Untitled-Liesl

Death be unto he
who keepeth his neutrality
in times of mortal crisis.
For in choosing no side
he hath abandoned those
who needeth his assistance
and doomed the
to the loosing hand
of Fate.

Spring- Liesl

Spring is a time for rebirth, renewal, rejoicing, when

Plants peek up above into the air smelling sweetly of bark mulch, and
Robins sing and flit around, dancing a merry spring waltz, while
Ice blue skies accented with wisps of clouds
Greet me as I step outside

The Gray Area- Liesl

The Gray Area

 

In March of 1776, Patrick Henry, a colonial gentleman gave his famous “Give me Liberty or Give me Death!” speech to a group of colonists gathered in the St. John’s Church in Richmond, in which he proclaimed that he would rather die than be oppressed by Britain for a day longer. He was, along with the rest of the 13 colonies, willing to die rather than live under Britain; a country was taking away their freedoms. They wanted the freedom to live without oppression, and the freedom to practice religion as they wished. They wanted the freedom that they had been promised when they moved to America.

America was founded on the promise of freedom and equal rights for all. The pilgrims in 1620 left their homeland in England because America was the supposed land of opportunity, where you could make a future for yourself and no one would tell you that you had to do this, or couldn’t do that. You were free. Free from England, free from the Church that was becoming more and more corrupt by the day.

Our society has evolved in a scarred, awful way. From the very beginning, there were problems. There were tense relationships with the local Indians when the pilgrims first arrived, and on and on and on throughout the centuries of American history there has been problem after problem about slavery, skin color, immigrant nationalities, and more. Suspicions against foreigners during wars. People against people because of who they were, because of the way that they lived their lives

And even 237 years after the foundation of the United States of America, the land of opportunity and freedom, with laws in place to protect one’s freedom, one’s rights, and one’s welfare, Americans are still not free. There are still laws that dictate what you can and can’t do, and the concept of freedom is still being debated. The definition of freedom is still one that is so entirely vague, that there is nothing that defines freedom in the Constitution.

Take the shooting in Newton, Connecticut. Almost instantly after the shooting, people were clamoring for gun laws and regulations for gun owners. They didn’t want anyone to be able to go up to a gun store and buy a gun, to use as they wish, even with a permit. They didn’t want another slaughtering like the one in the Sandy Hook Elementary School. They say that it is their right to be safe from people who own guns.

Then, when Congress responded with ideas for laws about guns, and regulations for their use, there are the people who do own guns that they have to please. They have permits, and their gun ownership is perfectly legal. They say that it is their right to own a gun. They say that they have the right to carry a gun.

So, where do the guarantees of freedom, the guarantees of a safe, and a free country intersect with what people want to be able to do? Where does it intersect with the people who want to be able own guns, or sell drugs? Where is the line of reason between what is best for the national safety, and people’s personal interpretation of freedom?

*I realize that this might be a little bit... controversial, but I wrote this for MLK day and I want feedback

April Fools-Elizabeth

Our darting, accusing eyes burn through each other. The usual goofy chatter has lowered to a quiet hum of whispers. Thoughts buzz through my head, flustering my mind. I cautiously select a pretzel and scan the classroom before quickly popping it in my mouth. We are careful to look down. Catching someone's eye could be deadly. The scampering sound of clogs echoes, louder, louder. Ms. Willow glides in without a word. In one steady motion she sits and points to the board. We flip to page 85 in our textbooks, unsure of what we are supposed to be doing. We sneak glances at each other, mentally asking questions. My hand shakes as I take a pencil from my binder. I can't take this pressure. I silently excuse myself to the back of the room and grab a paper cup and reach for the faucet handle. The water shoots out in a steady stream. My grey tee shirt darkens with the combination of liquid. My mouth gaped, I turn around. Ms. Willow covers her face, holding back her loud, jolly laugh. My lips twitch, forcing that strong urge to retreat. "APRIL FOOLS!" Ms. Willow manages. The class erupts. The atmosphere lightened considerably after that.

Switchin it up

Axolotls may be the strangest creatures you've never heard of. These little freaks of nature look like something out of Pokemon, having the body of a salamander but with a tail meant for swimming and what looks like plants growing out of its gills. The Axolotl would be just like any other salamander, but the larvae of Axolotls fail to go through metamorphosis, leaving mature ones still aquatic. They are typically found in the lakes and rivers of Mexico, but due to water pollution, these curiosities are near extinction. As if God or evolution couldn't make these creatures weird enough, Axolotls come with the strange ability to regenerate lost limbs. Overall, Axolotls are strange creatures that make them one of my favorite animals.

The Storm- Liesl

The tempest rolled in
great and terrible along the horizon
colossal spools of
unbroken, fickle
awfulness.

A majestic behemoth
with the power to exterminate
the ability to rip
to shred
to end.

It came on us with a

roaring
ripping fury.
Its tendrils of hate
shredding everything
it could get its hands on.

It came like a rushing river
came all of a sudden
then it was gone
leaving a wreck
then the atmosphere
lightened considerably.

 

April Fools! ~Phoebe

We all shuffle in 

exchanging looks from one another.

We sit in our usual seats

immediately opening our books

for some final studying.

The silence couldn't be any louder.

The door handle turns and we all shut our books 

and face the door with frightened looks.

She walks in with a stack of 14 papers.

In which each get passed out to each 

and every one of us.

The blank side stares at me.

Following directions, I don't flip over the paper

to begin yet.

Before flipping the paper, she reminds us of the date.

"Now everyone please flip over your papers!"

The crisp sound repeated several times, gasps, and laughters.

"APRIL FOOLS!" 

After that, the atmosphere lightened considerably.

Sci Fi Story Beginning-- Lindsay

A scene of devastation met their eyes in the form of a curling roof and blackened, blistered wood.

They were gone.

Radical thoughts stung Jade's head and made it ache a pain that she couldn't bear. It hurt her bones, made her knees weak, and left her breathing heavily in panic. "No. This isn't the house. We're on the wrong street. We went the wrong way and I never grew up here! This isn't my home. My room window isn't there, so it's all wrong!" Glass lie shattered and glistening on the grass below a second story gaping hole that was about ready to concave.

David's vision was blurry and his heart beat fast, but his voice didn't waver. "Take my hand now. We are leaving. The farther we can get on foot by nightfall, the better off we are." He knew that the smoldering house was a sign left by Ed. Ed had set it as a warning. David suspected Jade's parents were merely crumbling piles of ash. Possibly locked in their homes the night their arsonist set their home ablaze. There wasn't a doubt in David's mind that this was true.
It was something Ed would do for sure. He would never give up.

David would keep running.

Ed always got what he wanted.

And so, the chase continued.

A Piece of Writing Noa

A scene of devastation met their eyes. Mary and Jim looked at the kitchen in utter terror. Pots and pans were scattered everywhere, food from the fridge splattered on the walls, drawers ripped opened, as if a tornado had struck. Mouth’s agape, the couple could hardly speak.

“Wh-who did this?” Jim asked incredulously

Two bright blue mischievous eyes peeked out behind the kitchen island.

“YOU!” Jim yelled accusingly.

The blue eyes widened at the sound and they ducked behind the island again.

“You are in HUGE trouble missy,” Jim threatened.

A girl with a head full of blond curls fled the scene, a tiny bright blur.

“Get back here!” Jim shouted. He started to run after her, but promptly slipped in last night's pasta sauce and landed flat on his back. He cursed loudly. Oblivious the the red goop that covered his body he picked himself up, only to trip on a large wok and hit his head on a pan.

He continued bumbling like a bear around the kitchen, tripping, bumping into furniture, and of course falling down, until he had given up his chase. He sat down in the wreck of a kitchen painting. Mary finally rolled her eyes, easily navigated through the kitchen and picked up their daughter in her arms, and gave Jim a look that said “You really couldn’t have done this on your own?” She sighed and walked out of the room, leaving Jim a mess on the floor in the destroyed kitchen.

Scene of Devestation-Elizabeth

          Dust pours over her bruised and bleeding body, snaking into her breathless lungs and encasing her in gray nothingness.  She lies on the mahogany-colored carpet, beneath everything. Somewhere, among the debris and destruction, lies her family, tired and scared and half alive. 

         Her tangled almond hair clings to her back as she struggles to pull herself to the light. She tries to catch her breath in order to call for help, but her dry coughing will not cease. 

          Above the rubble, chaos flickers about, spinning and flipping, through the heads of onlookers. They weep and scream and stand, helplessly. Each agonizing minute drags by at the speed of a snail, divided by a million. And still they lay under the remains of the church, waiting, expecting. 

           She strains her neck, exerting all of her energy and will power to reply to the calls she hears. The words are distant. The deafening boom had damaged her. But she heard and she called out to them. And they were saved. A scene of great devastation  and pillage met their eyes. But when recalling the terrorizing events of that morning, they were only thankful to have lived.

          

Untitled--Liesl

She staggered into the dark house, cold and tired, but happier than she had been in a very, very long time. She had just come back from a night out with her best friends, shopping, going out to dinner, and then going to see a movie. Behind her, her best friend’s bright red car pulled out of the driveway and down the suburban Detroit street. Closing the door behind her, Aina flipped on the entryway lights. Only then did it hit her that something was off.

Her parents had said that they would be home, that they were just going to catch up on some work for their office. They were both… well… Aina didn’t exactly know. They were always busy, travelling or something, and when Aina tried to ask them questions about their work, they always suddenly became distracted and bustled off. Aina had eventually learned not to ask questions.

Tonight, all the lights in the house were off, except for the porch light, which she had left on when she left. The house was dark and silent.

“Mom? Dad? Where are you guys?” I walked up the dark stairs, switching all of the lights on as I went. I rounded the corner into their office, and a scene of devastation met my eyes.

Untitled--Liesl

On a gray, foggy morning they came, whispering tendrils of fear snaking around my mind and ensnaring the good thoughts, the happy thoughts, and crushing the life out of them, then throwing them aside like a wasted cigarette that has had the life smoked out of it.  The dark thoughts, the evil thoughts they encouraged to grow, spread far and wide to the far corners of your mind, like some evil, villainous plant intent on crushing the sunshine out of every happy memory.

The gray fog itself was the poison; it was the tendrils of poison intent on turning everyone it touched into a killer, into a gray, cold assassin, one who could kill without blinking an eye. It was Their secret weapon. It was the thing that They had been boasting about for years. And none of us was prepared to resist.

Untitled-- Lindsay

On a gray, foggy morning they came, with their blank stares and stiff suits. They get bigger every time I see them, when they walk slowly through the village, looking straight ahead as if they don't see everyone glancing at them wearily. Their polished shoes shine against the dirt road like diamonds in the rough.
That morning they came, I knew I would never witness another dawn. If things went as planned, I'd be gone by the afternoon.

It was a month ago today that I recieved the letter in the mail, stating that I was one of the chosen three to be recruited into the Army of Anguish. A place of child brutality and torture where three from every region would be hardened into a killer with no remorse. The people from every region are randomly chosen, but I can't believe a word of what they tell us, because they are secretive people. Secrets hide behind the gray of all of their eyes. Like a misty cloud that can never go back. Can never travel back to a world of happiness or family.

My heart hurts. I force myself to look away, take my little brother in my arms, and refuse to let go when he tries to squirm from my grip. If I refused to go, they would take my family too. And I would be killed by someone ruthless enough to do it in my own home with my family watching.
They know how to crack and break a heart like an eggshell.

I will be one of them soon.

The Thoughts-Elizabeth

             On a gray, foggy morning, they came, clouding my head, pestering my thoughts. It was then, when I realized my life was never turning back. I tried to ignore that fact, but, it seemed the sun would not pull through until I considered it. And it was that, that annoying speculation, that kept me up at night. I neither could nor would decide if it was a positive thing or not. But I just couldn't stand the aggravating whispers in the dark and the dizziness and the dark, cloudy sky anymore. The guilt, remorse, and shame, gnawing at my last nerve was driving me over the top. And finally, I really reflected on that night, the night that changed everything; the night that's all over the news and the night that i just can't stop thinking about. I needed to tell myself that it wasn't my fault. I needed to launch those thoughts that came into the past. I really just needed the sun to shine and to know its was going to be okay.

The Voice in the Dark- Liesl

Missing Her
I am the voice in the dark,
calling out for your help.
The one you left behind
with tears in your eyes,
and a break in your heart
the one that you left
alone in the cold
alone in the dark
in a cage, all alone
without anyone to
love.

Without a family
To call my
own.

I wonder if she misses me.
I wonder if she calls
out for me
like I do
for you.

 

Missing Him

I am the voice in the dark
Calling out for you.
Calling out for the one
Who would lick away my tears
And snuggle with me
When everything was looking down
Calling out for the one
Who was mine
No matter what.

 I can’t get his face out of my head

The day I left him.
The day that I handed him away
With tears in my eyes
and a break in my heart

 

I wonder if he misses me.
I wonder if he calls
Out for me
Like I do
For you

Imaginary Land Noa

He dreams about a fantasy world
In this world there are many
Glorious citadels atop stunning cliffs
The sun shines bright upon these acropolises
He dreams that he is a knight
A glorious soldier of the divine
His adventures told in fabulous fables
He is the last bulwark for his kingdom
He dreams that he fights malevolent creatures
That raze the fantasy kingdom
He slays these creatures
An unstoppable juggernaut of the righteous
He dreams that he helps the begrimed children
And that he save damsels in distress
He is the most acclaimed knight in the kingdom
A hero of heroes
But of course this is only a dream
He snaps back to reality
To the bullies who call him a nerd
to the disparaging words and the stress
Things that he cannot escape or defeat with his imaginary sword
He wishes he could
just
go
back.

Silver Airplanes-- Lindsay

Silver birds
they valued freedom over
food, thin rations--
they wiggled their baren wings
in fulfillment.
Yes, I am the voice in the dark,
they dream,
calling out for your
help.
That was just the beginning,
where principal lies before pleasure
mingling with horrible
worldy things.

Candy drops:
a little candy drop of
hope.
They fled
to faraway places with
strange-sounding names
where
silver flies high.
They wanted to be free,
don't give up on your dreams.
Silver airplanes fly so high,
the sun was in their eyes,
in the blinding light
there was happiness.

Wishing for a Friend-Elizabeth

I am the one
I am the one you turn away from.
I am the one who has no one.
I am the voice in the dark, calling out for your help.

All I really need is a friend.
All I really need is someone to talk to.
I'm caught in my own little world,
wishing someone would listen.

I know I am different.
and that you don't care for me.
I just want someone to care,
anyone to care.

Maybe someday things will be different.
Maybe someday things will change.
maybe I will have friends,
maybe, I'll have a best friend.

But I know my pondering thoughts
will be answered just as soon as
broccoli grows legs and runs around your plate,
or when toddlers actually enjoy time out.

I guess for now,
against my highest hopes,
I'll have to deal with being just
a voice in the dark, calling out for your help.

Just calling for you to pull me up
off
the
ground.

Colorful Things That Make You Wonder-- By Lindsay

               Palm trees bounce in the warm weather breeze, lazy nods, and the humid air leaves sticky moisture on my skin. Life is good, with ocean waves collapsing to the sand, hugging the rocks, and with orange popsicle juice dripping down my chin, I close my eyes and let the sun shine on my face. My palm is sweaty in your hand, but you don't seem to mind. You race to catch lime popsicle drippings on your tongue, and we walk alone the shore until we find the best place to unroll our beach towels and lounge in the day's perfection next to one another. The spot we are looking for is somewhere in the sun, but not in its direct beam, somewhere close to the tall rocks where we can later explore, and where their looming shadows can shade us.
               We find a place not long after we set out for our walk.
               We lay our towels on the sand, but don't sit still for long, because nearby we have found a cove full of shells and crabs underneath the sand. The two of us become treasure hunters, and we form a pile of things up high on the rocks where the tide can't reach them. Neither of us talk much, we are so busy digging and skimming our fingers along the shallow water's surface.
                "If you really look, you find good things. Colorful things, shining things, things that make you wonder. Things you love wondering and thinking about." You tell me this all the time. And everytime, you give my hand a little squeeze.
                  That makes me feel all warm inside.

Writer's block- Liesl

I look around my room, desperately hoping for something to give me inspiration. It is the second to last day of vacation, the second to last day of freedom before school crushes down on us. Bleak light floats in through the four large windows. Outside, there is nothing to write about. My room is drab, nothing exiting, and the hundred and twenty three books all neatly lined up on the shelves do not have their usual charm. What was the prompt again? Life is good. Okay. I sit down at the computer screen and start to write.

 Staring out at the calm blue water and the New York City skyline with the sun on my back, feeling the heat through my light jacket I sigh…

 No, no, too cliché. I delete the entire line. Ummmm....

 

            The only times that I have really been happy are when I am home with my cousins and family, or alone in the woods…

            No. No way. Where did that come from? Backspace. I hate writer’s block. Whenever I am not writing, ideas swirl around in my head, stories, not fully formed, poems bursting with light and color, but then I sit down at the computer to try and put my ideas on paper, the fountain of ideas slows to barely a trickle and I can’t remember anything that I have been dreaming about.

            Outside, the sun peaks through the clouds, illuminating the worn out carpet with a ray of golden light…

From the Outcast's Eyes-Elizabeth

I don’t really blame the other kids for the way they act. It’s hard for them to comprehend the fact that life sometimes hits you, even if you didn’t throw the first punch. You never consider the kid who sits alone at lunch when your table is swarming with friends. You don’t compliment the kid who wears used dingy clothing and doesn’t comb their hair. You don’t talk to the kid who, out of their awkwardness, can barely muster a reply. When they wake up happy to go to school, and to see their friends, and to carry on, they don’t think.  They don’t think of the kid who dreads another 6 hours of school every morning. They blow me off; give me as much attention as you would a wall. I’m only another face in the classroom after all. I go days without a receiving a single hi. Who would want to be nice to the outcast anyway?  Who would want to make them feel good? But then again, it’s hard to understand when life is giving you all you need. But you’d think that they would notice the kid who needs help. They’re just too busy walking high and proud, with a conceited “Life is good” look slapped across their face to notice the kid who’s screaming inside. When will they look down, with an outstretched hand, and help?

Summer~ Phoebe

We anxiously cluster around the door.
Our eyes glued to the clock.
One more minute.
I hear the scuffing of some feet,
trying to beat the bell
and the vast stampede.
Three,
Two,
One!
The bell rings.
Everyone spills out into the halls
screaming,"finally! School's out!"
Sooner or later, the crowd funnels out to the playground and busses.
I step onto the big, yellow vehicle,
kindly greeted by the driver,
and smile.
I find my seat in the back on the right side.
Bus stops go by,
of people getting off with a big embrace from a family member
congratulating the ending of school.
Then it's my stop.
With my head held high,
I trump down the three steps of the dirty bus.
"Have a great summer!" the man says with a face telling me
how badly he just wants to go home.
"You too" I say with a shy smile.
School is out!
Man, I think, life is good.

*I didn't really know how to put in the life is good part...

Grease Lightning? Noa

He's as slick as an oil spill. Smooth like butter. As cool as ice. He moves with the swagger of a movie star, with enough confidence and charm to make the prettiest girls swoon. Silky smooth black hair smoothed back across his head. Lips curled in a taunting smirk, while his penetrating gaze is masked by this dark shades. His crisp leather jacket sits on his shoulders perfectly and compliments his faded jeans and white undershirt. A typical greaser, or bad body, or whatever you want to call it. Everything about him is fresh and pristine. Nothing can stop this juggernaut of cool and fashion. Except maybe an innocently placed root that just so happens to ensnare his foot as he walks by. The greaser tumble flat on the floor, his pitch black shades cracking, his smooth hair becoming tousled, and his leather jacket becoming stained with dirt. He quickly gets up and looks around quickly, making sure no one has seen his embarrassing fall, but of course we all had. A look of annoyance is smeared across his face as he quickly escapes the scene.

Dreams (from 2 weeks ago)

Dreams. They come and go, invading your sleep then disappearing as soon as you realize they are there. Distorted images blurry and obscure, but somehow have so much meaning and can affect you even after you awake. They can impose incredible and unescapable fear, or an unmeasured amount of euphoria. But why do we dream in the first place? Are they prophecies sent from the heavens to show us something about the past, present, or future? Or are they just meaningless visions to amuse our brains while we lay dormant in our beds. Pictures flash across the imaginary screen in your head as obscure and impossible things happen. Human Bodies twist and contort into potted flowers. For some reason a llama is sleeping in your floating house. Weird things happen in dreams and although I cannot explain or half the time remember them, I enjoy them while they last.

Untitled, Beginning of a Story-- Lindsay

                 Josie

                
                 If you asked me about her, I would tell you that she always smelled like frosted roses. Her scent would follow her if she walked in a room. The sickly sweet scent of powdery blossoms was both intoxicating and pleasant. Pleasantly intoxicating.
                 The curls that wound down her back like someone twirled the black locks around a wand, and her golden eyes that were sharp like the jaggedness of a blade, brought her to all of our attention. The girls were green with hissing envy, and the boys lost their balance in her presence. She was a gem that sparkled in the darkness of the coal mine that was our school.
                  Ink tattooed her arm, a design that I always though made it look like a black and white snake winding up to her shoulder. The black of the tattoo made her eyes look even more deadly, yet I dared to learn more. I, Josie, have come to the conclusion that this girl is from nowhere, lives nowhere, and does evil things. Don't be fooled. This girl is the opposite of innocent.
                 
                  She doesn't talk. Ever. She writes in a notebook that she shows only to those who she allows to see it. I have never read what's in her notebook.
                  In my own notebook, I have been observing her. How she walks, what she eats, her facial expressions. All in a secretive, non-stalkerish way, of course.
                    
                  According to my written observations, never has she smiled. Not once.
   
                  What human being has not smiled? Even if it was by accident one time, or without meaning to, a smile is physically impossible. I am quite sure of this.

                   But I'm no detective.

~Untitled for now- Phoebe

The paper slides onto my desk.

with my arms shaking, I pick up my pencil.

All the numbers and letters glare up at me mocking my fright.

I slowly right my name, 

looking around to make sure no one can see how much I am sweating.

The first question.

I read it over and over again, hoping it will magically turn into the answer.

I have no idea.

Meanwhile, I look at my neighbor, rapidly writing things down.

I try to pass time by looking around the room for resources.

Eh-em.

I turn my head to see her giving me the look that all teachers have mastered.

Without thinking, I write down random doodles to make it look like I know what I'm doing.

The silence; so loud.

Tick-tock engraves it's rhythm into my brain.

Only 5 minutes left. All I need is to buckle down and think. 

But with 5 minutes left? 

No way I'm going to finish!

All I need is time.

The "Specialist's" Job Continued-Elizabeth

Continued…

Amid the darkness, there is a sensation of light. I can feel it, pushing and banging on my bubble of black, trying to pop it and release its luminosity. I don’t quite know what the specialists are doing to me, but I can’t feel it, so at least that’s good. They were mysterious about the whole procedure, when we got the call. I was worried that it would change who I am and what I think; that they would take a piece of me with them. There is no sense of time in my bubble. It’s impossible for time to not pass because you can’t stop life and everything just keeps going. Or does it?

            I have questions like these, that will probably never be answered but I think them anyway. In my own little space I call life. Maybe that’s why they chose me, because I am different. Or maybe because I think like no one else. Maybe they will figure me out, no one else can but maybe they will. I never liked the term freak but I've learned to accept the fact that I am one. Those were Mom’s words when she dropped me off the crowded home 6 years ago.

“You are a freak Ida.”

And she sped off down the road, probably to a casino or something. I had weird thoughts before that, but after that day, my head has become taken over by my thoughts and I’m just kind of brain dead with all my freakish theories and notions.

            I don’t know how much time has gone by, if there is such thing as time anyway, when the black bubble pops, illuminating the bare landscape before me. Everything is white. Everything. Then I start to get that fiery feeling in my head again. The light starts to drip away in to the cold,  detached darkness of the room.

Math- Liesl

Math

Math. What can I say?
Numbers. Symbols. Equations. Fractions.
Can I say… Whatever?
I know that I need it.
I want to be good.
But there is no part of me
That cares about
Pythagorean theorems,
means extremes properties,
how fractions can become decimals
or how to
determine what kind of triangle
that one in the corner is.
I mean yes, it is cool,
but I just don't like numbers.
I know I need it.
I want to be good.
But numbers don’t…
Line up in my head
Like I know they should
And what is this business
Of having letters and numbers
in the same equation?
Math just…
Doesn’t make sense.
I know I need it.
And I want to be good.
But math,
what can I say?

The Junkyard continued-- Lindsay

                  Chapter 2



 

                  I have been lying to my younger sisters for two years. To tell them the truth would mean scaring them and worrying them out of their little, lice crusted minds. At first it was difficult, but the lie came smoothly after a while. I didn't even have to think about it anymore.

                  The cancer had spread, invading my mother's muscular body and peeling away any strength she had left. Without any treatment, my mother was going to die. In my heart, she was already dead, but I would never tell anyone that. Not even Eddie, who I trusted wholeheartedly.

                  To my sisters, Mother was in the process of recovery. She was healing from a long-term cough. I thanked the Lord that Emmy and LooLoo were as gullible as they were.

                  Eddie came up behind me and slapped the loaf of bread on the table next to my fruit. He nodded approvingly. "You did alright for your first time, Josie." He didn't look impressed, but he looked satisfied, which was good enough for me. His face turned to stone, the crease in his forehead deep and dark. He stole a glance at the figure lying on the couch. You would have thought that there was just a heap of blanket there. My mother was hidden within the heap, just a frail little body of poking hip bones and leather skin weathering away like paper in the rain.

                  "It must be done today." He searched my eyes, and I nodded in return. It would be done. Lies would die away, like my mother. I had no idea when I was going to break it to Emmy and LooLoo. They would be devastated, their hearts the flaming ashes of a loud, screaming fire drenched with cool water. Their flame would be put out. And I would be the water that leaves them black and crumbling. The more I thought about it, the more I wanted to get away. Just Eddie and me, we could leave this place, fend for ourselves whereever we went.

                   My mother would be left to die her unfightable death, and my sisters would be forgotten, lost in the dust like two helpless kittens without their kin. If it weren't for them, I would do it in a second. Far away from this place is where I would go, on the other side of a mountain-- one so big it would separate me from where I was from and where I should be. I would get away from this life. Me and Eddie. Eddie and me.



The "Specialist's" Job-Elizabeth

"Ida Byrnes."

Her voice echoes off the cinderblock walls and bounces through my head. The seemingly "magnetic force" between my hands and the chair refuses to cease its pull. I can feel the panic setting in.

"Ida Byrnes?" 

My wobbly legs unsteadily pull me into a half stand, half crouch position. Judgmental eyes shift to my awkwardness.

"Follow me please."

To where? What will it look like? Dizzy and sick, I slowly inch my way to the door and glance back at the remaining patients, certain it will be the last time that I will see true civilization.  The door shuts with a loud *clank* as I turn my head down the hall. I dart forward to catch up with the woman. 

       The hallways remind me of a hospital. Everything is white; the walls, floor, ceiling, doors, even the thin robes we were asked to change into. Nothing is out of the sorts, except my stomach. The usual fluttery butterflies feel more like gorillas pounding on my insides. The woman looks forward, says nothing, doesn't even acknowledge my presence. She finally notices how I've been stealing glances and looks down at me. I slow down, expecting her to say something. She smiles and looks back up, quickening her pace.

      After about 5 minutes of navigating the twists and turns and corners of the facility, she motions towards a room on the right. 

"Aren't you coming too?" 

"No. The specialists will be with you shortly. Please wait here"

She closes the door and turns back down the hall. The handle is locked. I pace the area of the small room, examining all of its contents. A sink, some cabinets containing nothing but robes and tongue compressors, and a table in the middle. It looks like the ones you'll find at a doctor's office. But this one has close to 20 or 30 straps and some sort of head contraption. I reach for a latch near the leg rest when the door bursts open. People in white scrubs and masks concealing their faces flood in, wheeling carts of who knows what. They all busily get to work setting up their supplies I assume. I'm too busy trying to keep myself from a panic attack to focus on anything else. Two men grab my arms and lay me back on the table. The one on the left speaks.

"now this will be a lot easier if you just don't talk so please keep the noise down and try not to interrupt."

I try to intervene but he shoves some giant contraption into my mouth making it impossible to form each word I'm trying to force out. I can feel the "specialists" strapping me to the table and pulling the head thingy over my neck. They lock it secure and all 15 or so of them gather around me. I can move nothing but my eyes which I'm sure are presenting a wonderful show, darting from this concealed face to that. The men part and let in a guy with a gold badge on his chest. 

"everyone get ready for their assigned job"

I try to scream but my jaw feels too sore and clamped. The gold badge man reached for a tray and brigs forth a syringe. I can hear nothing over the screams of terror in my head. Without warning, he plunges the needle into my neck. My head feels like it's on fire. The cool serum slowly seeps into my veins and soothes the flames. It actually is beginning to feel good before everything turns black.

 

A Second Life-Elizabeth

A Second Life

Knowing-

that after your day of
work and exertion,
exhaustion and fatigue,
tedium and boredom,
you can always go home and
          Dream.


That your pillow is waiting,
waiting to engulf you in the
exhilaration and anticipation
of your
          Second life.


That you can escape
the struggles and plight
of your life
because the night is long and
          Promising.


That
You can control what
you think and
You can control what you wish and
You know that no fantasy is too
          Immense.


That we will go where we need to go,
see what we need to see,
be who we need to be,
because dreams are powerful and
dreams come true and
 
     Dreams
        Help
           You
              Fly.

The Junkyard-- Lindsay

                   Eddie ran down the sidewalk, blurs of people whizzing by as a sprinted behind him, trying my best to keep up. He had told me before this all started that it was no big deal. Yet, seeing as where I am now, I'm beginning to think he was lying to me.
                   The stolen hunk of warm bread wrapped in a pillowcase was held to his chest, his grimy hands holding it there, the little bundle looking almost like a small, hidden child in his arms. My own pockets were bulging with fruit, apples and oranges that I had grabbed so swiftly, Eddie had called me a pro. I had blushed when he said that.
                   Eddie and I lived in The Junkyard. It wasn't an actual junkyard, but a neighborhood of people living wasted lives and home of the walking trash. Nobody helped nobody. Every man was for himself.
                    My mother, my two little sisters and I lived in a house of sloppily nailed siding, no roof, and a hanging sheet that served as our front door. But we were fine. Eddie lived with us; his family all died except him from starvation. And no one really cared. We took him in as our own, my mother insisted we should. Now he was the man of the house, since my dad ran off to who-knows-where.
                   And it was Eddie who lead me to the marketplace in the center of the city, a couple of miles walk from The Junkyard. It was he who told me to steal. He told me that I shouldn't feel bad after I had food in my mouth later that night. That we needed it more. Guilt didn't really exist, it's just a trick of the mind. Guilt is unrealistic.
                   Then why did I feel so guilty?
                   Eddie didn't slow his run until we were safely inside the four walled home where my family waited for our return. Words were impossible to squeeze out of my gasping mouth, I was panting so hard. I finally caught my breath and set the fruit on the table. A frail cough came from the faded red sofa nearby. My mother lay there, her face drained of any color, sick and tangled in some dirty blanket. She had been running a fever for the past week, and her condition had not gotten better in that period of time. It was never going to get better.
 

Everthing Falls Apart in January- Liesl

You know that saying, “Everything falls apart in January”? I believe it now. More than ever. First everyone got sick, cold, fever, flu, and the student body at Holderness Central School was reduced by a third, all at once. Then, when everyone was starting to trickle back in, some still with runny noses, or a hacking cough that never seemed to go away, Wham. The teachers got hit (or at least I think they did), with the same cold or fever or flu that kept the students crippled for a week. Half your classes you would have a sub, and it would be total pandemonium. A week later, when it seemed like everything would calm down, and people would recover, the world collapsed again.

Not so widespread this time, but I definitely noticed it. All around me, people were breaking bones, losing pets, hurting their backs, moving to a faraway place, getting bad grades, losing bets or who knows what else, and nothing was just the calm, boring, everyday routine that I have come to expect. All I can say after this chaotic month? T.G.I.F. Thank God It’s February.

The Death of a Homeless Man Noa

I walked by him every day and I barely paid any attention. Maybe it was because I felt that I was better than him; that he was scum underneath my boots that I needed to scrape off. Whatever it was I regret it. Officials surround his body, camera's flash, and officers take notes. I stand there in the backround with guilt dripping off of my body.
"Died from starvation it looks like," I hear one of the officers announce.
I catch a glimpse of the body, a thin and weak frame covered in ragged torn clothes. A beard coveres his dirty, lifeless face. I look away.
 The last time I had seen him, he sat in his usual blanket covered spot on the rough pavement and glanced up at me with tired eyes.
"Can you spare a couple dollers, son?" he croaked. All I did was glance at him then walk away.

In that moment I could have made a difference. I may have saved that man. Fevered with guilt I run away from the scene, tears running down my face.

In Dreams- Liesl

In my dreams,
they are still here.
In my dreams,
they are still with me.
In my dreams
they still walk by my side.
In dreams,
I am happy
with the ones I love.
In dreams,
they comfort me
with words of hope
and words of joy.
Then stark reality
comes crashing down,
and I have to lose them
all
over
again.

*Sorry it took me so long to post this, I had it written on Thursday, but didn't get around to posting it until this morning!

The Recent Weather

My  nose slowly freezes in the cold
Ice begins to form all upon my face
The drink in my hand I can hardly hold
My bodies warmth is gone without a trace
My thick coat can barely keep me warm
Snow crunches beneath my feet as I walk
Inside my nostrils ice begins to form
My lips are so chapped, I can’t seem to talk
I shiver, my arms crossed across my chest
My teeth rattle so hard inside my head
So cold! I wish I had a heated vest
My only wish is to be in my bed!
I pray the cold will soon leave us behind
So please oh Lord, hear my plea and be kind!

Dreams~ Phoebe

Dreams~
Unexpected.
The good and the bad.
The tears and the smiles.
Dreams are the place for your imagination to run free.
My place to make time go by.
My escape from reality
Drifting of on a cloud of cottony happiness.
High above everything.
Looking down
on everyone.
My dreams, about you.

*I know this isn't good but I had writers block about the whole time and I couldn't think. I could use any suggestions to make it better:) thanks!

Thirteen Ways To See The Moon- Lindsay

1.) Lying among a curtain of sky
Dusted with white stars
The eye in the darkness
2.) A world of dreams
Shining wishes
Sparks of dreams
Bulbous Hope
3.) Screams echo
Sharp cries
Lost in clouds
Hiding is hope behind the gray
4.) A cradle of gold
Sent sparkling glimmers
Through the windows
Smell of welcoming new pink flesh
5.) Stands in the direct beam
Overhead spotlight
A hand in hand
They are happily alone
6.) An overlapse of night and day
Sun and the moon
Clash to present a new form
A brilliant new form
7.) Haunts with its eerie cast
Man of guilt walks along
There is always someone watching
8.) Shadows pour through the darkness
Shapes of monsters
A child cannot sleep
A sort of shadow puppetry
9.) The moon is there
A sliver of a smile or full beam
The moon is there
10.) Pine tree whispers
Lunar secrets be told
Hide and seek played among the branches
11.) Etched with spots
Earth's accomplishment
The future orbits before us
12.) How is it that a song cannot be heard?
Such is a silent lullaby
Lyrics of the unknown
13.) Hush, listen to the quiet.
Love is above you.
Reach for the stars.
Strive to touch the moon.

Blue- Liesl

Blue

The color of a deep blue evening

under the crystal clear skies
on a summer night,
dotted with stars.

Blue is the color

of a midnight trance,
swirling in a land of fantasy,
on the wings of a dream.

Blue is the morning light

reflecting off the mountains
outside of my windows
throwing beams of crystalline light.

Blue is the feeling

of faded jeans, loved
and patched
beyond all repairing.

And blue is the sky and sun

after a long week of clouds.
The most beautiful thing
I have ever seen

 

Untitled Fiction Story-- Lindsay

              Natalie's legs pulled her through the school hallway, dragging her feet mindlessly across the white vinyl floors. With her bookbag nearly weighing her down, she looked, with her head slumped, her brown hair curtained across her face, like total, bland, mess. She was late to class, but she didn't care. There were a few stragglers hurrying to their classes, most likely late by now. Each kid who passed looked at her funny, as if they had no idea what had gone on that weekend. Yeah, right, there is not one person in this school that doesn't know, she thought to herself.
               She had skipped lunch, an open room filled with watching eyes that she knew would follow her to her seat, where she would sit alone. Her friendly cheerleading team members that always sat with her would turn on her, their usual bubbliness now hushed whispers of snide remarks and scowling rumors.
                Instead, during her lunch period, she had gone outside and sat on one of the benches in the courtyard that overlooked the valley beneath and the football field. She wanted to recognize pain in the place that reminded her of it most. The sky was a hard blue that afternoon, like the greyness of the ocean, but with the sun's reflection casting a calming sea blue across the vast open nothingness. That's what she was-- a hard shell nothingness, except her mood was blue all over.
                 It was a Monday. As always, there was the normal complaints and groans that could always be heard on Mondays, yet there was an echoing quiet that surrounded Natalie as she padded through the hall. The previous Friday night, she had been at the top of the world. She had performed during the halftime period of a homefield football game, her cheerteam bouncing and moving in perfect rhythm, the smiles of the crowd as big as her own. Her freak of a boyfriend sat watching her from the stands, a toothy grin on his face. It had all been a bet. Her friends had given her money to flirt with the dork, and humiliation was beginning to eat at her. Saturday morning, through text message, she broke the detailed truth to the kid. And she hadn't done it gently. At least the stupid breakup was off her shoulders, and she would never have to talk to the kid again.
                 No one would.
                 Sunday morning, there had been breaking news of a highschool teenage boy that had committed suicide in her town. His picture on the TV had said it all. And it was her fault.
                 

I am from the cold.
I am from the winter air whispers,
The wool mittens.
I am from the snowmen, with broken arms,
trying so hard to stay up
as to not swipe the happy faces from the children.
Cold.
I am from the smooth blanket of snow falling onto the old snow forts.
I am from the chapped lips scratching against each other,
as I rub them for warmth.
I am from the nights sitting by the fire drinking Cocoa.
I am from the harsh, and the still.
I am from the mornings of bundling up in layers.
I am from
the cold.

The Song-Elizabeth

The bold electric blue stands out most. It pours out in a smooth, thick stream. I grin and tip it over vertical. The paint, a gushing river of a million possibilities, floods the Styrofoam plate and settles into an even coat. Clutching as many paint brushes as my fingers can hold, I slowly walk to my seat and spread my paper before me. There are so many things that this can turn into. I could make the sky, full of birds and clouds, or the ocean, or a blue jay. I select a paint brush; old and chipped with a rounded tip and smooth bristles. It pulls through the pool of paint and stops an inch from the paper. I think. My mind wanders about, wondering of what I could paint. But I know I have no time to think. The paint tugs down on the soft hairs forming a small drop that plops onto the page. That takes me where I need to go. My hand works quickly and precisely, swiping this way and that. Paint splashes on the paper and over the table. My eyes dart from plate to paper, plate to paper. Until the page is engulfed in a wonderful harmony of different blues. And as I stand and rest my finished piece on the drying rack, and it sings out its song of success, I sing along.

*Not my best work...needed to focus on Scholastic Awards 

Fire and Stone- Liesl

He stared at me from across the busy street, through the falling snow, a man in a black coat that reached to his knees, inconspicuous in the rush of passerby. Everyone was dashing along, chins tucked tight into their coat collars in an attempt to ward off the cold. No one noticed him, no one glanced his way. I could have sworn that some people passed right through him without noticing. It was almost as if he wasn’t there at all.

I grabbed my brother’s arm, “Look over there,” I said, turning him about, “Do you see that man, the one in the black coat? He is staring at us. Just standing there, staring”

“There isn’t anyone there;” he half chuckled, “There is no one watching us. Now come on. We have to get home. I feel like my fingers are about to fall off”

He thought that I was crazy. I would have thought that I was crazy too, except for one thing about this man, or this shadow, this vapor of a man. His eyes.

When my brother had pulled me down the street in the direction of home, I had caught his gaze. I had seen his eyes.

They were gray, flat, and lifeless, stone cold but for one thing. Behind the cold, unforgiving look, there was a fire, a raging inferno that gave off no heat. They were the line between snow and fire, the fine line between life and death, where souls could remain in this world, or pass on to what lies beyond death.

And this man, the man or shadow, the man with the eyes of fire and stone, he had come for me.

White Cold

Sheets of linen white,
Swirls of whimsically falling snow gems
A Northeastern world curtained with dark and silence
Winter wishes softly touching the earth in crystalized kisses
Gray, exploring, wisps of smoke escaping chimneys
Cold.

Dusted trails of footprints
Hunched cold-shoulder pine trees
A snowman's mitten-wave hello
Cold.

First healthy snowfall
Sun's hibernation
A window fogged with a child's bedtime breath
Cold.

Sheets of linen white.

The Windmills

My chipped, yellow brush stroked the blank canvas.
A fluorescent, vivid yellow was thrown onto the paper.
the painting was still.
Yet they just keep spinning.
the sun goes down
all I saw was sillohuets
shadowed poles with endless spinning

The sun goes down,
the lights flicker on; one by one
bright glares of white
blend together.

the lights come on
the windmills tower on the mountain tops
high above my eyes

the windmills tower on the mountain tops
my chipped, yellow brush stroked the vibrant canvas
the painting was still
yet they just keep spinning.

By: Phoebe