"Boy Meets Girl" by Alex Loseke

                It’s hard to think of one life being more important than another’s, no one ever wants to think these things but sometimes they do. Clara kept thinking these things while Noah was talking about how this man has struggled. The story that Noah told Clara that day is life changing:

            A man born into the planet with M.S, and he struggled with it his entire life. His mother died when he was 15 and he was trying to learn who he was and what he was supposed to do in his life. With a part of you as big your mother missing, he was trying to find where he needed to turn in life. His family was exceptionally poor but still tried to help everyone. When he was 17 he became addicted to Heroin, with the side effects of the deadly drugs, and also his MS syndrome, he was in for a rude awakening in life. His father died when this man was 19 years old, leaving him, the oldest of 8, to tend to the needs of all the younger siblings, while he was dealing with a heroin addiction and MS syndrome. His siblings all grew up and moved away or are now dead and he is left on his own to deal with his newly discovered cancer.

            “I’ve talked to him a few times over lunch, I feel like I have the most in common with him than with anyone else at that God forsaken place. We’re both alone, and battling more than anyone else understands.” Clara felt the need to listen, she was almost unable to stop, and she needed to hear more about what was going through Noah’s mind.

            “I was into bad things before my parents moved me out here, I was one of those kids you would see in the hallways at school and move as far from them as possible. You would have been scared of me, and my black hair.” Clara tried to picture what he meant when he said he had black hair, how is that possible, he has blonde, curly, shaggy hair now.

            “How could you be scary? I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone more easy to talk to than you.”

            “Well you’d be the first,” their conversation started to take on a lighter mood. “Where are you from,” Clara asked even though she promised herself she wouldn’t, just yet, “I mean, like, what state?”  She hoped her question didn’t make her seem like she was trying too hard to get to know him, she had so many things she wanted to learn about him, her thoughts were interrupted by his laughter, and “you like to know a lot about people, don’t you?”  Embarrassed, she smiled over the steering wheel, “Well I don’t usually drive complete strangers around for hours, but if you don’t want to tell me, I can pull over now and leave you at this bus stop…”

            Noah rolled his eyes and offered some sarcasm of his own, “Yeah and from what I’ve learned about you today is that without me copiloting over here, you’d be in some corn field with mud up to your knees.  “

            “Oh funny, I’m not used to this part of town. I don’t just go out and drive for hours at a time.” Noah seemed to become lost I the scenery that fell in front of him, Clara watched his eyes, they changed almost as often as the road changed ahead.

            “You still want to know about where I come from, I’ll tell you what I know. First of all I am adopted and don’t know where I was born, who my parents are, my real sibling, or why no one wanted me. I’m assuming that you’ve seen the movie Annie, the all girls orphanage, imagine that but with all boys and instead of an alcoholic as a leader, if you can even call it that, imagine a man that had so much anger held within himself that he beat whatever child crossed his path and never got caught. I lived with that for, maybe, three years, until the people who I now know as my parents saved me. But then me, being as smart as I am, got involved in some...not so great things, and they sent me here, a safer place, where I can’t make the cancer any worse. This is the first time I’ve left that hospital in almost 4 months, I have nowhere to go, so I just don’t leave. But you came along today, and changed everything and made me feel like someone in the world actually cared about me.” I became lost inside what he was saying, I didn’t even realize he stopped talking, I just kept imagining what he would say next.  

"How Dare You Tom Sawyer?" by Cate Elliott

Tom! Jeez! What’s your problem?! Huck was just starting to grow up, I mean, he went on this whole long journey with Jim. Think of Jim! He only wanted one thing, freedom! And he had it! And you knew! But oh no, another adventure needed to be pursued because you can’t just ruin your own book, you have to ruin everyone else’s! I mean, do you even understand the gravity of your actions?! Perhaps I will go to see Huck and ruin his life and in the process confuse everyone.. oh don’t forget the whole thing about being shot… no big deal. WHAT A GREAT PLAN. WAKE UP! You got shot!! This is not just your whole run of the mill adventure, you are endangering people’s lives! Not to mention, just destroying your identity. Seriously, are you Huck, Sid or Tom? OR IS THERE SOME OTHER NAME YOU WOULD PREFER? And another thing, how would that plan EVER work. I mean, I knew you were kind of dull, but even as I read that whole chapter or so about your futile constructions, I just thought of how much of a little snitch you are! Oh, and thank you for calling the lynch mob yourself, it was very polite. I mean, you had to finish the job yourself didn’t you? Bravo. BRAVO. You are just insane. If I was your aunt, I would have you in an asylum. So keep your bullet Tom, because I’m keeping your dignity.

"Bailey" by Jordan Rhen

White winter prances a crossed the backyard. He darts faster than I could run in my wildest dreams. His companion running alongside him as they playfully cut each other off. Pounding across the lime green stretch, I call my backyard. This is the image vividly burned into my head whenever I think of him, Bailey.

Weighing about sixty pounds, the curly white haired labradoodle has soft brown and hazel eyes. They penetrate my heart as I talk to him, which lets you know that he is truly listening. His wiry body does a combination of a skip and prance when he cannot contain his joy.

His bark is obnoxiously loud and high. Every morning it sounds off as anything so much as an intruding leaf rolls into the front yard.  The pitter patter of paws hitting the tile and an occasional slide into the front door is a daily routine when he spots a trespasser on the sidewalk.

 His companion, a four year old golden retriever and my dad’s dog by far has not failed to keep Bailey entertained. They wrestle all the time, some times for a ball, others just because they are bored. They dash around the backyard taking turns chasing each other for hours. When they are tired they curl up side by side in the living room. Uncontrollable happiness over whelms my dog when he is with Sammy.

Lying down on my bed, he will nudge the door open and pounce on top of me. Wet kisses shower me as if he has not seen me in years. Then abruptly lies down and curls up in his snow ball next to me. Next, I of course have to keep petting and scratching him. If I stop, even for a second, it would not come as a surprise if I get a wet nose nuzzling his way in-between my side and my arm until some attention was bestowed on him once again.

Along with attention seeking, he is also not the smartest pet I have ever had the ownership of. Countless of times my sisters and I have been known to pretend throw a ball out towards the backyard and watch him sprint his heart out as he searches the grass, never once giving up until we call him back. We giggle at how gullible he is, you would think after two years he would have grown even the slightest wiser.

A couple weeks ago, it was extremely cold out and my careless sister had A. forgotten the garage code and B. her key to the house. Instead of texting me, she and my other sister went into the backyard in hopes of getting in through the back door. They found Baileys favorite bone lying on the deck. He heard them approaching the door as my youngest sister clutched onto the bone in the cold. Bailey leaped in excitement, anticipating the toy. Jumping vigorously at the door it came unlocked. My absent minded dog had saved the day.

Although he may not be the smartest, he is the best dog I could ask for. He puts his heart into everything that he does. He is a lover, not a fighter, and sincerely cares. He brightens my day when I see him after school waiting in the entry way for me as he pounds his tail against the floor in just utter excitement. I could ask for something better, but why would I want to? Sometimes one of my sisters will jokingly say he is theirs, and then everyone starts to laugh. Because it is no secret the only one in my family that should take responsibility for him, is me.

"Top of the World" by Jordan Rhen

     Sitting in the locker room her head phones jammed into her head, loud enough for everyone to hear yet so far away to her it was drifting in and out of her mental thought like a settle ocean tide. One word was so close she could almost touch it, Win. Her legs trembling as she sat on the cold hard wooden bench. Glancing up she noticed her coach’s mouth creating words. Her team mates’ eyes all glazed over as they gawked at each inspiring word she assumed was spewing from his speech. Figuring it was be much easier to hear the inspiring words she wanted, she decided it would be best to just play them out in her own head. It would go a little something like this: Girls you’ve gotten so far, you’ve worked too hard to let this game scare you out of an undefeated season. Now let’s go out there and show this team who we are! Just then she had realized that her fantasy had caught up with reality as her teammate’s cheers invaded the real word blockade covering her eardrums. She jabbed her thumb into the pause button and stood up. A mix of excitement and fear engulfed her body, shaking it off; she joined her teammates heading towards the field. As she walked onto the freshly watered grass she looked up, it had gotten dark and the spotlights shot down to touch every inch of the field leaving no blade bare. If that were not enough the spotlights had also added to the already intimating crowd whose screams of anticipation echoed throughout the stadium.  She started to jump up and down, at this point there was no turning back, nowhere to go but game mode.

                Half way through the game, the score was still tied. They had put up a nasty fight to keep the score at 0-0. Looking at her teammates their heads hung low, disappointment stamped across their foreheads. She, herself was exhausted beyond believe, but would never back down. This was what they wanted; she was not going to lose this game. It was not even a conceivable thought.

                Only minutes left in the game, her pride wounded as she started to lose faith. She was about to throw in the towel when a deflected ball flew picture perfect into sight. Running on E she pushed herself towards it, just barely surpassing the defender. One last touch, she pounded the ball. It arched and hit the back of the net. Disappointment over swept the goalie, it took her a second or two to register the last minute. Then, reality kicked in, her teammates rushed over to congratulate her, the crowd out of their seats cheering and clapping. This was it; it was that feeling, when you’re on top of the world.

               

"Stage Fright" by Laura Brown

                The lights are shining are bright in my face and I have no idea what to do next. I stand frozen,

staring out at the black faces. I hear the music start and my whole body tightens. Suddenly I turned and

ran off the stage. I could hear the murmurs from the worried and disappointed crowd. But I didn’t care. I

kept running until I reached the stage door. I pushed it open and a cool breeze stung my tear streaked

face. I was finally able to calm down and stop crying. I leaned against the wall and sat on the ground. I

could hear the faint voice of the next singer on stage. I closed my eyes remembering the past five

minutes. I couldn’t shake the image; it was clear as day. The microphone staring me in the face, the

thousands of people sitting quietly, waiting. I could never go back and bear the shame.

               

The opening stage door interrupted my thoughts. One of the stage crew members looked around as if they were looking for me. I shrunk back into the shadows so they couldn’t see me. After a few seconds they returned inside and the stage door slammed shut behind them. I slowly stood up and walked towards the front of the building. The display screen featured my name, along with the other four names. This was going to haunt me for years to come. I wanted to leave so I could quickly forget this terrible nightmare, but my legs wouldn’t move. Standing there, I realized that no muted noises could be detected. The show was probably over and people would be coming out soon. I saw the front door begin to open. I wanted to run, but I couldn’t. My legs felt rooted to the spot. Right as the door opened….

                I sat up in my bed with a start, being truly thankful it was only a nightmare.

"The Boy and the Girl, Part I" by Will Wright

            The boy hurried on his way to one of his favorite classes; biology.  Learning about life was just so fascinating to the boy.  Only, today the boy was going to be late.  It was a foregone conclusion. He was going to be as late as a 12-month newborn.  The boy had stayed to long at his glorious storage device, reminiscing about the event that had occurred earlier that morning.  Now he was the only face in the hallway, the empty hallway. The bell gave out a shriek like that of a dying cat. He was late.  He had never been late before.  Already this girl had gotten him into trouble, but he didn’t care. He danced into the classroom while the teacher gave him a look dirtier then mud from a muddy spring.  He took his seat without a word and opened his book to page 434.  Instead of listening to the fascinating subject of cytoplasm and mitochondria, the boy drifted back into a state of nostalgia.  It was hard to believe that this event had only happened this morning. 

            The boy gulped.  And the boy gulped again.  He didn’t know what to say.  This had never been covered in Pre-Calculus.  He was now positive that she was a girl.  Everyone has to start somewhere. He tried to formulate his thoughts into words.  The only problem was, he didn’t have any thoughts.  His mind was a blank slate that he had no ability to write on.  It was as empty and barren as the hallway was after the bell rang. This had never happened to the boy before.  Usually his mind was fluttering with thought after thought after thought.  A million questions would arise when he was experiencing something new.  This was not the case in this particular experience. His mind was blank.  Maybe she’ll talk first.  What am I going to say?  Think, think, think. His mind was still blank.

            The boy was thrust out of his dream state once again.  It was time for a lab.  The boy sauntered over to his lab station.  All he wanted was some peace and quiet to be alone with his thoughts. Instead, he had a noisy and completely ridiculous biology class that offered him little in the way of actual knowledge.  There should be a class on girls.  Now that’s a class I could live with.  I would pay attention to everything and take meticulous notes all day. I would take that class. This was a very new thought for the boy.  He usually took great pride in his classes.  He sat in the front row, asked questions, did his homework, and studied.  Four things that most students try their very best to avoid throughout high school.  But this boy was much different from the rest of the crowd.  Perhaps, that is why he never had any friends, and why he was completely frozen when the girl had approached him.

            She did speak first.

            “What’s your name.”

            “Logic.”

            “Logic?”

            Logic?

            The boy said his name was logic.  What was he thinking?  Why had “logic” popped into his head?  This boy was hopeless.  He had no future in girls.  He said his name was “logic”.  That makes exactly no sense.  The amount of sense that that makes is zero.  There is no logic in the fact that he said his name was “logic”. It puzzled the girl a trifle as well.

            The girl had never seen the boy before.  She wasn’t sure that he was serious when he said his name was “logic”.  She thought he was telling her to use logic.  She scanned his body for a nametag.  There was none.  She was thoroughly confused. 

            “What did you say?”

            “Uhhhhhhh…”

            The boy was again lost for words.  His mind was a blank slate. 

            The boy started to measure out his lab experiment.  He wasn’t really focused.  His mind was a blank slate.  His lab partners wondered what was wrong with him.  They were worried that he wasn’t going to do the entire lab like he always did.  What happened after that?

            “What was the question?”

            “I asked what your name was, you said logic.  Is that your nickname?”

            “Oh, yeah.  You know, my friends call me Logic cuz, uhh, I’m logical.”

            “Hey, that’s pretty neat.  I don’t really have a nickname, people just call me Harri.  My real name is Harriett.”

            He had her name.  Her name was Harri.  How did he ever get this far?  Why has Harri even into him in the first place?

            He’s kinda cute.  And he’s smart, obviously.  I can’t believe I’ve never seen him before. 

            “Well, it was nice meeting you.  Maybe I’ll see you around.”

            “Yeah, I that’d be groovy.”

            No! She’s leaving! I’m never gonna see her again. 

             

"The Boy and the Girl, Part III" by Will Wright

            The 3:05 bell rang marking the end of the school day.  3000 students rushed out of their classrooms and to their lockers, then out to their cars and off to do whatever it is they do.  The boy couldn’t rush out to his storage unit.  He had detention.  He had been late for 5 classes that day.  That meant 5 demerits.  That meant a half hour detention.  The boy had never received a single demerit, let alone a detention.  What was wrong with him?  Harri.  That was the explanation.  Every passing period he would stand by his locker and wait for Harri to walk by again. He would stare intensely into the flood of students flowing by his storage unit.  He would examine every face, searching, always searching for his true love. He never saw her. He waited until the bell rang to even start to go to class.  That made him late. Very late.  Now he had detention.  He had to hurry to his locker and to the detention room, if he was late to detention, it would be doubled. The boy walked into his prison cell and sat down at one of the desks with graffiti all over it.  The boy began to draw on the desk as well.  He drew Harri.  The boy was no artist, much like he was no ladies’ man; except he was less of a ladies’ man then he was an artist.

            “No drawing on the desks!  Double detention for you!”

            Harri was causing the boy more trouble than she was worth.  But then again, she was worth it.

            The minutes ticked by as slowly as an old lady crossing the street.  (Have you ever experienced that before?  When there’s this really slow old lady crossing the street and your light is green but you can’t go because she’s right in front of her.  It’s the worst when you have to go to the bathroom really bad and she stops to pick a quarter on the street.  I hate it when that happens.) All the boy did was stare straight ahead and think about Harri.  He thought about the first time he saw her; the only time he saw her.  He thought about how he had never seen her before.  He thought about how he was going to find her again.  He thought about what he was going to say to her when their second meeting became a reality.  But most of all, he thought about her voice.  The sweet, angelic voice that asked him what his name was.  The voice that started a conversation with him.  It was like she had been singing to him, that’s how sweet the voice was.  He was almost positive that she wasn’t singing to him. He thought he would remember something like that.  Maybe she was singing to him.  After all, the whole thing happened so fast and he was in a blur for most if not all of it. 

            What was he talking about?  Of course she wasn’t singing.  It just seemed like she was singing. 

            The girl rushed to her locker and quickly grabbed her backpack and hastily threw some books into it.  She was as fast as a…as fast as a…um…[insert simile here]  She slammed her storage unit shut and nearly sprinted down the hallway.  She didn’t want to miss Logic.  She wanted to talk to him some more.  She liked him.  She wanted to learn his actual name and tell him her last name.  She might even consider giving him her phone number.  She thought that they could really go somewhere.  This was a rather curious thought, since they had spoken for a total of one minute, if that.  She just had a feeling.  She had been thinking about him all day, she was late to four classes because her mind was wondering.  One more demerit and she would have had a detention.  She went to where she thought his locker might be.  He wasn’t there.  She searched the entire hallway.  He was nowhere to be found.  Maybe he doesn’t like me.  I’m being stupid.  Of course he doesn’t like me.  I probably scared him. What am I doing? Indeed.  What was she doing? Harri started to cry.  The tears flowed down her cheeks like the students flow through the hallway.  She gloomily walked through the gloomy, empty hallways.  The gloom enveloped her, addressed her, and put a stamp on her. Then it put her into a mailbox and sent her off to Kansas City.  That was a joke.  The gloom didn’t send her to Kansas City.  What it did do was lead her to the detention room…

            The boy watched the clock with the white-hot intensity of a thousand suns.  He wasn’t sure what he would do when he got out of detention.  He was thinking about just waiting by the entrance of the school all night and being right there when Harri came to school the next morning.  I think I’ll just wait be the entrance of the school all night and be right there when Harri comes to school tomorrow morning.  Like I said, the boy wasn’t much of a ladies man. The clock struck 4:10 pm.  An hour of detention had been served.  Now, the boy got up, walked out of the room and immediately saw Harri, on sitting on the ground, crying.

            “Hey, Harri.”

            “Hi.” Harri smiled.

             

           

"Touch" by Clare

The texture surges through you.

Entered by the finger tips.

The finger tips, the entry for so many foreigners.

Eager reaching grabbing seeking

Touch here then there

Silky? Smooth. Crunchy? Crusty.

It abounds in life

From a chair to a knife

Your fingertips can tell you the story.

Performing nicely without a hitch

They work without a thought

No effort and there it is! The entry of so many sensations.

If its glazed

                They can tell

If its sanded

                They can tell

If its woven

                They can tell.

And tell they will.

Informative digits they are.

Sharing their life’s work free of charge.

"Pottery" by: Clare

Slide your fingers along the edge

Caress the center

Feel the textured

.

Stop.

.

Pause.

.

Consider its worth

Who made it

For what

Why?

Pick it up to sense

Sense the weight

Sense the power

Sense the effort

Appreciate the work done.

Appreciate the effort inputted

Calculate influence.

                        Wait!

                        Calculate? Calculate?!

                                    No No No

                                    That isn’t right.

                                    Keep calculating, or at least the word

                                                To math!

                                    back

                        back

            back

back

Study the surface, then close your eyes.

Begin to feel the work.

Embrace the aura

Return it

"A Surprise Snow Da"y by Kristin Sauma

Sleepers wear pajamas inside-out;

children hold their breath, cross their fingers, and

dance,

participating in rituals that have moved to the beats

of hearts from generations and generations

with hope.

Parents focus puffy eyes on channel 6

and ears on unnaturally cheerful morning voices...

A number on the screen soon means

whiteness outside,

and a day of justified truancy.

"A Different Kind of Fantasy" by Kristin Sauma

My cousin tapped me on the head with a book as he strode into the tiny bedroom and opened the curtains so that light pierced my eyes. I grimaced. He cocked his head, exposing a strong jawline, and teased, “What’s your problem?” But it wasn’t a normal familial tease.  It came from a mouth containing the most biting sarcasm and Arabic-stroking tongue I’ve ever encountered in the history of my acquaintances. I looked at him for a moment physically, and made sure to catch the mental image before it left my head: a man. He was becoming a man, and a four-year interval of time hadn’t given me the chance to see every change happen slowly. So perhaps that’s how I could see them better now. Marc had grown magnificently and took full advantage of the height he had inherited as an apparent mutation, like his older and younger brothers, who were also well over six feet tall. And though a hint of geometry was apparent in his form, his physique was not yet a full triangle, but rather sunken in. I wanted to smile at the discrepancy between ego and build, but I was yet pretending to be mad at him and didn’t dare let myself look into his brown eyes. Because they would only lead my vision to an overgrown head of hair, like a sheep, and that would be too much. Fortunately interrupting my comical thoughts, a hand came out in front of my nose and snatched my book from my grasp. Veins on the top of his skin led my eyes up to a playful face and the beginnings of a poorly kept mustache. “Jerk,” I muttered, twisting my mouth the opposite direction of the way it wanted to smile. He soon went on to one of his rants about why exactly he was a jerk and how my words (which he had a talent for using against me) were so hurtful to him. “Marc, I was only kidding,” I cried, but no sooner had I uttered these than he was tossing the book around to his younger brother. Men, I thought, grinning. But then my face became serious…because he was a man. And things could never be the same because of it after that visit. Suddenly thoughts were whirling through my head before I had the chance to re-block them, and I inadvertently tuned all else out. My time was almost over on this visit. And if we did visit again, four more years would only estrange us, force us to act like proper men and women.  Yes, I had forgotten I was becoming a woman, but it reminded me. The thought! No more teasing and crushing on my favorite cousin, Marc, who sat down now, still smiling, to be sucked into the virtual world with which teenage men seem so infatuated. No more of him pinching my cheeks and tussling my hair, because I’d have to wear blush soon and maybe even use a Bumpit. Tussling would not coincide well with that. I stared at my beloved cousin at the desk and hopped  onto his bed next to my other cousin. I realized in the late afternoon heat of Lebanon that never again could I dream of this situation, this experience. So I willed myself to sleep and do it while I could.

"Forgotten" by Taylor Gibson

                I rub my wet, tired eyes and then stretch out my arms, tight from the past night’s rest.  I sit up and crawl out of my warm, cozy bed, but not with the usual mood of dreading the day’s challenges.  Today, I’m unusually excited.

                I walk over to the wall on which hangs my calendar.  I drag my finger slowly across to today’s date, December 10^th, although I was already quite positive of the date, and cross it off with a Sharpie.  This day, the day which comes only once a year, is very important to myself.  I’m feeling very happy, in a good mood, and as I get dressed, I select the clothes that make me feel most special.  I first slip my comfortable, long sleeve basketball warm-up shirt over my short, wavy brown hair and stick my arms in the holes of the sleeves.  I then put one leg into my Buckle jeans and put in the other, following that.  Finally, I slide my left foot into one gold Coach shoe and then slide my right foot into the other gold Coach shoe.  I brush my hair, trying to tame the wavy strands.  Then, I put on a touch of make-up, just enough to cover the blemishes that reside on my face.  I look in the full-length mirror, and satisfied, I skip out of my bedroom and hop down the stairs.

                Every year on this particular day, I can smell the sweet taste of cinnamony French toast.  Today, either my nose was not working properly, or there was no sweet smell lingering in the air.  This was strange, as I was used to this smell on this day that comes only once a year.  Suspiciously, I walk into the kitchen and look at the empty kitchen table; just as I suspected: no French toast.

                The house is still.  Quiet—as if somebody had died.  Usually, I can’t walk through my house on this certain day of the year, without one of my eight siblings jumping out at me, giving me big hugs, and wishing me a happy birthday.  I’m starting to wonder why things aren’t going the way they usually go.

                My mom walks in as I’m sitting at the kitchen table, pondering, and she tells me good morning.  I wait for a few seconds, waiting in hopefulness, just waiting in hopefulness for the precious sound of a “happy birthday,” but after a few seconds of this waiting that feels like hours, I reply with a simple, “morning.”

                I walk slowly over to the pantry, and as I’m walking, I mention to my mom that a piece of French toast sounds awfully delicious today.  She responds with just a simple head nod and I see that she’s too engaged in reading her newspaper to probably even have heard what I had said to her.  I continue walking and then open the double doors of the kitchen pantry.  The cereals seem to be staring me right in the face.  My stomach churns, knowing that I will be forced to eat cereal like every other day of the year.  I grab the box of Cocoa Pebbles and groan to myself.  Normally, I’d be running to the cupboard to grab a bowl so that I can pour myself some cereal, since, after all, it is my favorite.  But today, with the way I’m feeling and have been treated so far, eating dirt seems to be equivalent to my Cocoa Pebbles.  But knowing that I will be hungry if I don’t eat something, I grab a bowl, spoon, and a jug of milk and sit down to eat.  The chocolaty smell rises to and through my nose, and I instantly gag.  My brother, Bentley, then walks in and, like my mom, says nothing but a “good morning.”  He doesn’t see, but I roll my eyes at him and place the Cocoa Pebbles right smack in front of him at the table and mutter, “Here.”  I continue on, dragging my feet, as I walk back up the stairs and back into my bedroom.  As I sit back down on my bed, I think aloud, “How could they forget?”

"Loneliness" by Taylor Gibson

                Emptiness—it fills my soul and my anger instantly turns into sadness.  My face almost hurts from the corners of my mouth being turned upside down too long.  I feel lost.  I thought I was important or at least important enough for my own family to remember what day it was.  I guess not.  I guess I’m not that important.  Nothing can fully explain and nobody will ever be able to fully comprehend the loneliness I’m feeling right now.  I’ve never felt this way before and I pray to God that I never have to feel it again.

                It’s like being the only person alive, standing on earth—No, it’s like being the only person on earth “period.”  Just when you think you hear a voice, you turn to realize it’s nobody; it’s really just your own thoughts taking over everything.  Just when you think you hear a footstep, you again turn to nothing; you realize it’s just your own body shaking uncontrollably out of fear and loneliness.  I hate it.  I hate feeling so alone.

                I stop my ghastly thoughts for a moment and look at the clock.  I realize that if I don’t leave now, I’ll be late for school.  I snatch my backpack and rush down the stairs, being careful not to trip as this would only make my day worse.  I quickly stop by the kitchen and look at my brother and mom—nothing.  Not even a slight head turn to acknowledge my presence.  I roll my eyes and head out the front door.  I sprint down the sidewalk, angrily stepping on every crack in hope to break my mother’s back, and finally, reach the bus stop.  The bus pulls to a stop and I know I just barely made it.  I’m now a little bit happier, in high hopes that one of my best friends will remember what today is.  I find a seat and my best friend walks up the aisle and, glowing, asks to sit next to me.  I smile and nod my head at her.  She plops down next to me and she says, “Do you know what day it is?”

                Sarcastically, I say, “No, tell me!”

                “Friday!” she exclaims.  “The weekend’s almost here!”

                I sigh and slouch back down into my seat.

                She looks at me with a confused face and asks, “What’s wrong with you?”

                “Oh, nothing, “ I reply.

                She shrugs her shoulders and opens her bag to take out a book so she can study.  I realize that I should have known not to get my hopes up.  My previous feeling of loneliness reenters my soul.  The previous feeling of being the only person on earth comes back into me, destroying me—piece by piece.  Someone please tell me; when will this loneliness end?

               

"Remembered" by Taylor Gibson

                The school day is coming to a close and still no one has remembered my birthday.  This possibly has to be one of the worst days of my whole entire life.  First, I’m forgotten; then that leads me to be very lonely.  What I would like to know is when or even if I’ll be remembered.

                I get on the bus to go home and sit at the very back, hoping nobody sits next to me—I’m not in the mood to talk.  Thankfully, nobody sits next to me.  The bus pulls slowly out of the school parking lot and I know it will be awhile before I get home as the kids in my neighborhood are the last to be dropped off today.  Since I have time and am exhausted from the long day’s work, I decided to let myself lie down on the seat of the school bus and take a short nap.  My eyes slowly close, silence becomes evident, and thoughts clear my head.

                Thirty minutes later…

                Ah! Cramp!  I shoot up and out of my seat and realize that the position I was sleeping in was—Wait!  I’m not in a seat… I’m back in my bed!  How’d I get here?  What is going on?  There’s no way that could have been a dream.  It was so real, so clear, so…well, nightmare-ish!  I decide to investigate.  I get out of my bed, still tired and confused as to how I was all of the sudden in it, and walk over to my calendar.  December 10^th—the day hadn’t been crossed off yet.  Wow.  This means it really was just a dream—Or should I say nightmare?

                I shake off the weird feeling as I try to figure out why I’d have such an awful dream.  I get dressed and go through my birthday morning routine, just as I had in my dream.  I cross my fingers and exit my bedroom.  There stood my eight siblings.

                “Happy birthday!” they shouted in unison.

                My face lights up as they hug me with all their might, one by one, followed by a big group hug.  I’m so happy that they really did remember!  I then head down the stairs into the kitchen and what do I smell?  Yes!  French toast!  I see the cinnamony goodness on the table in front of me and look up at my mom with sheer joy.  I bet she’s never seen me so happy just because of two pieces of her French toast.  After she tells me good morning and happy birthday, and after I say thank you and good morning back, I sit down and stick my fork into the French toast.  I lift it up and shove it into my mouth, bending over the plate so I don’t get any syrup on anything.  I laugh to myself as I see my brother Bentley eating Cocoa Pebbles—he looks pretty happy to be eating them.

                I finish up my breakfast, say goodbye to my family, and head out the front door, skipping to the bus stop.  The bus pulls up and I get on it and find a seat.  My friend runs up the aisle, asks to sit next to me, and hands me a huge present.  She tells me happy birthday and my day just keeps getting better.

                After school…

                Wow!  My day at school was great!  Everyone remembered my birthday and gave me tons of attention!  Now, I couldn’t wait to get home and continue the great day.  The bus pulls up to my bus stop, and I grab my things and run off the bus, down the sidewalk, and up to my house, being careful not to drop any of my presents and other items.  I open the door to my house and…

                “Surprise!” shout all of my friends and family.

                OMG!  They threw me a huge surprise party!  This day is going extremely opposite from my dream last night.  I can’t believe it.  This is the best birthday I’ve ever had!

                Later that night…

                Today, I learned something.  My dream taught me that I’m not as thankful about the small things in life, like French toast, a hug, or a simple “happy birthday,” as I should be.  I realized that it’s the simple things in life that make me most happy.  Today, I decided something.  I decided that from now on, I’ll be more thankful for the times that I’m just simply remembered.

"Time Passing" by Savannah Adams

           I...I...How should I start this? What should
I write about? It’s always the monologues that get me. Maybe I should just set down the pen and clear my mind. Let’s see, I have basketball after school, I need to figure out my character skills project, and I am way behind in creative writing class, but I’m beginning to catch up. Oh, and tonight I have to type my honors biology lab write up.
          On the bright side my mom is making tacos tonight. Ah, I can taste the chili flavored seasoning and freshly made salsa layered on a perfectly baked hard shell. Plus there is still some leftover ice cream cake from my sister’s birthday last night. Except my mom probably ate all the frosting off the edges. Ah man, I hate is when she does that.
           I also can’t stand it when my sister projectile sneezes on me at the dinner table, but my dad always gets after her about that and makes her do twenty push ups for punishment. My sister, Sierra, and I, don’t get along the best sometimes, but we have the best memories. Like one time she tricked me into thinking that a dog treat was a cookie, but it was really a dog treat, and I ate it. Also, she would make me give her a massage and she would fall asleep and say she would give me one tomorrow... she never did. She also would sit on me and then drool on my face. One time she sat on me and took a mint out of her mouth and stuck it in mine. Then she put her hands over my mouth and waited for the mint to dissolve to release my mouth.
           Speaking of my mouth I have to go to the dentist tomorrow to get four teeth pulled, but at least I get to skip an hour of school. Oh wait, where was I? Oh yea, my monologue.

"Look Before You Fall" by Ellen Cook

It’s like a big rush of air on your face and then you forget everything

And you take a deep breath before you immerse yourself underneath

But sooner than you expected,

You can’t breathe.

But you’re so distracted by the way your heart beat is louder than an Aerosmith concert,

you can’t possibly notice that the lack of oxygen to your brain is cutting of your central unit of common sense

And by that time it’s too late anyways

Because even when someone sticks it to you between the eyes

You deny it.

And you sink lower and lower

And the main reason you remain at the bottom is because you have an unsatisfied urge for that feeling that you had at the top.

When you first dove in.

When you submerged yourself in false happiness, false bliss.

But now, forewarnings accounted for, the bottom is where you lie.

The bottom with guilt and loneliness.

The bottom that has stolen your breath and leaves you begging

To take it all back.

You’d give anything for another moment at the top.

A moment that you gave up willingly.

And all for what?

"Awakening Eyes" by Allison Lee

Hushed rest

Mind best in fantasy.

6 am. 6am.

Lids creak open

Eyes soaked, in the surrounding darkness.

Where am I again?

6:05. 6:05.

Weakly, they search for the ticking.

Gently flicking, trying to make out the source.

Silence.

Rubbing slowly,

Hoping to see wholly, the scene.

Reaching for that one switch right…

Here.

Eyes shutter in the new, cruel light.

Do I find delight in such torture?

Painfully, they figure they must lure open.

Better now to cope than waiting until tomorrow.

“Silence in Waiting” by Ellen Cook

She waits.

As she rereads the first line of chapter seven over, for a third time, still not comprehending.

Her head is elsewhere.

She looks at the ceiling, trying to clear her head.

She readjusts her blanket, so it covers her shoulders.

It is so quiet.

The silence is shattered by her own voice.

She breathes out and a slight noise comes from her throat, like a small scream, but more peaceful.

The sound makes her bones shiver, and her skin tightens.

She speaks, though she does not know what to say.

Her voice, cracks at first, but then is smooth and soft like an old record

As she drowns in the sound, the key ends in silence.

Silent as she’s always been.

Silent as she’s meant to be.

Silent as he’s kept her.

She doesn’t whisper another sound, as she looks down at her book

He’ll be home soon.

She waits.

As she rereads the first line of chapter seven over, for a third time, still not comprehending

 

"The Burning City" by Lauren

Inspired by: Hollywood Undead

I’ve heard the words of another say in the most calm voice, like the ocean before a storm, “ Let’s watch this city burn from the skyline on top of the world, till there’s nothing left of her,” but has it been burning for too long now. Crime, poverty and politics are the wood logs waiting to be lit by the uncaring people of this world. We all contribute to the ceremonial burning, for our own reasons and others just out of utter revenge. What we don’t realize until after the world catches a flame is nothing good will come of this fire. We hope for a better world to bloom like the morning glory, but the only thing we see in the morning is more chaos and hurt. We all run to stop it, but it is obviously too late. We cannot stop others’ minds or views, for their fire inside of their hearts is still hateful, vengeful and selfish. How do we stop the horrid massacre? We “watch this city burn” and hope we all survive others’ mistakes and wonder about those we have hurt. All we have is prayer and hope that someone will save us from our selves; someone everyone will listen to and someone that not only can, but WILL change their minds. I like to think that someone is me, but the truth is I am not quite ready to let go of my little fire. Call me a hypocrite, go ahead, but at least I can admit it unlike the rest of us who simply ignore the hatred and violence outside our doors. I will not go on pretending not to care about this never ending war. Now, let’s stop looking at this gorgeous fire and find a way to put it out. It may take years and maybe even lifetimes, but that is ok. As long as it happens in the future, that is all I ask for. I do not wish to look down from the sky and see what I saw on, what some people call, hell. I want to see peace and blue-green features because orange was never my favorite color anyway.