So:  I have decided to *try* to write a book, and I've designed a few covers.  Can you vote on which one is the best?  Just comment.  Thanks!

About:  Clementine Owens was fourteen years old when the Civil War broke out.  Since her older brother, Aaron, ran off to join the fighting, money has been tight.  That is, until she decides to run off- to become a nurse for the war cause.

One

If there was one thing that Clementine Owens hated the most in the world, it would be the long, woolen dresses that she had to wear all year. They wouldn't let any air reach her skin, and they felt like they were choking her slowly. Not to mention that the dress she was wearing was at least two sizes too small. Her wavy brown hair tumbled down her shoulders; she could have sworn that she had tied it back mere hours ago.

The blue color on her dress was a faded to a grey, and the flowers printed on where barely visible. She pulled at the sleeves in vain, trying to make them go higher than her elbows. The sun was high in the sky, bright and hot on Clementine's face and neck. Though she was wearing a bonnet, it did little to block the sweltering heat. Clementine sighed as a rare breeze made its way towards her. This was the hottest summer she remembered, not even as bad as the heat wave of '62.

The post office in ----- was a small building, with a widow in the front to receive mail. A man with a bowler hat and greying mustache sat

"Excuse me," she said as she leaned against the window. "Do you have any letters for the Owens family? From the Union army perhaps?"

The postman looked up from his work. "What?"

"Any letters for the Owens family." She said again, talking slowly out of irritation. She crossed her fingers under her skirts, hoping.

"Give me a moment." The postman walked to the back of the room, checking the shelves. Clementine stood their, bouncing on the balls of her feet in anticipation. Please, please, please she thought. Finally, after what felt like forever, the postman came back. Clementine held her breath-

"Sorry. No letters today." The postman said quickly as he went back to his work. Her heart sank. Even after three weeks, there was no letter. Not even a telegraph.

"Thanks anyway." She nodded curtly and walked off, her old shoes kicking up a cloud of dust.

When she reached her house, it was already noon. Even after the disappointment of not receiving a letter, Clementine was still a little bit glad when she saw the familiar plank-building that had been her home her whole life. Maybe her siblings could give her some solace.

The sweet smell of bread was wafting through the cracks of the home, giving a pleasant smell to her house. Smoke was floating through the chimney and the paint was peeling from the walls. Even though it wasn't much of a sight, it was still home.

"Clem!" Her younger brother, Aiden said as she walked through the door, Adam close behind him. "Did you get any mail?" His hazel eyes were wide in anticipation. Clementine sighed and ruffle his hair.

"Not today, maybe tomorrow though." She really hated to disappoint the kids.

"You've said that for a week now," Ada commented. Though she was only seven, she had quite a bit of wit on her. Not proper for a lady, her mother would constantly remind her.

"I know, Ada. You never know, maybe there will be mail tomorrow."

"I don't know what gotten into your brother," Clementine's mother started. "Going off and joining that stupid war- it'll be over in less than a year! There was no need to volunteer!"

"It's for a noble cause. Mr. Lincoln said that he needed as many volunteers as possible." Will argued. That was what he did best, after all. As an eleven year old boy, it seemed like the only thing he did was argue against the highest authority.

"Will!" Clementine hissed in his ear. "Be quiet!" she hoped her mother didn't see her smack him behind the head. Will needed to learn when to talk and when not to. Luckily for her, he didn't say another word on that matter.

Only three weeks ago, her brother, Aaron, had run off to join the fighting in the Civil War. He had left in the dead of night, only leaving a note to explain his situation. Every time that Clementine thought of him getting injured, it felt like a knife to the heart. People had told stories about the cruel conditions of the battlefield, and the under-educated medical staff. She forced herself not to think about what would happen if her brother never came home. He was their protector: the one who had helped with their scraped knees and comforted them when they cried. Losing him would leave a gap in their lives, and everyone knew it, too. Whenever someone mentioned him, the room would go quiet.

Clementine's mother went back to darning old clothes, the thread of her needle pulled as taught as her hair. Aiden looked at Clementine with fear in his eyes.

"Will Aaron be alright?"

"Yes," Clementine swallowed, "Yes, Aaron will be alright." She tried not to think about how she was trying to convince herself as well.

Life had become harder and harder without Aaron. Without him, the small supply of money they had to begin with was slowly dwindling, like a candle that was close to burning out, the flame slowly dying. He had been the source of money those days, finding jobs to support the family. Ever since Clementine's father died of cholera in 1860, Aaron would work all day to support the four other children.

Now, he was gone, 'Off killing rebels' as their neighbor, Mr. Prentiss had said. Slavery wasn't really a debate in the small town of -----. Most people supported the Union, and those who supported the Confederate States of America usually kept to themselves in political debates, or moved to a state where they could support freely. Clementine supposed that her family supported the Union and all, with Aaron in the army.

The problem was, Clementine thought as she made her way to the store early the next morning with Will, was that her family needed money. She, being the eldest of the three remaining children, could probably get a job as a housemaid. Will would have to wait at least another year or two before he could land a job as well.

Clementine was wearing her blue dress again, complete with a light brown calico bonnet and a basket in hand. Trees dotted the vicinity, providing much-needed shade for passerby. Matt's General Store was the store where everyone went to buy their goods, for it was the only store to buy goods.

The bell cheerfully rang as Clementine entered the shop, and Mr. Flynn, the owner of the shop (whom the adults called Matt), looked up from where he was bent over at the counter. Mr. Flynn was a tall man, with a long brown beard and greying hair. He had been the owner of the shop ever since Clementine could remember.

"Ah, Miss Owens! How may I be of service?" He grinned, his eyes sparkling.

"Hi, just coming in to buy the usual," Clementine walked over to the counter and brushed away a stray lock of brown hair. "Can I please have a bar of soap, and ten pounds of flour?"

"Certainly," Mr. Flynn went to the back room where most goods were sold. While he was in the back, Clementine allowed herself to admire the fine materials while Will observed the fine guns on display. There were bolts of cloth, fresh off the the machines from the cities. The colors were vivid, greens and blues, and yellows, vibrant in the early morning sunlight. Clementine lightly felt the material. Oh, how soft it was! She rubbed the fabric underneath her fingers, trying to fell the quality of it. As soft as a cloud, and as thick as wool.

Before she knew it, Mr. Flynn was back with the groceries. "Here you go," He said while handing Will the sack of flour. "Are you sure that you can carry that, young man?" He said to the young boy.

Will grinned and sized himself up. "I'm strong!" Mr. Flynn laughed heartily and handed the flour sack to Clementine. She handed him the three dollars and took the food.

"Thanks for everything, Mr. Flynn!" Clementine said as she exited the shop, laden with dry goods. "Here, hold this," She handed the basket to Will, who took it hesitantly.

"I'm eleven years old, I can hold the flour!" He pouted and put his hands on his hips defiantly. Clementine rolled her eyes.

"Fine, but I don't want you complaining that it's too heavy later on," She handed him the sack of flour and took the basket from him. Will but it on his shoulder as if he were a hunter who had just shot a prize animal. For most of the time, the walk was silent, all except for the sound of Will's dragging feet. Scuffle, scuffle.

"Clem?"

"Yes?"

"Will we be okay? Will we win?" Will was sweating a bit now, the bag of flour heavy on his shoulders. Clementine bit her lip. Sweet, innocent, Will, who didn't seem to have a trouble in his life. What could she say? That Aaron could never come home? That the Confederates might win?

"We're fine. We will win, even if everyone says otherwise. Let's get home, before Ma gets worried." Clementine fought the urge to grab her brother's hand. He was much too old for that, and he certainly would let her.

"Can we go to the post office?" Will said hopefully. Scuffle, scuffle.

"It's not open today. It's Sunday." The duo made their way along the dust path to their house, where trees dotted the land, providing much-needed shade. "Speaking of Sundays. . ." Clementine trailed off, giving a pointed look at her little brother. He groaned.

"I know, I know, I know." Will groaned hurriedly. Sundays meant church, and church meant wearing fancy clothes that itched and felt as if they were choking you. "Do we have to?"

Clementine sighed. "Yah."

* * *

"I swear to God, Aiden, if you don't stop fidgeting-" Clementine's scolding was quickly cut off by her mother's stern voice.

"Clementine! Do not use that foul language inside the house of The Lord." Clementine huffed indignantly. "Aiden, honey, stop fidgeting." The priest glared at her for talking in the middle of the psalm. She quickly muttered an apology to her mother, and continued to pray.

"Praise be the Lord, my rock, who trains my hands for war and my fingers for battle." Clementine sang along to the monotone tune, trying to stay focused.

The words echoed in her head. Who trains my hands for war and my fingers for battle. Over and over, a tattoo of suffering. My hands for war. My hands for war. War. She gripped the worn wood of the pew, her breath catching. The war. Of course everything would relate to that. How many families had lost someone? Fathers, husbands, friends, brothers. Clementine was brought back to reality by a sharp pinch on her arm.

"Pay attention." Ma hissed under her breath. She nodded, as if she was going to. Clementine sat in silence, feet dangling a few centimeters above the floor, the tips of her shoes skimming the bottom.

"I need to use the outhouse." That was a decent alabai. The outhouse was around the back side of the church, near the forest. She got a glare from the person behind her, which she ignored. Clementine made her way past the people in her pew, saying "Excuse me," or "Pardon." She did have one manners, after all. Although she almost tripped over a few people, Clementine made it out unscathed.

As she shut the door, the music faded, leaving her alone. Outside it was warm, a cool breeze gliding through the air. The leaves on the trees where varying shades of green, some a deep green and others a crisp yellow.

When Clementine shut her eyes and relaxed, she was at peace. Nothing mattered except for the trees and the sun. The way she could feel the soft grass beneath her shoes or the tickle of a breeze on her cheek. For the first time in three weeks, Clementine smiled a real smile. Not like the ones she would give her siblings when she told them Aaron would be alright, but the one that could light up the darkest room, as bright as the sun. A genuine smile.

After a few moments, Clementine moved on, this time to a low tree. Maybe, if she was careful, she wouldn't ruin her nice dress. The tree was perfect for climbing: a strong, sturdy branch was about four and a half feet up, and it wasn't too far or too close from the next one. Leaves fanned out in glorious green shades, absorbing the sunlight. Clementine's hand grazed the bark, its rough edges somehow calming her. It was simple, really. All she had to do was latch onto the branch and hoist herself up. She had done it hundreds of thousands of times in her backyard. Clementine reached out, ready to jump. She bundled up her skirts and jumped up and down a few times.

"What are you doing up there, young lady?" Clementine froze. She knew that voice. Her mother, brown skirts twirling, was making her way towards her. "It has been five minutes! I was worried about you, thinking you had been taken, but no! You are climbing a tree."

Clementine avoided eye contact. "Sorry." She mumbled, feeling a blush creep up her face. What had she been thinking? Trying to climb a tree during mass.

"I got carried away."

"Carried away? You were in a tree for Christ's sake!" Clementine winced.. That was the wrong thing to say. "Clementine, you are sixteen years old. What am I going to do with you?"

That question caught her off guard. What was she going to do? She was almost a woman, and she couldn't even get through an hour of mass without getting distracted. There was a war going on, and what was she doing with the life God had granted her? Climbing trees?

"I . . ." Her voice died down, not knowing what to say or do.

"Get back inside. We'll talk about this later." Of all the things her mother said, that could have been the worst thing to say. When Ma said they'd talk about it later, she knew she was in deep trouble. Clementine nodded dully and trailed being her mother, bonnet hanging limply from her neck and her shoes dragging slightly. The heavy wooden doors open with a creak, and almost everyone turned their heads to look. Clementine spotted

Back to the dimly lit church with dust visible in the air. Back to the monotone singing and the hard wooden pews.

Onto the Covers: