Bent Glass

by Cora

Bend the glass, my love
Twist it and mold its gravestone
Eerie grotesque light.

Footprints

by Becca

He's happy again
Now that she's with him
And they dance again
Once more hand-in-hand

She twirls again
Her white dress flowing
And they kiss again
Savor the moment

They laugh again
the sand warm and wet
And he loves again
Like waves love the shore

They feel again
Cool watery tide
Together again
On the sunlit beach

She fades again
She just can't hold on
He reaches again
He can't let her go

They dance again
Slowly, one last time
But she's gone again
And their last waltz ends

Tears fall again
His footprints still there
In the sand again
But his are alone

I Seem To Be.....

By Erin Elaine


I seem to be
kind of young, a little naive.
I really am
so much more than age admits.
I seem to be
so distracted, so blind.
i really am
just dreaming. let me sleep.
i seem to be
kind of careless. i feel fine.
i really am
so overthinking. im confused.
i seem to be
okay with everything, just going along.
i really am
so confident with another plan.
i seem to be
sure of where i am
i really am
still unsure. im pretty young.
i seem to be
just happy on my own.
i really am
hungry for you to find me.
i seem to be
so complete and so at peace.
i really am
a little bit half full.
i seem to be
living life on the seams of this.
i really am
so content with where i am, in bliss.
i seem to be
so
so
sure....
i really am
praying for the answers.
i seem to be
growing up, every day.
i really am
a little girl forever.
and i seem to be
moving on.
really am
staying put.
i seem to be
looking for new roads.
i really am
sitting down in the middle of the one i'm on.
i seem to be
running fast.
but really, i'm
moving
so
slow now...
and i seem to
look only where i'm standing.
but really i
reach for the higher heights.
i seem to be
walking but
really i'm
runnning.
... slow me down...
because i seem to be
speeding up
and i really am
not ready for this.
and i seem to be
moving at the same pace
but really i'm
so much farther ahead.
but i seem so
far behind.
...slow me down.
because i seem to be
kind of young. a little naive.
i really am
so much more than age admits.
and i seem to be trying to reach those dreams.
but really
i'm scared to get there.
i seem to be
strong above my own two feet
i really am
reachign for your hand...
to support me.
i really am.
i really am.
i really am....
just a kid.
and all i need
is time.

I Seem To Be.....

by Diya

I seem to be
Excited, happy, perfect.
But I'm not.
My best friends don't even know.
I don't have the guts to tell them
That I'm not stupid. That I have feelings.
And thoughts.

I seem to be
Shallow, stupid, thoughtless.
But I'm not.
I wasn't born a writer,
I was born
A thinker.

I seem to be
Childlike, annoying and stupid.
Careless and innocent.
I don't know, nor do I care.
Lost in a dreamland
Far away.
My life is simple.
And perfect.
Friends envy me for how simple
My life seems to be.
How I'm easy to understand.
But its not.
I'm not.
They are the ones lost in delusion.
They don't know a thing
About me.

I really am
That rope tied in knots.
A thinker.
A feeler.
One who yearns to understand.
Understand everything.
One who spends time thinking
About everything.
Thing that others throw off as pointless.
But still, I don't understand

I really am
One confused by her own words,
Imperfect,
Irritated.
One who analyzes
Every
Little
Word.
One who wants to learn
Wants to know
Wants to understand.

I sometimes think:
What if I'm just a character in a story
A sad story.
A confusing story.
That emotional wreck who hides what she feels.
My life is a rope tied in knots.

I really am
Unexpressive.
Always keeping my thoughts to myself
Despite what others think.
They think I share every detail of my life,
They think I'm talkative,
Shallow.
They think I tell them everything.
Through writing or words.
They think I don't care.
But I do.
I really do.
I care about everything.
I think about everything.

I really am
Caught in a net
Of truthful lies
And lying truths.
And guilt.
That girl being strangled, suffocated.
Squeezed.
By her unspoken words.
Unvoiced thoughts
And feelings.

Because I really wasn't born a talker or a writer.
I was born a feeler.
I was born a thinker.
And, in the end,
They don't know a thing about me.

I Seem To Be.....

by Luna the Vampire

My name is Luna,
And I just feel my
Heart breaking when
I see you look at me
Because I know to you
I seem to be
Just your good friend,
But baby, I could be so
Much more to you if you
Would just look inside......
I seem to be
A lonely gal who's cool with it
But I'm not.
I really am a romantic gal
Who's in love with someone
Who to I seem to be
His girly friend,
But why can't he see
That in reality
I really, really want to be
His girlfriend.

Song Converting

Song: Homecoming
Artist: Lisa Kelly
Song Converter: Dee

I am a wanderer.
Few may find me, for my path weaves through songs and stars, above the mountains and the trees, a brilliant streak of deep blue that only I can see.
Do you wish to find me, to wander forevermore at my side? Do you wish to know the joy of flying high through the skies, of riding on the autumn wind into the lost kingdoms of dreams? Do you wish to see the majesty of pure moonlight, full and strong, not weak and broken as you see it now, its dancing rays cast upon a rippling golden sea?
Then travel to the distant horizon, where the stars are rising, and when you stand upon the place where the solid ground ends, you must let go.
You must let yourself fall.
When the sky fades away, call my name, reach out for me. I will reach out to you, and as we fall together through the stars, our feet will find my path once more. Then we will wander, through songs and stars, above the mountains and the trees, upon the brilliant streak of deep blue that only we can see.

Won't you come with me?

Alexandria White

by Ivy

Prologue

I was always the imaginative one. I had always wondered, what if the butterflies I saw in the meadow were really tiny fairies, hiding in disguise? What if the trees that were shaped
into an arch, what if they were really a portal to another land? What if the snake holes I saw in
the ground were really full of talking mice, or chipmunks? And what if the dragonflies that swirled around the folds of my skirts were pixies playing their foolish games? My mother let me wonder these things.
I would walk up to her bedside in the morning, when I was a child, and I would tell her all the marvelous things I had dreamt of, and she would listen. Then she would make me breakfast, and she would ask me questions about them. My Father did not ask me questions. My Mother was in bed with a cold, and I would go to my Father and tell him what I have dreamed, but before I could finish, or even close to finish, he interrupted me. "silly!" He said in his strong voice. "that could never happen, come to reality girl!" his firm voice rang through the halls.
"but Daddy, Can't I-" I tried to speak, but was always interrupted.
"your Mother is ill Alexandria, it would be wise to leave everyone alone. And your foolish nonsense too."I looked at him with my eyes shining with tears. He was my father wasn't he? I knew he was busy, but Fathers weren't supposed to be like that! "yes Daddy." I said. I left the drawing I was so proud of on his desk. It was a fairy, and I had taken hours to finish it. Maybe when he saw what a good job I did he would understand.
"what is this?" he said. He crumpled it up and tossed it into the trash. "get your head out of the clouds girl, we have a life to live! And try calling me Father, it may be a step closer to what a proper young lady would do." I couldn't hold the tears any longer. I rushed up to my Mothers room, and saw her in the bed with her nightdress on.
"oh Mother!" I cried into her lap. "why doesn't Daddy think the way you do?" I remembered what he had said to me downstairs and I cried harder. My Mother gaining her strength, rubbed my back, and stroked my hair.
"oh Alexandria, what did he say this time?" She asked, her gentle voice already calming me down. I told her the story, and she listened. The best thing in the world she could have done, was listening.
"Alexie," she said sweetly. "why must you always believe what he says?" I almost felt more tears running down my cheeks, was she scolding me?
"it does not matter what anyone else says, when you believe it, you make it real." My face lit up.
"really Mamma?" I asked, "really?" She smiled, and stroked my face.
"yes dear. You are in charge of your own mind, and you will take orders from no one." I smiled brighter and climbed on the bed.
"I love you, my beautiful girl." she said smiling. "I'll always love you." I giggled,
"I love you too Mamma, you know that.
"yes I do, now scuttle off to bed." She held my hands and looked into my eyes. I gave her a big hug, and a kiss on the forehead. "I love you Mamma." I whispered.

It has been 10 years since the day my Mother died. I am 15 now, and it seems like I am the only one who hasn't gotten over it completely yet. All I hear is, comb your hair, lift your head, tighten your corset, pull up your sunbonnet, push your shoulders back, but they don't know how hard it is to be a proper young lady, when all you can think about is your Mother and how you will never see her again. It has been ten years, and I still did not forget her last words to me. I love you, my beautiful girl. I like to believe she knew it was coming, that she was ready for it, but I shall never know. I still sit on her favorite bench in the garden, and I still dream of magical things. Father still does not accept them, yet I do not tell them to him anymore. I still have the old fairy drawing I scavenged from my Fathers garbage can, and I am still Alexandria White.

Time Files

By Diya

Chapter 1

Anything was better than being locked up. Even living in an attic, surviving off of food from a soup kitchen, spending the majority of your time either doing odd jobs around said soup kitchen as your only source of money, or searching unsuccessfully for a real job. I’ve lived like this for nearly a year. Let me revise that. We’ve lived like this for nearly a year. I couldn’t forget Elaine, the bouncy six year old tugging at my sleeve.
“What is it, Lainey?” I asked, exasperated.
“I want to see Rosalina!” she informed me, her voice actually sounding whiny, “I don’t like shopping!”
“Nor do I, but we need to get you out of those rags.” I gestured to the gown we had been forced to wear by our kidnappers. She hadn’t been shopping since we escaped, and it was the only clothing she had.
Elaine sighed. “I know. But I still don’t have to like it.”
I laughed to myself “I know you don’t have to like it. I’m asking you to try and put up with it, or you’ll be stuck in that gown forever” after a second I added “And we’ll go see Rosalina right after this.”
Elaine was about to say something, but her mouth snapped shut. I couldn’t tell if it was the mention of Rosalina or the gown that finally shut her up. We continued through the department store in silence.
The moment the kids’ clothes section was in sight, Elaine ran and dived right into the aisle with the sickeningly pink dresses. Sure, of course she didn’t like shopping. I jogged to catch up to her. When I found her, she was inspecting a hideous pink, satin, floral dress, frills and everything. The moment I caught her eye, I scowled at her. She came running over with the dress. “But I like it” she told me, correctly interpreting look.
“You need something more…comfortable. Something you can run around in. Something that blends in” I waved towards my clothes, a light green fitted t-shirt and a pair of navy blue sweatpants. Closer inspection of the dress also revealed the price tag. Enough said. “And Lainey, even if I did manage to get a job I would never be able to afford this.
Sulking, Elaine returned the dress to the rack, and came back with a pair of purple skinny jeans, a hot pink t-shirt saying “Princess Gone Bad” with a picture of a skull, a plain light pink hoodie and a pair of short white denim shorts. I was amazed at her mad shopping skills. Too bad she didn’t like it. In a couple of years I could send her for all of our food.
Eying her load of clothes, I told her “It’s a start…” I pulled the jeans from her grasp. “…except for these. How do you expect to be able to run in these…these things? They might very well cut off the circulation in your legs…” I stopped at the look on Elaine’s face. In a slightly more gentle tone, I continued “If you get them in a bigger size, then maybe…”
Her eyes brightened. “Sure, Mary. I’ll be right back…” she rushed, then raced over to the rack where she had found the jeans and grabbed a new pair and was back by the time my brain had registered that she had called me Mary again. I hate being called Mary. Smiling, I decided not to correct her. I had already scolded her enough today. My hand firm on her wrist, we walked to the cash register.

We left the store quickly and headed directly to the soup kitchen, as I had promised Elaine, to go see Rosalina. Elaine marched down the street proudly, the shopping bag tucked under her arm. “We’re going to see Rosalina now, right Marissa?”
I smiled. “Yes, Lainey, we’re going right to Rosalina…and you can show her your new clothes.”
Her face broke out in a grin. “I’ll tell her I picked them all by myself” she looked at me “which I did…with some criticism from you.”
“Yes…yes you did” I told her, my mind elsewhere. Rosalina was a soup kitchen cook, and the only one who knew our story. She had been feeding us and housing us in a room in the back of the kitchen. I felt bad, so I had been looking for a job from the time we escaped. If I found one, that would take care of the food problem, but the housing problem? It would be months, years actually before I would be able to afford an apartment. I was snapped back to reality when I realized Lainey was still talking.
“Yes, I will go job hunting tomorrow, too” I answered quickly.
“Yay!”
I smiled. Elaine loved Rosalina, or as we both called her, Rosa. And a day that I spent job hunting was a day Lainey had Rosa to herself. Well, to herself and everyone else in the soup kitchen. Speaking of the soup kitchen…
I opened the door for Elaine who ran, right into Rosalina’s arms. I smiled at the older lady apologetically. “Elaine is excited. She just…”
I was interrupted by an overenthusiastic six-year-old. “No…no Marissa I want to tell her!” she whined.
Rosalina looked back at Lainey, smiling. “What is it, El, sweetie?” Poor Elaine. So many names. There was “Elaine,” of course, there was “El,” “Lainey…” I sighed. And there was what my mom and dad used to call her: “Ellie-girl.”
“I went shopping. Like a big girl. I picked out my own clothes.” Rosalina’s mouth dropped open in a well practiced look of mock admiration, surprise, and pride.
“By…by yourself?” Rosa stuttered.
Elaine smiled triumphantly, angled her head upwards, and closed her eyes just the slightest bit. “By myself” she confirmed.
“Show me what you bought.”
As Lainey started to pull the clothes out of the shopping bag, I headed to the back of the soup kitchen, silently, leaving them to their chat.
Once through the door separating the actual kitchen from the eating space, I looked around. The only people there were Lawrence and Anna, two of Rosa’s friends. Lawrence turned to say hi to me.
“Hey, Marissa. Where’s the little one?”
“Out front with Rosalina.”
A throaty chuckle escaped from Lawrence’s throat. Anna turned to face me. “That girl. She really admires Rosalina, doesn’t she?”
“Anna, that might just be the understatement of the century” I joked.
Lawrence looked into my face, his eyes glinting with mischief. “How can Rosalina poison the mind of our Ellie?”
Anna looked at him like he was insane, and then started to laugh. After a second she turned to me. “Well, Lawrence didn’t mean to keep you captive here. Go on with whatever you were doing.”
I smiled at both of them again, and opened the door to the supply closet. I crept in, then pulled the string which pulled down the trapdoor in the ceiling and let down the ladder. At the top of the ladder, I emerged into a dark musty attic. Home.
* * *
A bit later, while I was stretched out on the makeshift couch, reading, Elaine came up and spread out her clothes on the floor. “Marissa? Where should I put these?”
I got up without a word, and pulled a large shoebox out of the corner. Elaine took it from me and started carefully folded the clothes, all except for the jeans and t-shirt, smoothing out every wrinkle. Gingerly, she placed them in the box, picked up the clothes she had left outside, and then looked at me, back on the couch.
“Should I put my box next to yours?” she asked, uncertainly.
“Go ahead” I mumbled, my face buried in my book.
She pushed her box to the end of the couch and ducked into the corner surrounded by blankets hung from the low ceiling to change. Seconds later she emerged, the pink t-shirt saying “Princess Gone Bad” with the skull contrasted very interestingly with her tousled hair and her too big should-be-skinny-jeans. She definitely looked like a Princess Gone Bad. More accurately a preppy zombie.
She smiled proudly. “Looks good, right?” Oh, that’s right. I still haven’t bought a mirror for inside our ‘changing room’.
“Well. It looks okay” I told her, standing up. “Maybe I could…” I put down my book, picked up my hairbrush and started yanking it through her straight, red hair. She bit her lip, and waited until I was done. Poor girl. She hadn’t brushed her hair with an actual brush since her capture. One by one I worked the tangles out of her hair, then stood back to look at her. The zombie look was almost gone. Now she looked something like a deranged giant lollipop, the kind you get at theme parks. Between the bright pink t-shirt, the bright purple jeans, and her bright red hair, it almost hurt to look at her. After a second, I came up with an idea to reduce her flamboyant appearance. I picked a rubber band out of the pile I use to restrain my curly brownish hair, and tied her hair up in a ponytail. Much better. “There. That looks great.”
“Can I go show Rosa?”
I shrugged. “I’m not stopping you, am I?”
Elaine whooped, then flew down the ladder to the supply closet. I sighed, and hopped back onto the couch with my book, leaving the trapdoor open. I never closed it while I was up here and Lainey was down in the kitchen. She couldn’t reach the rope to open it, so she wouldn’t be able to come back up if the door was closed, unless she had the assistance of one of the kitchen staff.
A few minutes later, Rosa’s head appeared above the trapdoor. She climbed the stairs, and came to sit beside me. “She looks like a popsicle.”
Without lifting my eyes from my book, I answered “I was thinking a multicolored lollipop, but that works too.”
Rosa grinned. “Now she’s down posing for Anna’s camera.”
I laughed, caught off guard. “That’s Elaine for you.”
The door in the supply room below slammed and a voice rose from below. “Rosa?”
“Speak of the devil…” I muttered, already sucked back into my book.
“What is it, El?” Rosa called.
“Nothing. I just wanted to know where you were.”
Rosa rolled her eyes at me, laughing to herself, then turned just as the blinding Elaine appeared through the door. “El, the floor might just collapse, there are so many of us here. Why don’t we go downstairs?
I sent a silent thanks to Rosa for saving my reading-time, watching as Elaine then Rosa disappeared through the trapdoor.


(for more, visit this link: TIME FILES)

Wrath to My English Teacher

by Laika Pearl


Please understand.
Follow my directions.
Do what I say, but not what I do.

Shake hands with reality.
Tell stories with non-fiction.
Do everything, but don’t.

And all I want is to imagine.
Smile in a field of flowers.
Breathe untouched air.
And sigh.

Expository- not how I work.
Expository- not what I’m about.
Expository- not who I am.
Expository- yes.

Yes?

Yes. It means to inform.
So I’m informing you:
My life. Is. So. Much. Funner.

The Tree

By Beth

It was a tree.
Just a tree.
A simple thing, really.
There are millions out there in the world. So you would think it’s nothing special … I guess it wasn’t. Not to you. Not to your friends, your family. Even the people closest to me had no idea why I flung such adoration at it.
It was a willow, the base mostly wide and tall, with a couple of big sturdy branches, perfect to sit in, huddled with a book notepad or sketchbook. The branches which all willows have offered perfect privacy, and secrecy from anyone who might be searching for me - not that people normally looked for me. Most of the time, my lack of … existence barely mattered for anyone. I guess I was like a shadow: a silent presence, so easily overlooked. The long vines draped down, trailing into the river that backed my family’s property in North-East England.
I don’t remember when I first found the tree. All I remember is that it was always there to catch me when I fell, watching my journey through childhood, picking me up and planting me on my feet… wrapping me up for a hug in it’s long, tendril-like branches. Or, in summer, throw me laughingly into the river, sending me swimming back to the banks.
For some time, it was my only friend. Other times, my best friend A sibling … sometimes, just simply, a friend.
No matter how miserable or joyful I felt when I first crossed the field, my spirits were always lifted by the tree: it’s existence, simply.
I remember running across the field, all the way from the house, slipping down the river banks, throwing myself into the tree and scrambling up into it’s wooden embrace, offering relief from whatever situation was currently ailing me. I was only six then.
At the age of eight, I have a very strong memory of walking straight from school to the tree, fighting back tears. I hung my bag on one of the branches, half-hoping that it would fall into the river, and get carried away by the current, before settling into a nook, like a little curled up ball. That was the day my best friend moved away.
Winter.
Ten years old.
Snow covered the ground; my breath turned to mist in the air. I was rugged up in jackets, scarves (I think I was actually wearing three of them…), gloves and a beanie. I must’ve had at least four pairs of socks on, even over my heavy boots. And yet, I did not dare leave my tree. There was a book in my chubbily gloved hands. Nowhere else I’d rather be (my house was filled with siblings, cousins and various relatives visiting for Christmas). Even with my ears falling off from the cold.
On the last day of Primary, School, (twelve years old), I sat in the tree – relieved, cheerful, and yet the memories were still flashing by my eyes, for once more real than the river, the leaves tickling my face. For once, I was elsewhere … then I laughed, and reminded myself that I had a whole Primary School-less future ahead of me.
Years passed, more than half of my days spent in the tree – I read, I wrote, I sat and thought, I brought my iPod out and listened to music. The one thing I didn’t do in the tree is bring other people there. Nobody but me was allowed underneath the dangling bows of the tree. Come to think of it, I don’t even think anyone knew where I went when I left the house, running across the meadow. I didn’t try to keep it secret … I just did, I guess.
Eventually, I moved out … but I was careful not to buy a home too far away, so that I could visit the tree on weekends, which quickly turned into visiting the tree every day, almost leading me to move back in with my parents … but soon I got married, I had children, and my parents got old. Still I made it my goal to spend at least an hour in the tree every week.
Nobody knew.

Eventually, my parents got old … they passed away. After the funeral, I let my husband take my two children home, and then ran almost all the way to my old house, to the tree, where I sat in a huddle as the sun set, slipping away over the horizon, sneaking away and leaving me with darkness. The property would one day have to get bought – then what? Maybe I could buy it … but no, the town life was a million times easier, and the property would be far too expensive for just a tree.
And so I let it get bought, told me it was simply a tree, I was a mother, a grown woman, anything but a child. A tree, honestly.
I didn’t see the tree for sixty years. I haven’t seen it until now. Now, I am a grandmother, a widow, ancient, with almost a 50/50 chance of dying the next day. Crossing the field to visit this tree was as difficult as it would have been to climb Mount Everest at the age of 20. But I had to do this. The current land owners had just had a development plan passed to build a bridge crossing the river, cutting through the row of willows lining the banks, and, in the process, destroying mine. There are no means of protest, the plan has been passed and the machinery would be arriving next week. I patted the trunk gently, knowing that both me and my best friend would be dying very soon.

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