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Within the Woods, Ch 1My footsteps echoed through the cobblestone hall and bounced off the stone walls as I made my way down to the third level of the villages old prison. The torches lining the walls gave the place an unwelcoming glow as the flames tongues licked at the stones.
"Hey Bruce" I said to the lump in the corner of the cell. I put down the tray and slid it into the small opening. There was movement in the corner as Bruce shifted and reached towards the tray with a grime covered hand.
"Thank you dear" Bruce replied in his thick, raspy voice. I remember my first year as caretaker, when Bruce's voice had scared me. Now, aged twice as fast in his cell, I only felt sad for the guy.
"I'll see if I can get you a wash cloth." I said, standing up from my crouched position. I knew Bruce wouldn't say more as he nibbled on a piece of stale bread. My footsteps echoed back up the stairway and down again as I returned with a small pale of water and cloth.
"Thank you dear" Bruce replied again as he so
Bloodlines.Amber eyes stared back at me through the mirror as I pulled my hair - an angry red mass- back into a high ponytail. Wisps of wavy hair tickled the back of my neck and I sighed heavily. Today is the first day back to school, but for me it's my first day at Charleston High.
Fact: I'm the new kid, again.
I'm in grade ten and have been to eleven different schools. Sometimes I get to stay for a couple years, sometimes a semester or even a week.
Fact: My mom and I move around a lot.
Tammy, also known as the woman who gave birth to me yells from the bottom landing of the stairs, telling me she doesn't want me to be late on the first day of school. Every clock in the house is set five minutes fast so that the household consisting of my mom, my younger sister, and myself are somehow early for things. Yet we all know its fast, so all we do is subtract five minutes constantly. The only people it tricks are house guests that don't come often.
I know this may just be totally surprising t
Gone AwayFirst, is the little things. Yes, the cheesy little saying throughout every cheesy tail. The little things in life that manage to be beautiful. That cause you to take a moment and think about. Things such as the way the sun hits the trees before sunset, basking the edge of each leaf. The look of rocks under water when the summer sun hits the glassy surface, and when you look closer you can see smudges of colours. The sweet smell that wafts through the house when mom bakes cookies. The warm, cozy feeling that spreads through your veins as you drink hot chocolate on the coldest of days. The refreshing, awakening glass of ice tea on a boiling summers afternoon. The laugh of a child. The call of a bird. The wind through your hair. The crunch of autumn leaves. The feeling of home when your wrapped up in your favourite blanket. The taste of chocolate. The chomp of the first bite of an apple.
There are all sorts of little things that make me regret my recent decision.
ABOVE: Chapter fifteen"We'll head back to the camp and check out how things are." Damon says, explaining the simple plan.
"What if there's still raiders." Mia argues, leaning against the wall groggily.
"The raids usually only last a night." Damon says with a yawn.
I stand leaning against the door, not wanting to make an effort to get back to my spot only to have to leave the tree house.
Patrick scratches his head in thought. "But that wasn't a normal raid."
This catches me attention and the words slip from my lips. "It wasn't?"
There heads nearly turn to me in unison, acknowledging my existence for once in this conversation. "Uh, no. They usually just come in, steal stuff, record stuff, and shoot a couple people. Maybe set something on fire within a half hour." Damon says with a shrug despite the anger laced through his words.
"But this lasted longer, and was different." Mia says.
"Different?" I echo.
"Different." They all nod in agreement.
"Longer." Patrick says.
"More shots." Damon says.
"And they did one
Break AwayHeart beat
pound pound pounding,
rythem like a drum.
flow flow flowing,
smooth as a stream.
beat beat beating,
quick against this cage.
But the key won't
click click click,
because it just doesnt
Body keeps on
thrash thrash thrashing,
against these metal bars.
Lungs keep on
breathe breathe breathing,
this poision laced air.
And the girl continues
scream scream screaming,
but no savior comes.
I don't want to die,
but I don't want to exist either.
ABOVE: Chapter FourteenBoth Tyson and I jump, the gun shots exploding through the night. A distant scream comes down the road and through the walls. I stand up, pain throbbing in my legs as I do so, Tyson stands to, grabbing my hand with his warm one.
"Tyson?" I whisper, wanting to hear his reassuring voice.
"We have to hide. Climb under your bed!" He demands, blowing out the candle on the bedside table.
I drop to the floor and begin scrambling under the bed. Tyson does the same, groaning as he fits into the small space. We stay quiet, apart from my breathing that feels loud in the silent room. Gun shots, screams, and running feet surround us before the door creaks open.
I stop breathing. Heavy footsteps move across the floor, uneven footsteps made of a group of three people. Light glides over the bed tops and I can see Tyson's unmade bed.
I look at him to find him looking at me. He's hardly visible from under the bed, but I can see him begin to mouth the words as one of the invaders speaks, "check it."
ABOVE: Chapter ThirteenNight settles in slowly, the light and heat drawing away secretly as we hang out in the old abandoned barn after the tour. Mia throws a knife, an airy sound slicing through our silence as we watch it lodge itself in the center of the target. She laughs as Patrick's knife plants itself somewhere in the middle of his target, but still an inch or so away from the goal.
Damon steps up, his coppery hair falling in front of his grey eyes. His arm comes back skillfully before he hurdles the knife towards his matching target, a large circle with a number of red and white painted rings on it. The paint's peeling off a bit in some parts, the wood revealing many battle scars. He hits it dead center like Mia and is rewarded with shouts and howls from the other refugees watching.
"That's what, five to four?" Damon says, winking at Mia.
Patrick tosses his knife in the air and catches it, repeating the process as he speaks. "Hey, I'm still in the game with an entire score of two, guys." He puts on a
Shut.Up.Shall I scream,
Or shall I shout?
Heart hammering to its own beat.
Blood boiling, enriched with angry heat.
You don't know me,
I don't know you.
Now stop spitting words like you do.
Thoughts pounding against my skull.
This argument has become utterly dull.
Accuse me of arrogance,
Do what you please.
I'm not what you label,
I'm not an enemy.
Let it go,
You narrow minded idiot.
ABOVE: Chapter Twelve"Get up." An irritated voice says. My entire upper body gets suddenly cold and I shiver, hugging my arms around my chest. "Ugh. I don't know why I signed up for welcoming committee. Oh, right, Patty signed me up. Yet I have to do all the work." Mia mumbles as she pulls the remainder of the sheets wrapped around my legs off and drops the comforter to the floor. "Up. Now."
I groan and sit up, immediately noticing Tyson's absence. "Where's Ty?" I ask. It's odd saying his nickname, but that seems to be what he's telling people to call him around here. My mind draws back to the day he told me his name yet I knew the real version. Then my mind flips forward to yesterday and our kiss, his words echoing in my mind. 'I thought I lost you.'
"Making out with some chick in the forest, rather scandalous." she says with a sinister smile.
"Ha, ha. He wouldn't do that." Even as I say it, the picture of him and some other girl dances around my head and yanks at my heart. "Where is he?" I've pulled my k
lost my voice.I wrote "I love you"
in the sand at the beach.
The tide swallowed the words
and drowned them
before I could speak.
On WritingWrite for today
And like it’s all
That’ll be left of you
Never write for popularity.
Write with clarity, but
‘Don’t make everything said’.
Write a million things;
An ode to the voice
Inside your head,
An elegy for the living,
A carpe diem for the dead.
Write to tell
To just keep
They’ll find a way out.
Don’t write for approval,
That way misery lies.
Poetry can’t be judged,
Not properly –
Write for yourself;
Doesn’t matter if it’s
Good enough for
You’ll never be Shakespeare.
But he’d never
Have been you;
Pour your heart into it,
That’s the best
That you can do.
HauntedI see her there with
Coal dust carved
Into the icy skin
Under her eyes,
And on her lips
Dance a chorus
Of bitter lies.
A skeletal hand of smoke
Claws at my neck
Until I bleed;
She tells me that the pain
Is just what I need.
And her blood
Zooms in her veins
Like speeding cars.
She looks at me
At what I am.
She’s a snake,
In the guise
Of a lamb.
‘What happened to us?’
Of what I used to be.
‘I may be you,
But you are not me.’
The sun comes up:
Yesterday is gone
But see it this way;
The past is part of the future
But the future isn’t the past.
You choose which bits go,
You choose which bits last.
How to love a poet: Expect them to be flawed,
a field of wild flowered-
& an inability
Love them anyway.
Know that when they look at you
they are noticing the little things.
Loving A Guy Who Cannot Love Himself.Firstly, tell him that he doesn't necessarily need to be the “strongest” man in the world,
that if he cries, you won't look down on him for it,
that you won't call him weak.
Tell him that he doesn't have to like sports, or fishing, or football, or any of the “mainstream” things that boys are “supposed” to like.
Let him know that liking art, or dancing, or singing or acting doesn't make him gay, doesn’t make him any less of a man, it just makes him who he is.
A human being.
And for goodness sakes, tell him that blue does not have to be his favorite color, than he can indulge in pink, or purple or even magenta!
And to the girl who take on the task, remember please, that it is not always the Knight who saves the Princess.
No, this time, the Princess may need to save the Knight.
Do not pour your problems onto him, rather, balance each other out.
Be a shoulder to cry on. A friend to be there. A love that never leaves.
Perhaps more than often,
I Fell In love Inside of a DreamI fell in love,
inside of a dream.
And woke up,
with a broken heart.
But it wasn't my heart,
that was broken.
It was his,
and I'll never see him again.
That long haired, pale skin,
blue eyed boy, will forever remain,
a figment of my imagination.
So close, yet so far away.
And I will never be able to apologize,
for my mistake.
unrealistic ideologies of an
are toxic; breathing
is a chore. there is a
in the combined effort
of necessity’s unlovliest
we are the forgotten.
we are the tangled limbs
and childhood stories for
a more sensitive future; we
are the longing, we are
we are measured
in the people we touch;
and I will love you
in the UV light of
hide and seek paranoia.
I love you in the red shimmer
of harbored dreams, I love you
in the in
ShatteredIf I found you, on your knees,
trying desperately to collect the shattered pieces of your heart-
I would kneel beside you and help you pick them up.
I would not cast a blind eye,
and pretend I had not seen you.
If I saw that your hands had been cut,
by the very shards of hope you were trying so hard to gather-
I would take your hands in mine, and hold them until the pain subsided.
Then I would kiss every wound- no matter how big or how small,
until I was sure you would be able to use your hands again.
If you were crying from the fear that you'd never be able to pick up everything,
I would hold you until your tears stopped, and I would comfort you with gentle words.
But I would not lie to you- I would never lie.
The heart is a frail thing- once shattered, it can never be fully repaired.
Parts will remain missing, and the mended hope will always bear cracks.
If we found that we'd gathered all that we were able,
and that there were a fine powder remaining of what we could not collect.
On Breaking Apart Your Dreams For a GuyTwelve months ago, we swapped rumors about
the hottest bad boys; counted the number of freckles Tanya,
the Queen Bee of Beverly High, didn't cover with her polka-dot skirt;
and discovered our favorite song on a blog we both wished
we owned. "What do you think we'll be doing this time next year?"
I asked over peanut butter cookies from a bag
and a commercial break between late night movies.
You giggled, pondering, and said, "Hanging out in our dorm room.
You'll be snuggled up to the flavor of the month--
a basketball player, no doubt, or a starving artist--
and I'll be green with jealousy, like always."
When Dirty Dancing came back on, we rocked along,
shag carpet burning streaks across bare feet.
This morning, listening to my roommate sing with the radio--
some country ballad you'd never approve of--
I remember your laugh and the dark, curling fingers of hair
at the nape of yo
MuteKept away from the dreams,
a wondering shell just looking for true meaning.
How does one know,
whats up and whats down,
when they've lost their solid ground?
How does one try,
when they cant find reason?
How does one speak,
through the strangling silence?
bruised and torn.
salty tears welling.
no words seem to be coming.
I'll keep my silence,
thats apparently what I do.
I'll stay silent,
I'll save you.
how do I speak,
when nobody cares to listen?
How do I explain,
what I dont even seem to know?
I'm not falling,
I'm way past that.
I've smashed to the earth,
sudden shock in the truth of reality.
My excapes all lead to the same place;
trapped in a corner with the shadows looming over me.
so much screaming.
Screaming utter silence.
Her CatalystAs she walks through the maelstrom, the words trace upon the tips of her fingers and press into the stone. Every brick, every crack in the concrete, every crossed and angular stroke in reds and blacks and oranges. The drips of the gasoline pool around the base of her boots, slosh as she steps over the burst pipes and the rubble.
So much rubble. So little outcry. The silence of the city grates on her eardrums and the mantras she'd been forced to memorize. The Seers demanded they observe thirteen years of recitation before they attempt to weave their first World together.
But who other than the Seers can claim the incantations that knot the skeins they twist and pull on like reins hold fast? When have any of the Sisters recorded the visions they traced upon space-time and recited them, left them open for critique and discussion and debate?
Which is why she walks through the chalky soot of the smashed city around her. This all
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