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