• Young Writers’ Corner

    PGHS Young Writers' ClubDuring the school year, and while their other classes and test schedules allow, the Young Writers’ Club meets at Pacific Grove High School. We are proud to present selections they offer. At the end of the year, the club publishes a literary magazine.

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    I Come From Facebook

    by Lindsey Morin

    Where I come from, anger is shown via caps lock,
    Conversations terminated by colons and parenthesis,
    Followed by infinite less than threes, LOLs and OMG and integrated into the overrated,
    That that should be terminated
    A site with which us teenagers lovingly call Facebook.

    It’s on our computers, on our phones, on our hands and on our minds
    And it binds and grinds and we forgot what we left behind,
    Our world of secret handshakes and kickball, a where it’s okay to call,
    Instead of LAWL on my wall

    We write what’s on our minds till we bleed,
    What we want, what we need,
    It all goes up on the live news feed for the whole Facebook world to see,
    And we poke and we poke treating pokes like coke,
    Addicted to the satisfaction like the words we once spoke,
    Updating and liking since the second we woke

    So why not sign up and try it it’s free,
    Then you can IM or message me,
    But neither you nor me,
    We couldn’t foresee the social networking social problem that has been decreed,
    But now I’ve got to GTG,
    So copy and repost if you agree.

    Small Flame

    by Seo Kang

    Recalling the memories of my childhood past,
    I angrily remember the emptiness inside.
    The voids I felt from my “father’s” absence; they all too fast,
    Wash over me until I only feel a pang of pain – a stab in the side.

    Walking into the familiar coffee place,
    All suddenly feels hostile and foreign.
    For I cannot build up the courage to see the face
    Of the thief who taught me how to mourn.

    Sitting opposite the one who gave me grief and loneliness,
    In statuesque silence with a shield over my heart;
    Yet looking into the culprit’s eyes, a replica of mine, I cannot miss
    The intangible bond that now cannot part.

    As I grasp my father’s calloused and harsh hand, it all too soon,
    Kindles a small flame of love in my soul as we walk together under the moon.

    Relationship 101

    by Morgan Brown

    A blank piece of paper is the sign of a singular mind.
    Who voluntarily buys a blank piece of paper anyway?
    No one wants to stare at that piece of paper every Valentine’s Day, scarfing down those little Sweetheart candies that taste like chalk, and wondering why they’re all alone.
    At least go for the lined.
    Or graph paper if you’re feeling sexy.
    A lined piece of paper is
    If you fall off of one line, the next will always be there to catch you.
    And if you’re clueless enough to fall off of the last line, well,
    Then go out and buy an unattractive robe and some granny panties and start spending your money on office supplies that will never let you down and will always be near and reeking of Meow Mix…
    For the normal, attractive, outgoing, fun people who are willing to put themselves on the line and who don’t always start with the story of that one time they saw Kim Kardashian picking a wedgie…
    I always recommend graph paper.
    For one thing, the boxes come in different sizes.
    And you can choose to execute carefree math all night long and throw away the graph paper in the morning,
    Or you can begin with something more delicate, like the fundamentally confusing, hard to understand, boring and annoying at times, but looks good in a swimsuit, and is totally worth it in the end theorem of Calculus.
    Something you’re a little scared to tackle at first? Yes.
    Something that makes no sense at all sometimes? Definitely.
    Something you can’t wait to fully understand so that you can begin to fully appreciate & explore its boundaries? Indeed.
    But graph paper is the only thing that makes the trip to that one Office Depot with the annoyingly bright fluorescents worth it.
    You certainly wouldn’t want to head to the check out lanes without at least putting the graph paper in your cart and making a few trips around the store…
    Sure, they have a never-ending supply of lined paper in stock to keep you company, take you shoe shopping, and have sleepovers with.
    And there’s always a blank page for those select few who’d rather die alone.
    But stacked up neatly
    In the very front of the store
    In shiny red and pink bins that smell like breakfast in bed and long walks on the beach…
    Graph paper will always be Buy One, Get Some Free.

    Power Struggle

    by Erika McLitus

    How strange to feel the shift within,
    not like a tremor or a tempest—
    though I have them in abundance—
    no, more like a shuffling of cards:
    the queen is now before the jack, the ace before the king.
    So strange,
    to think of the ordered and important pieces
    of you
    rearranging themselves within the confines of your mind,
    risking that the order which surfaces
    will be a distortion, a perversion,
    hastily thrown together by chance or design.
    And if the pattern changes,
    so does the definition.
    I have to wonder,
    which facet of my psyche will emerge victorious,
    eyes jaded and melancholy and proud,
    dangling power from a string tied around her finger.

    Testimonial of a Nameless Soldier

    an allegory to wildfire by Lauren Dykman

    I was born into the rough hands of hard times. The fields were dry, food was scarce, and the economy had gone to pot. Most working class people just hardened their muscles against the plough and waited for relief. But not me. I believed every man needed something to hope for.
    My hope came in the form of a man. He spoke so ardently, struggled so violently to the top, that I came to worship him like a god. He bewitched me, and many other men, with promises of wealth, strength, and riches until we thirsted for better lives. He said he knew the key to the success of the economy, and the path to crown our country as King of the world.
    Our moment in power came suddenly, as an assassin’s blade felled the former ruler. Quickly, my faction took power, and I felt the reality of promised riches.  We had all the money and food any person could want, and more. But I failed to see the dark reality of our regime. Past the gilded splendor of our capital city, farmers pushed harder against their plows, dropped to their knees in starvation. We had not strengthened the economy, we had merely taken and stolen and consumed.
    The man I had once worshipped began to appear a tyrant. The stronger he grew, the greater his appetite for more land, more land. Next he promised us the country directly to the west, promised that God predestined us to take it, because we were kings meant to rule the world. Being a young greedy fool, I agreed.
    Legions of men took up guns alongside me, raised the battle cry, and marched upon the peaceful, mountainous country to the west. When we arrived, we found no roads, no riches, no city, just small, scattered, native villages.  The Tyrant ordered us to take everything. He cared not what small insignificant prizes he won. He wanted nothing more than the world. And of course, we obeyed.
    Along the path to the coast, we destroyed everything. Ate or burned crops, bunked forcibly in farm houses, consumed the wealth and warmth of civilian hearths, and sent stolen money back to the Tyrant so he could live like a king. We ransacked towns, took peasant’s beds when we grew tired, and took advantage of their women. The people never tried to stop us for they feared the guns slung forever over our shoulders. Just as the Tyrant had promised me, I had wealth, power, and anything in the world that could be taken. But with hundreds of miles behind me, I grew weary.
    The Tyrant had sent campaigns into every country on the continent. His strength grew exponentially, and nothing could stop him. I took bullets, and walked on with the metal wedged in my flesh, branded by hell. I took on a limp, grew tough and sinewy. I fought, but I no longer had wealth. I was just another soot-stained soul, eyes hardened against violence. Each battle grew bloodier. I shot without thinking and watched bodies crumple, I massacred entire families while keeping a face as hard as stone. The towns in our wake no longer stood, but slouched and sprawled across beds of rubble, nothing standing but scorched chimneys.
    When we reached the sea, we anticipated victory.  A great cheer rose in our ranks, because we knew the continent belonged to us. But when the cheer echoed away, the world felt just as untamed, and we stood at the edge of an endless sea, and behind us, a labyrinth of crumbled civilizations.
    It quickly became apparent that, although the world belonged to us, we no longer had wealth, and no longer had power. Workaday people camped in the cold, homeless, the economy sat, rotting and stagnant. The Tyrant used up all the resources on the continent during the war. Took everything. Crumbled humanity.
    The end came rapidly then. Our empire, too large to support, imploded upon us. We sucked and sniffed out the last scraps of money from our commoners, but the economy and the conquered nations refused to cooperate. Our force, once so malignant, lost everything when the Tyrant took his last breath through pneumonia-ridden lungs. The man had once been my hero, but when news of his death reached me, I felt nothing but relief.
    The continent no longer belonged to us. I suppose it never had. With my leader dead, I looked back on the past and recognized futility. As a soldier, I had nothing, not even a free will. Only after the war did I realize that I had been a prisoner, not the kind behind bars, but the kind forced to kill. When the Tyrant died, I sat in a crude coastal military camp. Upon learning of the loss of our empire, I stood, grabbed my humble little pack, and simply walked away.
    On the long trek through now hostile country, I passed through one of the towns I had pillaged. The tumbled walls jutted out like teeth, only chimneys remaining erect. The morning light cast silhouettes through smoke from small campfires. Emaciated dogs slunk from one foundation to another, and equally scrawny children crawled from gaping basements to watch me with a level of suspicious wariness beyond their years.
    Around a corner, I caught a glimpse of a woman I recognized. With a pang, I remembered I had taken advantage of her during our raid in a nearby town. I had not forgotten her, because her beauty and resilience had stood out to me. Now she had a fragment of a brown military uniform tied around her head to keep her hair back, and she bent over a rusty metal bowl, rhythmically washing clothes with a baby tied against her back. As I watched her and the son I had forced upon her, I could not remember getting any pleasure from harming her, and wondered why I had done it.
    It occurred to me that the common people were always stronger than the armies that conquered them. The common people woke every day, went about their chores, and never failed to rebuild the empires that leaders trashed. I respected the strength of the nameless woman, for she brought my child safely through the depths of war, carried her burden with dignity, and now stood washing the town’s clothes in the midst of crumbled ruins. For a fleeting moment, I wanted to call out to her, but bit my tongue and decided to leave. Before I could make a move, though, she looked up from her work, and with the greenest, most beautiful eyes I had ever beheld, she leveled her gaze on me. Her face was so hardened and rugged, I blushed in fear and covered my face in shame. Then I, the all-powerful warrior, conquerer of nations, turned and ran away through alleys of my rubble.  In the outskirts of town, children played in and around old military wagons, wearing rusty guns, and hardhats. Our supplies had been reabsorbed by the people, and now would be put to use to rebuild.
    I suppose, if I had been wiser at the start, I would have recognized a pattern: Empires grow heedlessly fast, and stretch their limits to a breaking point. Greed brings the downfall of greed, as all resources get consumed. I know I have no excuse for my actions. I know I will never forgive myself. My only scrap of hope now lies in the people, because I trust them to rebuild this empire, and lay modern foundations where the old ones once stood. As I walk away into the solace of obscurity, I leave the world in their hands.

    Where Nothing Else Is Real

    by Samuel Goldman

    It doesn’t rain when I cry
    Clouds don’t follow me like they do in the movies,
    When I’m down, sad, and cold
    There’s no downtrodden background music
    Biding its time, playing across the pan-screen
    I don’t get to burst instantaneously into song, while the people around me
    Suddenly begin a synchronized dance routine that no one practiced
    There will be no one on my front lawn with a fistful of pebbles
    And a boombox with my favorite song playing quietly
    The night will, in fact, end
    And my parents do care if I run off with someone at 11:00 PM
    Not to return until the early morn’ after crashing on their bed
    Life is not an imitation of the sweet teenage love that
    Hollywood loves to fabricate

    How to combat the drowning reality?
    Threatening to lure me to belief with its
    Hook of fantasy until
    I drown on
    False hope

    I will hold up against the suffocating
    Crush of reality and its
    Lack of things

    I will put on my headphones and
    Drown reality in the sound waves
    While singing along

    True, no one will dance in the street
    And there will be no magic background music
    But I can dance by myself
    And my own music
    Will serve

    I will wear my out-of-style
    Clearance rack
    Mass production
    Jeans and tees
    With pride

    Self doubt will not rule me
    And fear will not blind me

    I will grin proudly while
    Walking the halls
    Ignoring stares and mocking laughter
    Nothing and no one can hinder my
    Hopes and dreams

    It’s just that sometimes
    We all


    by Brianna Sanders

    There they go
    Tickled from their branches
    Breathless with laughter
    They dance on the wind
    Stirring up strong scents
    Appeasing to the eye
    Rich like earth
    Vibrant like pumpkin
    Light as a cardinal’s wings
    They twist and twirl
    Suspended by mirth
    Joy prevents the performance
    From cutting itself short
    But finally
    All too soon
    The performance is done
    The actors lay sleeping
    Their props strewn about
    Still beautiful, now tedious
    The stagehand picks up the pieces


    by Eugenia Wang

    I smoke pens like cigarettes
    Melt the ink and plastic and breathe in the poison
    My lungs are black like they’ve been written on.

    I breathe it out ten times worse,
    The smell of burning rubber staying where I hold the grip
    And black spit drips down my chin and grays my paper
    To stain my hands like cancer.

    This is a quaint thought
    Written in ink because my mouth is black and stuck together.
    I hold a pen between two fingers
    Then between my teeth.
    I never gave it a second thought.

    I smoke pens like cigarettes
    Is what I maintain
    I supply ink veins supply my brain.


    by Erika McLitus

    They say that love is the noblest of human emotions:
    I disagree.
    Nor can I support that giving into it will set you free.
    Love is neither sweet, nor gentle.
    Those who think so have never given love, only received it,
    They have never probed love’s shadowed corners and secret hideaways
    Never visited its perches in the hearts of sadists and in opium dens,
    They fail to realize it lives in the little spots of tarnish on the Grandmother’s silver spoon just as it resides in the shining golden palace.
    And so now only its shining, cracked veneer,
    dainty and insufficient against its vicious opposition.
    Love is a bully with pockets full of silver nickels and copper pennies,
    desperately trying to fill the emptiness.
    Love is a legion of warriors with swords drawn,
    triumphing through sheer brute force, overwhelming our defenses. Love is a mother fighting for her children’s survival with teeth bared.
    It will grow in deserts and push through dirty concrete,
    and will wither even the most resilient blossom
    that dares to sprout up from the same earth.
    It rakes hearts with barbs of steel,
    hefts boulders and tosses them at the windows of our consciousness,
    It stings more than contempt,
    hurts more than ridicule,
    it lies and cheats and steals.
    Love can color the world in brilliant Technicolor hues
    Or pull the curtains, and leave it blacker than the moonless night.
    Love does what love chooses
    Without regard for those left broken and bleeding in its wake.
    Love is not fair.
    It sears like fire and freezes like ice,
    leaving its victims gasping behind.
    Love decides who is jilted and who is embraced,
    who hopes on and who loses faith.
    Its highs touch places no drug-induced delusion can reach,
    and its lows tear rifts in the fabric of outer space.
    Love is impatient,
    love is cruel,
    it envies and it boasts,
    and yet…
    love is everything.

    My World

    by Arwa Awan

    I belong to the world
    of your imagination and my reality

    Where dreams are knitted
    Yet illusion is denied

    Where desires are made
    Yet wishes endlessly die

    Where everything is possible
    Yet nothing is doable

    I belong to the world
    Which flourishes with happiness and hope
    Yet withered by it’s own sadness

    Where the discourse is inevitable
    Yet eclipsed by an unbearable silence

    Which holds extreme significance
    Yet unimaginably trivial

    I belong to the world
    Which shuns your presence
    Yet rests all upon you

    Our Home: A Radio Clock

    by Julia Marsh

    If the world were like a radio clock and God were asleep in his bed, I figure each time we cried out in alarm, “Wake up!” he would pound the snooze button and cry, “Five more minutes!” and roll over tremendously under his blanket of stars and moons, and would in turn knock over his glass of Milky Way which sat on his nightstand, and we then would feel meteoroids and rocks and clutter and debris falling upon our heads, so that we would cry out again, “Wake up!” and the radio clock would blare in God’s ear; obnoxious tunes off the FM station, reports of mayhem down on earth, songs of country artists, commercials for roofing companies and seafood restaurants would sing with the volume turned to ‘high’, but again God would call, “5 more minutes!” and his heavy fist would pound the snooze button, so fearsomely that the entire clock would fall off his nightstand, whirling down through the universe, as if in a tornado, with nebulas and nebulous stars and suns and planets spiraling by, and just before we, the radio clock, passed through an immense black hole, God would reach his muscled arm out from underneath his rocket-ship sheets, and catch us, place us back upon his nightstand, next to his lamp whom we call the Sun, and return to his snoring state, only to reawaken 5 minutes later, by an ever alarmed radio clock.


    by Natalie Hulet-Sandblom

    I know God has a plan
    He has a plan for everything and everyone
    We must not doubt Him
    We must not doubt His plan

    Although I can never stop thinking about her,
    About her lifeless legs dangling from the wheelchair
    I know I must not doubt God’s plan

    But when I see her tears
    It hurts to know his plan may not become clear
    For a very long time

    She is strong and hopeful
    And she knows that she must believe He is watching
    But how can she not have doubt
    When all she wants to do is dance –

    Dance just once,
    Do just one pirouette,
    Leap just once across the dance floor…

    How can a dancer ever fully express her inner-feelings again
    If not through movement?

    She was a dancer
    A beautiful dancer
    An artist of movement
    A beautiful artist of movement

    Now she must hold her head high
    And show that inner-grace
    That every dancer possesses

    She is a fighter
    A beautiful fighter
    And with God by her side
    She will fight to the top
    She will never give up
    Because she is not a quitter
    She is a dancer
    And dancers keep pushing until they have reached perfection

    I, too, am a dancer
    A poet of movement
    And every move I make now
    I think of her
    In every routine I rehearse,
    I see the empty hole where she belongs

    She is a dancer
    A beautiful dancer
    And I know that one way or another
    She will be back on the dance floor with me someday


    by Morgan Brown

    Do I scare you, America?
    Segregation. Agitation. Regulation. Hateful nation!
    You cannot break me.
    My blood runs thick with the tears of my ancestors.
    The tears they wept because you shut down public education instead of simply allowing them into your schools.
    You disgust me.
    You filthy, irresponsible, hypocritical democracy.
    What did I ever do to you?
    Oh, that’s right.
    I took care of your children.
    I tended your fields.
    I spilled my blood for you.
    My blood runs thick with the tears of my ancestors.
    The tears they wept because you made them stand for you when they had just finished a hard day of work and wanted to rest their aching feet.
    How dare you!
    You hateful, ungrateful, disdainful brat!
    Proud to be an American?
    Proud to be an African-American.
    Do you think that you are superior to me?
    Fabrication. Abomination. Discrimination. Damn nation!
    My skin is beautiful.
    My blood is free.
    My blood runs thick with the tears of my ancestors.
    The tears they wept because of you, America.
    Land of the free and the home of the brave.

    To the poet who fears the pen

    by Holden Jide

    To the impressionable imbecile who thinks one can “be a poet and not even know it:”
    I hold you in the deepest disdain.
    To claim poetic knowledge at a whim,
    Without knowledge of rhyme or refrain,
    Is like spitting against the wind,
    And trying to avoid the returning rain.
    The source of the vengeful tempest is the breath
    Of the painfully belittled, bellowing poet
    Who feels the sting of your utterance, that dagger of death
    Which sinks into his heart as it mocks, “And I Didn’t Even Know It!”
    Alas, I fear that each moment this murderous motto is muttered again.
    O you arrogant, titular whore!
    Learn a lesson from they who fear the poetic instrument-
    They, who at first scribble, dread the critic’s drumming upon their door-
    They, who are plagued by the pen’s inky hiss,
    And instead of making a serpent and a paper kiss, watch it slither to the floor.
    Recognize that ‘poet’ is not a title simply self-proclaimed one day,
    But is a dangerous, double-edged sword, a worrisome word
    That turns Man into God, hands Him his clay,
    And subjects His creations to the interpreting herd,
    That endless sea of readers and re-writers which flows forevermore.

    To the poet who fears the pen:
    Believe me, I have felt your helpless rage,
    But ‘poet’ is a practice – that which must be earned!
    Throw your inhibitions aside and put that perilous pen to page!
    And as you collect dust, perched in a café seat, longing to learn
    The steps of the poetic dance, you must get out of your head!
    Wade through the thick sludge of your ideas
    And solidify them with pen, before they wither dead!
    I assure you, as a ‘poet,’ I—

    Have I been talking to myself again?


    by Erika McLitus

    When you’re young they tell you to reach for the stars.  They make it sound like if you stand on your tiptoes you can brush the fabric of night with your fingertips, as if those cruel points of light were no more elusive than the box of sweets on the highest shelf.  They scream at you, “Reach!” while smirking from the sidelines with dead eyes.  Even as those around you turn to ash…still reaching…still reaching…even as others grasp their stars and ignite, still they push you higher…higher.  I touched a star once, for a moment.  They screamed in exultation below, but the light blinded me; the heat scorched my skin.  So I let it slip through my fingers, and the crowd let me fall.  They turned their backs and cursed my name.  Now I wish that I had never reached at all.

    Winding Solitude

    by Morgan Brown

    Swathed in a mantle of darkness
    Drenched by the steady pulse of His tears
    My lonely mind wanders
    Writing and erasing and drawing and erasing and nothing
    Is accomplished
    The disquiet of my soul erupts
    Whispering and screaming and crying and screaming and nothing
    Is heard
    His tears mingle with my own in startling disparity
    I surrender to the authority that is not mine
    And float down the river of sorrow
    Intricate and overwhelming
    Convoluted and devastating
    I am not alone
    My tears are the river and the river is His tears
    Hours elapse
    Days pass by
    Months slip away
    Years are left behind
    Ending and beginning and commencing and terminating
    Sorrow weeps inconsistency
    Our precious minds unite to grapple sorrow into submission
    Acceding to resiliency and altering our perspective
    Is imperative
    Writing and dreaming and drawing and believing
    My mind is no longer lonely


    by Jorden Thomas

    Memories spent reminiscing
    about the past when things
    were different are floating
    away now. Reality has struck
    the heart of every individual
    and silence strikes back
    with a force never before seen.
    Lives have been affected by
    the mistakes of youthfulness
    and the dreams of the wise.
    Yes, our community has
    been affected. Yes, we find
    ourselves experiencing an
    uncomfortable sense of calm,
    our breaths deepening and
    our eyes filled with tears. Do
    I know them well? No. Am I
    liked by them? I don’t know.
    But they are classmates…
    They are people with whom,
    for the last four years, I have
    gone through the epic
    journey of high school. The
    times are rough for those
    who sat in classrooms with
    them.  The times are even
    more difficult for those close
    to them.  And for family
    members, the pain is
    unimaginable! Tragedies of
    this degree always strike in
    unexpected ways and at
    unforeseen times.  This
    tragedy just happened to
    occur on a rain-slicked
    highway in the darkness of a
    Sunday morning.  Now, our
    mourning must travel a road
    that will end in triumph over
    an event that is already life
    changing.  To my fellow
    students: I give you my
    undying respect. To my
    community: I give you my
    We are Breakers…We are
    family…We are strong.
    We are unbreakable!

    The Palm Tree

    by David Chung

    there the palm tree
    stands laxly
    near the shining baby blue
    shore with its thin
    evergreen plumes
    life-giving shade
    to the
    marooned mariner

    Fallen Soldier

    by Morgan Brown

    The authority of a vase of flowers
    Central in their standing
    Tulips, heather, statice
    Embellished with a wide, violet ribbon
    Their container gleams as the sun reflects
    Its crimson heart about the room
    One fallen soldier droops over the rim
    As the rest look on with calculated indifference


    by Erika McLitus

    Tossing pebbles into the river
    Watching them sink below
    Barely able to contain the shiver
    That rattles and shakes my soul

    Dropping pebbles into the wishing well
    Like stars peering through the gloom
    Feeling my heart expand and swell
    The sensation leaving far too soon

    Grasping, holding onto a tenuous thread
    Fraying by the minute
    Embracing the words my loved ones said
    Once upon a forever ago


    by Brianna Sanders

    Beauty is a creature
    Vile, hungry, insidious,
    Leading lives astray by its rapture,
    Listless, unyielding, drooling;
    In her wake lay hanging jaws.
    Beauty is a siren,
    Spouting temptation from her maw,
    Wasted corpses are all you’ll find,
    Of young maidens with beauty in mind,
    For a skeleton is beautiful,
    And in the name of that beauty,
    These things are more than plentiful,
    For she is nothing but a plague,
    Tempting weaker orbs to linger and feast,
    Upon the presence of this monster.
    But do not give in,
    For beauty is a beast!

    The Virus

    by Richard Foreman

    I, the virus?
    What a preposterous designation!
    And what allegations!
    Accusing me of raping
    Pillaging, killing, vandalizing
    And the rest of the nonsense.
    And though your words ring true
    And though your accusations
    Do have substance
    Though I do these things,
    Are you at all different?
    Where do you receive your food?
    Where do you find your drink?
    How do you make your bricks
    To build your houses?
    From whom do you rip away metal
    To build your lives?
    Whose bones must be broken
    For you to taste the marrow?
    I am not malignant
    For the most part!
    Sure, my residence may cause leaks
    And yes, my cousins may on occasion
    Burn you to the ground
    I look at you and see one difference
    You have a brain
    And thus the lunacy
    To declare innocence!

    The Poetry of Seasons

    by Morgan Brown

    I gaze out of the window in the front parlor
    Encrusted water spots dare to distract me from
    the extrinsic beauty

    Lush lime tendrils of loveliness line the walkway
    Surrounded by blossoms of bliss
    Lonely leaves dance across the lawn
    Begging for a partner to prance with
    Drowsy trees hang low
    Leering at the leaves that never subside
    An inquiring monarch makes her rounds

    Mother Earth is thriving today
    Her native tongue saturates the animated air,
    Inhaling the innocence of her offspring

    Sultry summer comes into view,
    Dragging anxious autumn by the roots
    Gloomy winter deliberately drags his feet,
    Reluctant to raze such radiance

    Oceanic Tales

    by Amber Cochran

    The ocean is a storyteller
    Her waves are the words
    You could gaze at it,
    And she will methodically tell you,
    In her own way,
    What you need to know.
    The calming sounds of her waters
    Crashing on the shore,
    Like the sound of the whole world
    In, and out.
    In, and out.
    In, and out.
    Yes, the ocean is a storyteller
    And you are the listener.


    by Brianna Sanders

    His deductions are strong,
    Courage even stronger.
    He has no place in modern society,
    Yet no mystery,
    Or force of defense, for that matter,
    Is ever complete without him,
    Be it his smarts,
    Or his wits,
    Or his tweed hat,
    The man is a man of reason.
    This man is not a detective,
    And yet despite his medical mind,
    He is also not a doctor,
    Though he is someone to rely on for repairs of any kind,
    Be it flesh, or mind, or heart.
    He will be there,
    But his presence will remain a shadow,
    For he is not the star of this play.
    He is the line-giver for the lead.
    He is simply the helper,
    Yet his worth knows no bounds,
    For unintentional help,
    A muttered comment or a guess
    Leads the lead to his greatest conclusion,
    His greatest adventure,
    His greatest deduction.
    And how could anything ever be accomplished without him?
    He who reads your innermost thoughts,
    He who heals all your wounds,
    He who will always support you,
    The lead, the Sherlock,
    For everyone needs his Watson.
    And that my friends
    Is elementary.


    by Erika McLitus

    I can sense those secret feelings
    Frantic and frenzied
    Fluttering to the surface
    Like a bird
    With wings pressed against the bars of a gilded cage
    In beautiful desperation

    So I swallow them,
    Quick and hard.

    They burn my throat
    With the faint taste of sorrow,
    Like almonds.
    I wrap my arms tight around my chest
    To keep them safe inside
    And smother them silent

    So you don’t hear.

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