Untitled

My way with words and syntax simply
cannot be forgot.
The rhymes and rhythms on this line
are not important.

Ha! Ha! Laugh. I dare you do;
this poem's light of heart.
It need not have a beat or way
to be considered art.

Uh, oh here it comes again:
A change to keep you here;
this stanza only has three lines.

So tell me, are you interested
or are you bored to tears?
Maybe you've just given up.
Yeah, me too.

To the Rose of the Little Prince

My darling, last until we rendezvous.
A fragile rose with water need me not.
In absence, memory will by my Louvre;
and every day I'll wish we hadn't fought.
I've seen the world; I've made a friend of amn,
Some quirky and some mearger sycophant.
And no grown-up will ever understand
how such a thing could be so important.
And yet the time did come for me to go.
My friend, his plane did fix but learned much more.
I walked up to the snake and said, "Hello."
The kiss he gave did send me to your door.
           He thinks of me and all you do is boast.
           To think, the sheep he made concerned me most.

Refrigerator:

Refrigerator:
that word has five syllables,
That's why it's so great!

This Haiku:

Five Syllables here
Seven are placed around here.
This haiku totes rocks.

Frost

~~~Megan Orlowski

Untitled

"Itsy Bitsy Spider" (Untitled)

“The itsy bitsy spider went up the water spout…” Hiccups momentarily halted her sobs in a pathetically repetitious rhythm, causing her weak, tired body to convulse in short intervals. Her very silhouette epitomized utter defeat as she melded into the wall supporting her frame, yet the rain poured down upon her without mercy. As the tiny drops of liquid transformed into a sonorous cacophony of drums within her mind and ears, the cheap dye in her hair washed out and permanently stained her silky white coat a bloody red. Honey-colored bored into freezing gray as she finally spoke din her strained, cracking voice. “You never give up…do you? You should understand now! You can do as you will, but you’ll never lay your eyes on that item which you seek so fervently….fruitlessly.” His mouth stretched as an all too familiar expression tainted his average features, “Elzbieta, darling, sweetheart, did you think I would spend all this time searching in futility? You couldn’t possibly still believe I don’t know of that child? Or no, I’m sorry, I underestimated your naïveté. You did know-but you thought I would never dare to hurt her. How could I ever even harm a hair on a child so pure, so full of… hope?” His words had turned poisonous as he had verbalized his hidden threats. The concluding words had been spat out with a matching expression that unsuccessfully mimicked a smile; full of malice, scorn, and worse yet, knowing. A chill rattled through her as she processed his words in horror. “N-no,” she croaked. Brushing a hand through his damp auburn hair, his hazel eyes watched gleefully as she seemed to shrivel in horror. “N-no, no…No!” she shouted desperately. “You c-can’t, y-you won’t harm her!” she hissed vehemently, trembling with an unknown mixture of absolute fury and utter fear, but he chuckled gleefully. “How endearing, a kitten wearing the mask of a lion. Darling, if it’s the only way to gain access to that key you oh-so-kindly hid…then yes, it will be my pleasure.” The woman closed her eyes as if the condensation was painfully acidic, innocently pattering unfathomable amounts of anguish upon her. She exhaled and abandoned both duty and reason. Reaching into her coat, she shakily revealed a jewel encrusted key with the head in the shape of a black widow. The future of mankind, her hope, the resistance, their strength of will…they were all dragged into the gutter as the exchange was made and our fate was sealed. “Good job,” he whispered. They were the last words she heard. You could amost hear it all going down, as the water came down the drains and washed the good right out. “…down came the rain and washed the spider out…”

NIght of the Necromancers

           

            The castle clock announced the hour with ten resonant peals of its monstrous bell.  Far below it, Nidian shivered, shrouded in the darkness of an alley.  He looked up, only to see that the clock tower was hidden by the same thick mist that clung to him, chilling him to his very bones.  Nidian ducked further into the alley when he heard the synchronized clip, clip of boots on cobblestone. Guards. 

            As they approached, Nidian readied himself and drew his wand.  His heart rate quickened, and he concentrated, collecting his strength. 

            Clip, clip, clip.  

            Nidian felt like a lowly fugitive, but he couldn’t afford to be escorted back the castle, as he was already behind schedule.  The guards turned into the alleyway, their magic lanterns bobbing serenely in front of them.  Seconds seemed to move like hours as the lanterns illuminated Nidian’s hooded face.

            “Prince—” one of the guards made a motion to bow before he was blown back ten paces by the  burst of magic emitted from Nidian‘s wand.

            Nidian turned to the other guard—whose face was now contorted with fear—and aimed.

            “You will not speak of this.” Nidian snarled as another burst of blue light flashed from the tip of his rowan wand.  The second guard shrieked as he flew through the air.  He landed roughly and twitched for a few moments before becoming still. Wasting no time, Nidian sprinted over the unconscious guards—he’d be sure to seek them out and give them a promotion later—and out into the street.  Keeping in the shadows, he let his breathing become regular. 

            While he ran, in long, ground-eating strides, he thanked the stars that everything was going according to plan—even if he was a little late.  He reveled in the wind rushing through his hair and into his face.  But most of all, he was grateful for a chance to finally see his father. After sixteen years and three days of lies—well-intentioned lies, but lies all the same—from his mother and her subjects, he would at last be able to see what the other half of his bloodline was like. 

            He continued this way for about a league, before he met the dense forests beyond his home city.  Nidian drew his wand again, and allowed a pinprick of blue light to leak from the tip. Silently, so as not to disturb anything, Nidian tiptoed forward.  It wasn’t long before he heard the hushed chuckling of water over rock. Nidian followed the sound until he almost tripped into the stream.  He could now hear more than the babbling brook—the sound of chimes tinkling in the wind. 

            Nidian let more light escape from the tip of his wand and glanced around.  Nothing was lurking, no hungry beasts hiding, waiting for the prince to let his guard down.  He kneeled down by the stream, and dipped his left hand into the brook, wiggling his fingers. They made small disturbances in the water. Nidian waited.

            The chiming stopped.

            He wiggled his fingers again.

            The chiming started once more.

            “Oh, Prince,” A voice like a flute warbled. “I never thought you’d come back.”  The chimes sounded again as a grey hand, fingers webbed together by a thin film, emerged and reached for Nidian’s, tugging gently.  “What is it you desire, darling?”  A flawless, heart-shaped face surfaced.  With his free hand, Nidian shone his wand into the face of the nymph. Her toad-like eyes gleamed in the light.  Long, wavy hair undulated in the rippling water. She smiled, and Nidian beamed back.

            “Niamh. I’m glad you could come.” He let go of Niamh’s hand and stroked her clammy face.

            “I can always make time for you, my love.”

            Nidian flushed two shades of red and abruptly grew serious.  “I, er, need your help. I’ve some business to attend to.”

            “Oh,” Niamh smiled coyly. “Does your mother know of this?”

            “No, she does not, and I’d prefer it to stay that way.”

            The grave look of her friend, with furrowed brows and a mouth set in a hard line, suggested that secrecy was of the utmost importance.  She did not, however, let the coyness fade from her pallid face.“Very well, young Prince,” Niamh’s laughter tinkled, “What is it that you need to know?”

            Nidian sighed.“A werecat with a horse should have passed by not too long ago.  Which way did they follow the water?”

            "Why didn't you just ride your horse here, love? That most certainly would have been faster," Niamh winked as she said this.

            "To avoid detection.  I must be going, and soon. Can you tell me where they went?"

            “Upstream, about two hundred paces. There will be a bend in the stream, and then a clearing.” Niamh giggled.  “Hurry if you must, dear, but I’d prefer it if you’d stay here.”  She took his hand once more, and pulled it with a hint of playful urgency.

            Nidian pulled his hand away.  “Thank you for your help, Honorable Niamh.” He said gruffly as he rose.  “Next time I visit you, I shall be sure to stay longer.”

            “Very well, my Prince.”  That being said, she giggled once more and slipped back into the dark water.    

            Nidian watched the water ripple for a few moments before he set off.   He kept alert, his power concentrated, should he encounter one of the wood’s many less-than-friendly denizens. 

            It did not take long until the stream doubled back on itself before making another sharp turn into the darkness of  the thicket.  At the first bend, a cluster of fairies glowed faintly on the steep bank, chattering amongst themselves.  At the sight of the young prince, the small, timid creatures flurried into the air, over the stream, and into the deep shadows of the forest.  Nidian looked around.  Just as Niamh had promised, there was a clearing to his left.  Hesitantly, he doused the light from his wand and crept into the open space.

            A twig snapped behind him.

            Nidian froze mid-stride.

            “Fashionably late, as always, Niddy.” a familiar voice from behind the prince purred mockingly.

            Nidian spun around, startled, and let a burst of bright light escape from his wand.

            Nothing was there.

            To the left, above Nidian’s head, the voice spoke again: “I thought you would’ve been in a hurry.  It’s not every day that a Wizard goes to a resurrection.”

             “Now is not the time for your jests and games, Amsi.” Nidian growled. “Show yourself.”

            “As you wish, Highness.”  Obscured by the darkness, a barely-discernible human form landed soundlessly in front of Nidian.  When the prince shone his wand into the face of the shadow, the light revealed tanned skin, pointed ears, and high cheekbones. Almond-shaped eyes glinted green in the wandlight.

            “Where is Stormbringer?” Nidian inquired, scanning the small meadow for his black Friesian stallion. Instead of the shining, high-spirited horse, his eyes landed on another creature: a small and unassuming paint pony, less than fourteen hands high--a far cry from Stormbringer’s sixteen hands of height.  The mild-mannered mare was chewing on the soft grass, bearing a backwards saddle. 

            “If this is a jest,” Nidian began, sighing heavily, “then I am not amused.”

            “I’m afraid I have no idea what you are talking about.” Amsi was nonchalantly leaning against a young aspen, examining his pointed nails.  “That is your horse.  I suggest you mount and go.”

            “Amsi,” the prince shook his head as he undid the loose girth and righted the saddle and blanket. “One day I shall teach you to properly tack a horse.”

            “I never cared much for the equine species,” Amsi replied flippantly.

            “I can tell.” Nidian muttered as he mounted his less-than-glorious steed.  He touched the tip of his wand to the mare’s flank, releasing stinging sparks.  Startled, the mare immediately responded by taking off at a canter.  Nidian goaded her into a gallop with a rough kick and a yell.  They met the stream quickly, and through the hoof beats, the prince could hear the tinkling of chimes in the wind. 

***

            The paint pony needed constant encouragement to keep her current pace.  Within about two leagues, foam was forming in the mare’s mouth from the exertion.  ­Nidian’s anxiety and excitement made him a merciless rider. 

            The struggle between the prince and the pony went on for about one and a half hours.  Nidian had decided that he would run the horse into the ground if he had to.  He almost did when he stopped the wheezing mare in the middle of a sticky moor.  Fog that smelled of sulfur and stale air swirled around the two, obscuring the path ahead.  He let the small mare continue to cough, when without warning, the seemingly impermeable mist parted enough for the prince to see.

            Nidian gasped.

            A massive plateau jutted out of the ground before him, with a castle of black stone perched on the east end.  Large, dark birds—vultures, perhaps—circled the towers.  The sheer cliff had a narrow path that wound back and forth across the west side.  Nidian dismounted the coughing horse and tied her to a fallen tree.  He kept his wand at the ready—he had heard that the Necromancers had a habit of not tying their bear-sized hunting dogs up. 

            Trudging through the moor proved more difficult than it seemed from a horse’s back.  The uneven ground was soft in some places and rock-hard in others.  Twice Nidian lost his left boot.  Despite the cold fog, the prince was sweating and breathing heavily by the time he reached the trail.  He guessed that it was about fifteen minutes until midnight.  Wiping his brow, he began to climb.

            About three quarters of the path was behind Nidian when he realized that it would be nigh on impossible for a horse, no matter how sure-footed, to travel this way.  It left him to wonder where the necromancers kept theirs.  Maybe, he mused, maybe they kill them, drag them up here, and then resurrect them once on the top.  But that seemed far-fetched, even for the necromancers.

            He was still pondering this conundrum when he reached the summit.  As he had climbed, the smell of sulfur had slowly given way to the sickly-sweet odor of decay.  Now, by the castle, it was nearly unbearable.  Nidian’s stomach churned, and he found himself retching a few moments later. 

            While on his hands and knees, he became aware that someone was standing over him.  His green eyes rose to meet a pair of colorless ones.

            “You.” the hulking figure rasped.

            Despite his unsteadiness, Nidian stood up quickly, drawing his wand. His world spun for a moment. Now that he was standing, he found that he was a full two heads taller than his adversary.  Cautiously, he spoke. “I am Prince Nidian,” he hesitated, as he was not accustomed to using his father’s name; “er, Lethrossi.  I am here to attend the resurrection and reanimation--”
            “I know what you are here for, Prince.” the old woman spat out the last word, as if it disgusted her.

            Anger flashed through Nidian.  He raised his hand, about to hit her for interrupting him, but thought better of it. This was not his home turf.

            “Follow me.” the woman began to hobble away.  Nidian obeyed.  She led him to a gigantic marble mausoleum that was surrounded by at least five hundred candles.  Shadows and light danced together on the tomb.  A dead hunting dog, as large as a black bear, lay on top of the stone chest.  Its eyes were glassy, its tongue limp and grey. Outside the ring of candles, twenty-four of the late King Nystul Lethrossi’s most loyal subjects stood, garbed in black robes.  The old woman, also in a black robe, joined them.  Twenty-five pairs of colorless eyes narrowed as they fell upon the solitary wizard.  Nidian found it to be unsettling, at the very least.

            One woman broke the still silence.  Her hair, as white as her pallid face, framed defined, slightly masculine features. Blood-red lips parted in a grimace-like smile.  She moved with great grace, seeming to float.  Nidian knew instinctively that she was no ordinary grave robber.  She was Karavelia, queen of the Necromancers.  Humbled, he dropped to one knee and bowed his head.

            “Get up!” She snarled, yanking him up by the collar of his tunic. “Relinquish your wand.”

            Nidian obeyed, and watched as his only weapon slid inside Karavelia’s robe.  In his anxiety, he swallowed hard.

            The queen gripped Nidian’s chin and turned his face to either side. “You look like him,” she said gently.  “It’s a shame that his only son is illegitimate!” Karavelia slapped Nidian with all her might, sending him reeling.  As he backpedaled, his heel caught on a rock.  Nidian landed roughly on the parched ground.  The small crowd surrounded him almost instantly, ripping off his tunic, and dragging him to the mausoleum through a gap in the candles.  Nidian struggled fiercely, but to no avail. 

            “Blood from the first-born child, taken from a right limb,” Karavelia grinned as she slid a sharp knife across Nidian’s inner right arm.  Crimson liquid began to flow freely, and at the sight and smell of it, Nidian grew nauseous again.  The necromancer queen cupped her hands under the flow, and began to dribble it in a circle around the tomb.  When she had completed the circle, she wrote runes in Nidian’s blood around the dead hunting dog.

            Nidian was vaguely aware of chanting in the background.  Several someones had wrapped his wound with his tunic, and then dropped him on the hard soil, away from the ceremony.  The chanting grew louder and louder, and the congregation danced in circles around the tomb.  Karavelia had a bell in each hand, drawing complex patterns in the air with them.  She was laughing hysterically, with tears of ecstasy flowing down her face.

            The chanting, dancing, and bell-ringing were reaching a climax.  The unholy din was making Nidian’s head throb.  He swam in and out of consciousness. 

            Everything went quiet.

            The whole crowd was slumped onto their knees, as if exhausted.

            Somewhere, a bird screeched.

            More silence.

            Suddenly, all the candles went out at once.

            Something started breathing loudly.  Nidian raised his head with difficulty as the dog rose gingerly, breath rattling.  With a great thud, it landed on the ground.  Karavelia’s face took on a tender look as she rushed to the dog.

            “Nystul, oh, Nystul! Too long have I waited to bring you back, oh Nystul!” she hugged the animal tightly around its heavily-furred neck, sobbing into its thick, coal-black pelt.  The beast began to work his mouth, as though it was chewing something.

            “My Karavelia,” the dog finally rumbled, “too long, indeed.”

            The old woman who had led Nidian to the ceremony rushed forth. “My son, oh, my glorious son!” after her, the whole congregation broke free of their silent bond and surrounded Nystul, chattering, crying, and laughing. Nystul’s eyes wandered from his wife, and fell upon the barely-conscious Nidian.

            “Silence!” he barked, as if suddenly bothered by the attention.  The crowd fell silent, just as he had ordered.  Nystul broke free of his wife’s embrace, and crept towards his son.  “Rise, boy.” he said brusquely, but not without a hint of tenderness.

            Nidian, his world still spinning, rose to one knee with great difficulty.  He bowed his head.

            “Look at me.” the Nystul-dog ordered.

            Nidian locked his gaze into his father’s eyes.

            Without looking away, the fearsome canine ordered: “Karavelia, give him back his wand.  My son deserves his dignity.”

            Karavelia’s face donned an expression of shock. “How--”

            “Do not ask. Just do.”

            Karavelia obeyed.

            “Speak to me, my son.  Never before have I heard your voice.” Nystul requested in a whisper.

            Nidian mustered a genuine smile.  “Good evening, Your Majesty.  I am Prince Nidian Lethrossi, and it is a great honor to meet you, my father, at last.”

Macbeth song

Verse:

Hurley burley cauldrons run

Twisted sisters harm for fun

Hear Macbeth come

Prophecies of king and thane

This idea makes a man insane

You’ve set the game

Chorus:

Don’t think you’ve got the guts to kill a man

To never was the blood from you two hands

To strike your friends for power is that cruel

When you are in the dirt you’ll be the fool

Verse:

Dagger  dagger it’s in my mind

I cannot touch to my surprise

Is this a sign

I did the deed to my dislike

I truly must love my wife

Internal strife

Chorus:

Don’t think you’ve got the guts to kill a man

To never wash the blood from your two hands

To hold onto regret like newborn child

Killing Duncan wasn’t worth the while

Verse:

Don’t think you’ve got the guts to kill a man

To never wash the blood from your two hands

‘Cause I’m insane I’m all alone as long as no one touch my throne

‘Cause in Macbeth human nature has won

Don’t think you’ve got the guts to kill a man

To never wash the blood from you two hands

‘Cause I’m insane I’m all alone as long as no one touch my throne

‘Cause in Macbeth human nature has won

Impossible Things

Have you ever seen impossible things?

They ask me day to day.

Have you ever seen snow in the sunny month of May?

Have you ever seen the flitting shadows of forgotten kings,

Have you ever seen impossible things?

Have you ever seen impossible things?

Seen men rise from untimely deaths,

Have you ever seen mountains toppled by a single breath?

Have you ever heard the whispers of dreams,

Have you ever seen these kinds of impossible things?

And to this I always reply:

I scale the clouds and paint the morning sky,

I drown fear, jump, and prepare to fly.

I ask them back with newborn wings,

Do you have the courage to do impossible things?

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Untitled
Breanna Shiflett

‘Twas morning and the tired students

Did grumble and garble in the halls:

All anxious were the freshmen

And the upperclassmen did sigh.

“Beware the Midterms, my student!

The questions that bite, the problems that catch!

Beware the Essay questions, and shun

The dangerous Fill-in-the-blanks!”

And, as in deep thought he stood,

The Midterms, with eyes of flame,

Came tumbling through the tired school,

And growled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through

The sharp pencil went scribble-scratch!

He left It dead, and with its head

He went strutting back

“And, has thou slain the exams?

Come to my arms, my triumphant student!

O glorious day! Hallelujah! Horray!”

He chortled in his joy.

“Twas morning, and the tired students

Did grumble and garble in the halls;

All anxious were the freshmen

And the upperclassmen did sigh.

*This is a rewrite of Lewis Carol’s Jabberwocky.

Ode to a Cloud

Cloud, you are so high

Floating on the edges of our world.

White, fluffy, innocent one moment,

Dark, menacing, foreboding the next.

Traveling the world freely,

Only answerable to the wind.

Living the way I want to live,

Nothing to do but float along.

My body sitting in school, but

My mind floating outside with you.

I love you different shapes, and

The innocence you project,

I can watch you all day,

Wisps and billows throughout the wind,

Free to do whatever you want,

Unaffected by the world beneath you.

The View of A Popsicle

I make up your summer evenings.

You carry me around the campground,

As the grass tickles your feet

And sends a smile to your eyes.

I travel down your chin in intricate lines

And soak your hands in memories

That you will cherish forever.

These years of no worries

Of star-lit bonfires that warm the soul

Where nothing is fully soaked up

By that sponge you keep inside of you head.

When no one can tell you that someone is better

Than mommy and daddy

Because, in truth, who could be better

Than the very people

Who tell you bed time stories

And who keep us together?

These are the days

Of sun kissed memories being created

And when the sun is caught in everyone’s eyes

As we all march through a cinnamon high.

Christopher

As Stephen Schwartz wrote, “I’ve heard it said that people come into  our lives for a reason.” What he didn’t say that when people leave our lives, the impact is greater. Before I became the bright, sunny individual that I am today, something happened that altered the way I look at reality. My family was falling apart at the seams because of my attitude, until we lost our youngest member. The death of Christopher severely changed the relationships between the members of our family; but with the new found tension I gained a better appreciation of life itself.

                Before everything changed, I was a rebel. I didn’t listen to my parents, my grades were terrible, and I hardly had a single person that I could call my friend. In an attempt to bring our family closer, my parents would frequently take us on mini-vacations. Unbeknownst to them, Christopher and I abhorred these weekend trips. They took time out of our miniscule personal lives and prevented us from finding time away from the family. The only thing I enjoyed about the trips was the time my brother and I spent together. However twisted our family was Christopher was always special to me.

                On one particular trip, this time to the beach, my mother and I had had a row one night and were on negative terms the next morning. Christopher and my father were lounging in the living room, watching the indigo waves roll across the shore as they discussed the possibility of playing soccer this coming sports season. My mother was attempting to prepare a “delicious” meal of bacon and eggs, but the stove was refusing to light. When I descended the stairs into the tiny kitchen, she glanced at me.

                “Pery, go outside to check and see if the propane is hooked up. You know where it is,” she said, turning back to the decrepit stovetop. We had stayed in this beach house before, so I knew where just about everything was.

                “I’m thinking no. I’m gonna run down to the beach,” I said as I stepped out the door grabbing a towel.

                “Pery Alexander, get back in here, now!” She snapped at me, already fuming. I simply ignored her and strolled out the door without a glance back. I could hear her shouts as I walked down the wooden path to the sand but I tuned her out just as I heard the low tones of my father join hers. I was set, I didn’t pay them any attention, but I noticed the volume of their words grow louder as they stepped outside but I was too far down the path to understand their poison-tipped conversation.

                Suddenly, everything changed.

                Out of nowhere came a cacophony of sound with a force strong enough to knock me off my feet. Windows shattered around me and flaming pieces of wood flew in every direction. As soon as I could, I scrambled around and saw the most horrifying image of my entire life. Just past my parents who lay a few yards from the house, conscious but in a panic, bright gold and yellow flames, caused by the explosion of the malfunctioning stove, leapt up the sides of the house and a heavy, ebony smoke filled the sky. Just as I began to register the scene before me, a bone chilling scream rose over the roar of the flames.

                Christopher was still in the house.

                My mother cried out and attempted to run into the house but the heat and smoke held her back. Christopher’s sobs rang out in the air as the tenants of the neighboring houses stepped outside to aid the situation. Shouts joined the symphony of noise as people formulated plans to stop the fire; but, amidst all the hubbub, only my family and I noticed as Christopher’s wails died out.

                He was gone.

                Weeks later, we held a funeral for him. However, the casket was closed because the burns were terrible; no one would have recognized him. The service was full of tears and apologies, but not a single person understood that Christopher was the only reason I had to live. In the aftershock of it all, I began to distance myself even further from my parents. Then, one day, I finally looked my mother straight in the eye and I saw down to how she felt on the inside. This opened a new realm of emotion to me. She had been there when he came into this life and she had felt the bittersweet kiss of watching him leave it. I now realized there was someone who hurt more than I ever could. From that point on, I treated her with respect. I cleaned up my act, cutting out all the negativity I held inside and became a new man. Christopher would have wanted me to live on for him.

                I would give anything to have my brother back; I would even walk one-thousand miles if that’s what it took. I cannot deny how much grief his death brought me but it changed my life. If it had not happened, I could have wound up at juvenile detention center, whittling away my lonely hours in silence. If he hadn’t gone, I never would have loved my family in this way. Now, after years of mourning and living in loss, I see that he came into my life for a reason.

                I love you, Christopher Wallace Salyer.

                Thank you.

Unnamed

I am a beast with many a name
I thrive off of blame
I lurk behind and maim
I will not be tame
I hear your disclaim

I leave behind the lonely
I fall out so smoothly
Beneath I am heard, you hide it so poorly
You speak of me and feel so queenly
I see my look in your eyes, miss shifty

I draw your gazes
Yet laugh on the fringes
You will not see all my fusses,
Until my shadow is lifted you will not see the ashes
Do not be fooled in my wake there will be corpses

Tomorrow is new, and so is my prattle
For I never dwindle
I will find another to shackle
My most prized are those who tangle
So be wistful in your fable
For you could be my damsel

A Moment

Children,
can close their eyes, and go anywhere.
They can trust in anything, and everything.

But we can't see anything,
past ourselves.

We're too focused on tomorrow
on our futures,
running by so fast
we can't see what's in front of us.

But sometimes
in the most precious moments
when we watch carefully
the rain suspends in mid air
and we can live forever in this moment.

Lady Susanna; the Marshmallow Maid

Sat toasting in the sun.
Lots of pretty birds chirping; flitting around

Then all of the sudden there were none


For Bernice; the wicked old witch
Was jealous of her beauty; her money
And man, her marshmallow land
And also she was snooty.

Quick as a flash she snatched Susie up
Bagged her, gagged her, and took her.
But dashing Sir owen saw it all happen,
He thinks Susanna's a looker.

He chased after the witch on his horse Gumby
To the witch's castle
They rode quite quickly through the wood
It was such a hastle


Then at the castle with Susie tied up,
Owen burst through the doors
"Let my love go!" Bernice then said "NO!"
"Then I'll mop you off the floors!"

Then out of his pocket, a flask Owen pulled
Hot chocolate it contained
He doused old Bernice who sizzled and spat
All her body was drained


Owen cut Susie down, picked up her crown
And nestled it on her head.
"Thank you my lord, I was so very scared."
"At last Bernice is dead"


They rode off on Gumby all happy and joyful
Back to their land
There were parties and laughter
And not too soon after owen had her hand.

By: Jessica M. and Owen S.

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Huge Flowers

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People with Tree

Untilted

Blue and Yellow: A Short Story by James Cassar

The ballroom was caked in a thin layer of dust, the skeletons of an ancient romance out in the open. Faded streamers hung loosely by their frayed ends, reaching down towards the cracked and splintered floor like outstretched, flailing arms. The remains of glittery balloons were jammed unceremoniously in the bent, exposed rafters of the ceiling, each pipe housing imperfection transparently. Ten years ago, this was the scene of Carver Denton's final homecoming dance. Finality was always a word he didn't quite understand. Sure, caps would soon hover in the air momentarily, echoing the last hurrah in high school, but just because he was ascending the pulpit and snagging a diploma didn't mean he would have to say goodbye to her. He was wrong; the sting of that fact was incredible. That's the thing about being wrong. It hits you harder when you dwell on your mistake. And there he was, wallowing in it like some sick mess. Carver let out a heavy, weighted sigh, each exhale fragmented, punctured by the gravity of his surroundings. Slowly moving around the perimeter, he snapped mental photographs of the closing scene of his wasted youth. Tables were toppled over, their frail legs bent awkwardly. Several forbidden cigarette butts were visible, jammed in the intersection between two ruptured decorative centerpieces. Red cups littered the floor, grainy and peeling. Nothing to see but memories. Nobody sees those, anyway, he thought aimlessly, no one's alive but me. He remembered the blur of madness, the sirens, and the wails of several robotic, detached symphonies. The fragility and sanctity of slowdancing was interrupted forcefully; fear gripped the dancefloor with tyrannical precision. It wasn't until the green light descended from the skies of an unknown god that everyone started to run. Everyone except Carver, and her. The two of them remained seated on the desolate dancefloor. His girl had her legs crossed nonchalantly with her arms hung loose at her sides. Her soft chocolate-brown hair fell in messy waves down to her shoulders; her sighs made her locks bob and sway like palm trees in torrents. She batted her eyelashes frequently as if a rogue moth was obscuring her view, and she bit her bottom lip, dialogue frozen. A sense of dramatics rises. He remembered biting his tongue, swallowing his pride, and spitting out the burning question. His hands shook madly, like an addict aching for another hit. He wanted to feel the rush of acceptance, an invitation to clasp her hand in his, gaze into those cerulean eyes, and tell her he felt light, the worries in his life erased. The worries stayed scorching his insides until she responded. One ear was hearing the subdued longing of Brand New’s Deja Entendu; the other ear was ringing with anticipation, the pull of promise, hope. She bit her lip and let her head bow low, gazing at her feet. Her breaths accented the awkward pause in between his question-marked request and whatever she wanted to be her response, her respiration like a typist punching keys in an empty cathedral. She was writing his alleluia or his eulogy. Her answer would either be his lifting or his burial. You are the smell before rain, his left earbud confessed, you are the blood in my veins. She spoke up as the track faded into nonexistence, the suppressed hum of dead air occupying half of his hearing. I am either the boy who blocked his own shot, he thought, referencing the eponymous song that just ended, or I’m what you want. He closed his eyes, gasped inaudibly, and put one uneasy hand behind his pallid neck. It was unusually clammy, a reflection of uninhibited nervousness. The next minute of uninterrupted nothingness elapsed in a painful, lethargic manner. Carver's free hand was now occupied in a lonely dinner party with his mouth, the main course his roughened cuticles. His teeth cut deep, relishing the distraction as a way to channel pain into a different avenue than emotion. He removed his scavenged hand moments later to discover the battered remains of his flesh, teethmarks visible from yards away. “Hey,” she answered his plea in a voice that was both hurried and beautiful, staccato notes that matched his irregular, sporadic heartbeat. “Why not?” Her question was rhetorical, and she finished her unrequited conversation with a smirk. After Carver let his white-knuckled fists lose their suffocating tension, he held out his hand. “Since you're so keen about taking chances,” he reasoned, “take this.” Her hand melded into his, they took off walking, to no particular destination. But now, their destination seemed more closer to the end of their lives. “This would make for a really great painting.” She looked up at him with eyes that could sink ships and cure cancer all at once, two azurite diamonds in the increasingly emerald world. “The world might be ending, and this is what you're thinking about?” “Might as well go out a dreamer, and not a screamer.” She let out an airy whistle, and twiddled her art pencil between her thumb and her forefinger. Chalky residue rubbed off onto her soft, petite hand. The other hand was locked in his, intent on staying prisoner in the grasp forever. That was the thing about Katelyn. No matter how messed up the outside world was, she always stayed right there, in between daydreams. “Why are you so curious about what's going to happen, if you never know what's happening?” “I do, it's just....” Electricity seemed to surge through Carver's veins as she inched closer to him, her grip on his hand loosening only to return to his jawline. This wasn't the back row of a movie theater; he couldn't hear the reels spinning idyllically, the background to his first kiss. But his second was the last he'd reminisce about, and the last one he'd ever want. She pulled away from him and shot a hard, searching gaze. “Look outside,” she dictated quietly, “see that green light?” Carver cleared his throat, stomach still doing gymnastics. “Mhm.” “The Smiths wrote a song once called 'There Is a Light That Never Goes Out.' Morrissey was a frickin' genius. He knew about this thing called hope, man. Sure, everyone's going crazy outside, but here we are, tangled up in silence, perfectly fine. The sky could be falling down, we could be falling apart, breaking bones in alphabetical order, I don't know. But you know what?” Carver didn't respond; he was too intrigued to answer. She continued in a hushed, sluggish tone, relaying her words with thick pauses. “I'd rather waste my time with you.” “Even if we're almost dead?” “That makes me want to even more.” Her hand drifted down to meet his once again, and her grip locked their arms in place; a moment suspended in time. A hum akin to the whirr of fan blades shattered the beauty of the spectacle. The abrasive yelp of several horns and buzzers awoke the fear that was only subdued within Carver moments before. The cops? A likely hypothesis. Some kids never learned. But one thing Carver never learned was to expect the impossible. The dusty scene that surrounded Carver only made him lonelier. The paint that was sliding off the drywall mirrored his spirits; the mercury in his emotional thermometer downscaling to new, frigid lows. He brushed his unkempt brown hair out of his piercing green eyes, and looked at his hands. Maps of unknown cities were inherently scrawled on their surface, a world that he couldn't access or travel to. He had this suppressed wanderlust, a desire to scavenge the world for its worth and its purpose, but he knew it would prove fruitless. Katelyn gave him meaning, a song in his heart, and he let her go. Nothing was sound anymore. Just static. The haphazard whoosh of wind seemed to gradually overtake the atmosphere, choking it in its vicelike ice-cold grip. Papers were flung across the hardwood randomly, and the force of the storm was so great that glasses scattered across the area started to lose their shape, breaking into a million indistinguishable pieces, lost in mania. Carver's thought processes became slurred and sloppy, but one clear, concise proposition rang from his mouth so confidently, so coolly that the imposition of the sentence seemed to shock him more than he intended. “I think we should run away.” “You're kidding. After that rad inspirational speech?” Katelyn gave her companion a rough, sardonic look. “I don't just mean from this dancefloor.” “Then what do you mean, exactly, hm?” “See that green light?” “No. I see blue and yellow. The component colors, they mix and blend to form green. Two blobs with different backgrounds and hues clash together and make something beautiful. I know that that bond exists between them, but I know that it's equal, that both of them are in this together, burning brighter than the sun.” As if on cue, a brilliant streak of light seemed to break its way through whatever remained of the structure. The roof had since caved inward. The light seemed to hover to directly where Katelyn was planted firmly on the dirtied and dilapidated ground. It was calling to her. Carver knew this couldn't be a routine police protocol. Carver digested this amid the chaos, and then began to stitch together words. “Let's escape this together, Katelyn. Let's find a place to hide. We can slowdance on some empty rooftop somewhere and I'll let you paint your crazy pictures. We can be almost dead together. We're not gone, but we're living like that light is almost out, everyday, just you and me,” he exhaled mightily, “blue and yellow.” From under unruly long brown hair he saw a smile creep across her face like a welcome virus, infecting the whole deserted room with happiness. “Look who's living for today now.” Katelyn clasped Carver's hand, using his body to support her journey to an upright position and jumped up excitedly. “Let's go waste time.” They exited the ballroom with a brisk pace, not hesitating to look back at their previous location. After all, why would they? Carver knew he'd make her happy some way or another. That's all he ever wanted, to have something to hold onto. That hand was more than enough. Outside, the sky was on fire. The horizon seemed to be exploding in several different shades of blazing orange, leaving Carver temporarily blinded. His hearing also seemed to disintegrate automatically; the sirens a deafening timbre with crushing vibrato. His touch never faltered; all he knew in that moment was to hold on. It wasn't until they came down from the godless skies that he couldn't help but break his grip. He couldn't tell what they were; the glare from all the unnatural color blocked his vision. All he could process were garbled screams, and when he reached up to touch his ear, he felt the unpleasant stickiness of fresh blood. And then he realized what he had done, and before he could fix it, they seized her away from him, breaking his plans up in one fleeting moment. Blue and yellow became just blue, the intrusive, brooding ocean that separated him from consciousness and his heart. Scores of pubescent bodies started floating. Gravity seemed to disappear. Soon, Carver could feel his feet lose touch with the cracked, worn earth. He was ascending far above the world he once knew, the planet in which he had found the only girl he could've ever fought for. He already let her fight for herself. Carver was only waiting for the final bugle blast at this point; a signal that the war was lost. Compliance seemed obligatory, life had proved meaningless. If Katelyn could see the world she was leaving, what a tapestry she could paint... Carver could barely focus on the objects that were beckoning him towards where no god was stationed. He made note of the shapes of the foreign vehicles, like elliptical discs, vessels of horror, unfathomable malice. That was all he could process. The world grew hazy, he was weightless, his consciousness was slipping away. Wherever I end up, I hope it's with you. A pinprick of light pockmarked the charcoal sky, Carver was falling back to earth. They had taken their fill. They had taken everything but him. He was the boy who blocked his own shot. He could've kept her if they just stayed put. She would've painted this world with a whole different viewpoint; the lone color scheme of blue and yellow. The ballroom was caked in a thin layer of dust, the skeletons of an ancient romance out in the open. It all looked the same to him, decadence put on display. He stood up to leave, but he thought better of it. Hands shaking, he started breathing in more irregular bouts, his lungs in an eternal boxing match. He spoke aloud, slowly, methodically; he couldn't hear what phrases were spilling out. “I left you once. I let you go. I looked away from what I wanted for two seconds and lost it all. But I won't lose this. I won't lose that blue. You won't lose that yellow. I'm almost dead. And until I die, I'll always remember what you showed me. I wouldn't want that light to go out in any other way.” Should've said something, but I've said it enough. By the way, my hands were shaking; I'd rather waste my time with you.

I Do Not Understand

I do not understand
war
poverty
and poetry assignments.

I do not undestand
that when people give three wishes to a genie in a bottle
they wish for
money
fame
and fortune.

When they could wiwsh for
peace
hope for all
and less poetry assignments.

Ode to a Cloud

Cloud, you are so high
Floating on the edges of our world.

White, fluffy, innocent one moment,
Dark, menacing, foreboding the next.

Traveling the world freely,
Only answerable to the wind.

Living the way I want to live,
Nothing to do but float along.

My body sitting in school, but
My mind floating outside with you.

I love you different shapes, and
The innocence you project,

I can watch you all day,
Wisps and billows throughout the wind,

Free to do whatever you want
Unaffected by the world beneath you.

Your Own Perfect Disaster

Distant cries never heard.
Unvoiced screams all ignored.
Quiet pleas brushed aside.
Secrets buried inside.
True feelings forced to bide.
Fragile hearts unassured.
Perfect acting encored.
They see with craked glasses.
You go along with the masses.
Standing on paper ice,
You have a hand on all your masks.
You are your own private actress.
No one knows that this is simply one of your plays.
This is one more catastrophic mess,
In your pile of classics.
Heard but unheard.
This is your cage.
This is your stage.
You are the star,
Of your own perfect disaster.

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~~~Steffie Molla

Wish

~~~~Megan Orlowski

~~~~Megan Orlowski

Sand

~~~~Megan Orlowski

Grunge Smile

~~~ Megan Orlowski

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~~~~Steffie Molla