Please note: This was written when I was 13 years old. I take no responsibility for inaccuracies or resemblences to events, places, or people, real or imagined.
"The scrunchies are coming! The scrunchies are coming!," yelled the frantic teenagers of Raih High School. The teachers had left long ago in their cars after seeing giant pink and blue tackle boxes descend upon the field. The juniors and seniors had left too, along with anyone else who could drive. The unfortunate frosh and sophomores were left to the frenzied rush of the hallway. Kids ran in and out of classrooms, raided the cafeteria, screamed and yelled for their friends and shoved one another down the hallway. One small frightened freshman hid in his locker and closed the door behind him. A sophomore jock got jumped by some girls wearing tattered jeans and tank tops that showed their toned muscles, a product of hours in the weight room.
Some tried to run out of the large double doors at the end of the hallway, but were stopped by two thick black scrunchies barring the door. The scrunchies grinned at the multitude of students, when a distorted voice came over the intercom. It rustled and snapped at the underclassmen, as is the habit of Giant Scrunchies.
Slowly, silence again reigned in the halls while the pupils stopped to listen to the voice. Words could be made out through the rustling, and the kids stopped dumping each other in trash cans and having food fights to listen to the strange voice.
"The game's up, kids. You may as well give up now. We have the place surrounded. I'm going to give you some simple instructions. Follow them, or be subjected to scrunchie torture. First, everyone stand by their-" he paused a moment, trying to find the right word. "Gardarrap? No... ish!," he muttered. "Ah, yes, stand by your- locker."
All of the students, eager to obey the command, rushed down the stairs and stood like soldiers in the frosh/soph hallway. A few teenagers without cars or access to a vehicle were left in the Jr./Sr. hallway, who wished fervently they hadn't flunked their driving exam.
"Now," continued the mysterious voice, "I need four- volunteers." One of the tank-topped girls defiantly stepped forward, as did a scholarly-looking girl who had previously volunteered to clean out the locker rooms and reshelve all of the books in the library. A senior without a license sauntered forwards, and, after a pause, a boy on crutches shuffled forth.
"You can't go!," shouted an anonymous voice. Kevin looked around.
"I have to," he replied mysteriously.
"Thank you," said the voice, "Now, please come to what you know as the principal's office immediately. Empty your pockets before entering, and remove all..." the voice let out an audible shudder, "rubber bands or scrunchies from your hair.
The four students met before the principal's office, and soon there was a pile of junk on the floor: a pack of Kleenexes, two rubber bands, some loose change, a deck of cards, lots of dryer lint, some Tic Tacs, an old ballet ticket, a report card, and, lastly, a scrunchie.
"Whose scrunchie is that?," the tank-topped girl demanded. The scholarly girl, whose ash blonde hair now fell over her shoulders, replied, hanging her head,
"It's mine." The other three students glared at her and she continued to stare at the floor. Then, the boy on crutches pushed open the door to go in and the others followed him. Sitting in the principal's chair was a scrunchie, as tall as a refrigerator and just as wide. It shimmered in the harsh fluorescent light and changed colour, from blue, to green, to purple, and red. The students were pushed into the room and inspected on all sides by the mammoth scrunchie, who checked their hair for elastics, scrunchies, and anything else that could possibly pose a threat.
"Now," the scrunchie whispered, and the students leaned closer, "Now I have hostages. With you I can convince the major governments to ban those little scrunchies you wear in your hair and on your wrists. You see," rustled the scrunchie leader, almost to itself, "they have used our form without permission. We were cloned and our replicas were put into people's hair! This insult has angered our people for years, but now," The scrunchie's voice dropped so low that the students had to strain to hear it. "Now we will clone them, and they will feel their own insolence coming back to betray them."
Kevin realized the potential consequences at the same time as Ashley, the intellectual volunteer. They exchanged wide-eyed glances at the sinister plot to clone human beings, and comprehended that they must do something to stop it.
"Hey, man, no prob," replied the uneducated senior, "You can just copy us and then everything will be dudical again."
"You bollyrastoshanosh! You do not yet realize the repercussions. These humans will be used for unspeakable torture. They will be pressed and stretched and fabricated into.... into.... scrunchie accessories! Yes, we will wind the little human clones around our forms and sell them in stores and the scrunchies will sell people-makers, and soon you will be forgotten. Only your clones will remain. Not even legends will mention you and your indignance will remain unnamed, concealed behind the miniature people clones that will be everywhere." Ashley, in an effort to distract the leader asked,
"So there's really no way we can stop you, is there?" The leader hissed and scratched its rayon fabric.
"Ish! No, no way. For you have nothing in your pockets, have you? And that is the only way-ish!- the only way."
"What's the only way?," demanded Stralla, the tank-topped girl. "You'd better tell me or I'll.... I'll punch your lights out!" To this the scrunchie made a loud, strangled cackle that seemed to be its laugh.
"No, but we haven't got lights to punch out now, have we? And the human aggravates us-ish!- it does." With that the scrunchie began to wind itself around Stralla, twisting so the elastic pinched her skin.
"What do you think you're doing?!," she shouted, "No scrunchie is going to kill me!" She struggled and tried to tear the scrunchie, but it used a different tactic than she had ever encountered. The scrunchie laughed again, softly, and ished as it wound itself tighter and tighter around her neck. Suddenly Ashley yelled,
"Now!" and flipped open the pocket knife that was missing from the pile outside the door. Another pocket knife was flipped open, and to the best of his ability, Kevin attempted to wield it. The two rushed at the scrunchie and tore at the fabric with the knifes. Stralla's face turned turquoise, and she was no longer yelling, but instead was gasping for air. The scrunchie shrieked hideously, a loud throaty sound accompanied by the snap of its elastic. They had cut through! The shiny fabric lay in a straight line on the floor, but it did no longer rustle and scratch. Bob, the fourth volunteer, took a step towards the flattened scrunchie, and it shimmered one last time. In silence the four stood; Kevin, Ashley, Stralla, and Bob, all staring at the demolished and frayed fabric. Then Bob sauntered over to the PA's microphone and announced,
"Yo, peeps! Dig this! The scrunchie's dead! Ding, Dong, the wicked scrunchie's dead!," he sang, "C'mon, everyone, get out those hidden pocket knives and slash the rest of them! Let's go!" A deafening cheer from every student in the school was heard, and struck terror into the cold hearts of the remaining scrunchies. The four volunteers rushed out of the office to help expel the foul fabric-and-elastic creatures. Swiss Army knives glinted under the dim lights of the hallways as the students surged toward the exit, preparing to clash with the sinister scrunchie bouncers barring the door. Stralla was at the head, urging them on.
"C'mon, you guys! Their leader tried to kill me!" She slashed at the black scrunchie violently, trying to avenge her near-death caused by their Leader. The kids pushed close around her, the heat of the fight swelling in their veins, calling them to come an join. They wielded their knives, flinging them about and trying to get a stab at the intruders. The students shouted and chanted and crowded around the exit, an electrified mass of shouting, perspiring teenagers. One knife, from whom no one knew, flew through the air and gleamed like the scrunchie leader before hitting the tall Stralla in the back of the neck. She opened her mouth to cry out, but no sound came, and she slumped forward onto the cold tile of the school hallway.
The grim students shuffled their feet and look down at the ground while the principal delivered his interminable speech concerning Stralla and her immense bravery, and also the dedication of a plaque that was now to abide above the exit where she died. Kevin shifted uneasily, and after ten minutes of the principal's euphoric speech, he could take it no longer and shouted,
"You're not one to talk! You didn't see how fearless she was! You weren't even there! You only know what we told you about Stralla!" Then his voice changed to a calm one of reverence and honour as he continued, "In the name of all of those who were there on that fateful day, I dedicate this plaque to Stralla." Kevin gestured to the plaque, and the students started clapping, which clapping soon became a roar of applause. The principal and teachers were now the ones to shuffle their feet and look at the ground, embarrassed by the truth of their cowardly actions. As the students began to quiet, Ashley lifted her voice above the crowd and read that hallowed plaque,
"In memory of Stralla Hadera, for her bravery and spirit. May her hair grow ever longer."