories, I have no idea when I'll update. I know I promised to update soon, but I really don't have the time. I will update a soon as I can, though! Enjoy (and review, please)! ;)

Flames are welcome, but please understand that I realize that Poe didn't write these stories while he was a teen. I'm pretty sure he didn't write them in the military, either. I just know a brief amount of Poe's history, and came up with this for my English class, so it's not exactly accurate with Poe's real past.

'On the night of the day on which this most cruel deed was done, I was aroused from sleep by the cry of fire. The curtains of my bed were in flames. The whole house was blazing. It was with great difficulty that—'

My pen was yanked from my hand, and my paper slid out from beneath my guarding arm. I looked up from my hunched over and protective position into the eyes of the thief. Mr. Montresor looked down on me in disgust. "Mr. Poe," he announced in a voice loud enough for the entire class to hear. "What have I told you about writing your filthy stories in my class? This is a study time to be used for geometry homework, and geometry homework alone. I believe, Mr. Poe, that you will…"

Mr. Montresor's words faded away. I stopped listening and instead turned my attention to Sarah Royster, the girl I've had my eyes on since freshman year. I was going to ask her to the homecoming dance this year, but I haven't yet worked up the nerve. Sarah's perfectly straight black hair cut off at her small, rounded shoulders. Her face was the most perfect oval I had ever seen, her nose, a true masterpiece worthy of the Sphinx, and her eyes—

My day dreaming over Sarah ended abruptly when I realized that she was staring back at me, a disgusted look on her face. I felt my face grow hot and turn a deep shade of crimson. Mr. Montresor's firm hand turned my head toward him, forcing me to look him in the eye.

A disgusting creature, he was, that Mr. Montresor. He was the most feared teacher in all of Usher High, mostly just because of the fact that he seemed constantly fearful himself. His eyes were always darting around the classroom, as if he were expecting someone to burst in through the door, hold him at gunpoint, and lecture off his rights as an American citizen.

Some students had started rumors about Mr. Montresor. Many didn't even believe him to be a legal citizen. He spoke with a thick Italian accent, and bore a round, tanned face, with dark hair and eyes, a face that only a true Italian could pull off. Many students speculated that his supposed lack of citizenship is the reason for his fearful and mysterious ways.

In any case, it was most unpleasant to have to stare into those crazed eyes, be them of a citizen or no. Mr. Montresor peered into my own dark eyes, often described as equally mysterious as his own. "Mr. Poe, are you listening to me?"

I grew tired of this man's games, his lectures, and the evil looks he would always throw in my direction. I sighed audibly, gathered my books, and left the room, sneaking one last glance at Sarah's beautiful face. If Mr. Montresor wasn't already planning on sending me to the principal's office, he certainly would now.

Sure enough, as soon as I had left the classroom, Mr. Montresor burst out of the classroom himself, his face twisted into an altogether hideous snarl. As he screamed my name down the hallway, I decided to race the old fool to the principal's office. I sprinted down the hallway, laughing as Mr. Montresor disappeared behind the corner.

I soon found myself in the office of my principal, 'Dr. P'. I was sitting in one of Dr. P's abnormally uncomfortable chairs pretending to listen to him drone on about how I'm not "allowed to write such grotesque stories in this school, especially not during class time," while simultaneously having an unofficial and rather hate-filled staring contest with Mr. Montresor, who was on the opposing side of the room from me.

Didn't anyone see the irony in it all? As soon as my lecture was over, my detention given out, and my so-called 'father' phoned, I would simply go to my next class and rewrite my story. Nothing would ever change.

"The military?" I shouted angrily at my adoptive father, John. "You can't be serious!"

"If you won't stop this nonsense in school, then yes. I am serious." John answered, his long, thin face showing no emotion or compassion whatsoever.

"What nonsense?"

"Don't play dumb, Edgar. You'll only make things more difficult. You know that your principal called me today. You know that he told me about your writing stories in class."

"So?" I asked defensively.

"Edgar, you can't do that! You and I both know that you've been writings these so-called stories for far too long." John said, his face still unchanged by any emotion. "Your grades have plummeted, Edgar. If you don't stop this, then I will be sending you to a basic training camp, where you will be forced to stop your disgusting writing and do something productive for once."

"You can't do that!"

"I can, and I will."

I didn't respond, knowing that John's threat was a serious one. Whatever John wants, John gets. If he wanted me to stop writing, then he would get me to stop writing. He always seemed to find some way to outsmart me. This time, however, I may have actually found a way to outsmart him. I was going to trick the trickster.

I acted like I was deeply wounded at John's words, holding back fake tears. "Fine!" I shouted, trying to make my voice wobble and shake, like I was about to cry. "If you want to send me away to the army because you can't handle me yourself, then fine! I'm going to go pack my bags." I left the room as dramatically as I could, hoping that my acting had worked.

If John wanted to send me to the military, then fine. I'll go to the military and write my stories there, where no one will really care. I'll just say that they're letters to my 'loving family'. Maybe someday I will write a letter, just not to dear old John. Maybe I'll write a letter to Sarah. Maybe not.

One thing is for sure: I will always write my stories, no matter what anyone else says. They can't stop me. No one can stop me.