Winds blow harshly
me back home,
somewhere I don't
want to be.
I'd like to be far away
in a sullen darkness,
in a pit where I won't
For I am possessed by
this lonely energy that
needs to be restored
through an oblivion of
sudden saddness like an
angel undulating in
perfection that can't be
touched by human hands.
No,this energy must be
alone... alone in a way
I can't understand.
Eventually, all of your swords will fail you.
Eventually, all of your swords will fail you.
Eventually, all your defenses will fall.
Longer the days,
stronger the nights.
Stronger the nights,
weaker the days.
Weaker the days,
shorter the days.
Here we are,
Dreaming again, remembering
opening new wounds from old ones.
Look at us;
as we rebirth,
we are bleeding already,
The sun was so red today it was black
The sun was a clot on
No one else saw it.
No one else drank the coffee.
Eventually, everything will fail you.
Eventually, everything will burn out.
The stronger it burns
the quicker it burns.
new wounds from birth
Bowling Green, Ohio
|About the author of Bleeding Again: I'm a negative creep, I like bad punk and punk so good it sounds bad. I don't like the dogs but the dogs like me.
Melting irises dripped lucidly through unwilling tearducts;
flushed cheeks laden with smoldering hazel,
tears became too poor for my awaiting lips,
so very smothered in salty pain
And you said never turn back around
when saying goodbye
but oh, how I turned around
around again (on that frozen December afternoon)
God, smoothness caressed you as you walked,
swaying back and forth so gallantly,
steps connected to my gasping breath that
froze in spider webs before me,
You became too pure and innocent
for me to find an
I stand here in the rain
water dripping from my hair
you're staring at the circles
that are firmly standing under my eyes
I see you shiver slightly
Yet when I ask, you say you aren't cold
Your eyes are like dark blue windows
staring deep into my soul
You were the only one who understood
And listened to what I was saying
If it weren't for you, I wouldn't be here
You were my only inspiration
My jacket provides no comfort
for it is covered in wet rain and tears
It doesn't make sense to me
that the one who knows the most
has to be the victim of young death
I will have nothing when you leave
But I learn, that you've taught me
Everything about life and death
To cherish every moment I may encounter
For it soon will be gone forever
I love you
|About the author of Young Death: I'm a 13-year-old girl from Madison, Wisconsin, and I love to write, and have been writing short stories since I was six years old. I have had many poetry publications and a poetry award in books and calenders, and hope to go farther with my writing. Other than writing, I enjoy hanging out with my friends, rollerblading, watching movies, and sometimes being alone in my room when I need to be.
Painting the Truth
(Modeled after "Ringing the Bells" by Anne Sexton)
And this is the way I paint
True self on canvas
And this is I
Who spends each day painting
To search for myself
And because every single second motivates
Me so much
And because the warm sun appears during the day,
Like an angel building a road to my unknown future,
I am an individual with painted shoes
Who paints next to the noisy road
And grin at the smiling sun
Who sends me divine inspirations,
Who shines upon my immature paintings
That holds me together, blue;
And this is the dirty old uniform next to
Who grumbles as if it was special
To be painted, to be painted
And this is the beautiful
In the holy place in front of me
Whose wings ready to spread across
Whose fragile light body floating in
And this is how an artist really
As honest and personal
As reflection in the mirror,
And this is always my painting
To me that responds to my pounding
Who tells me, blue;
And although I am no better at
They tell you to paint. So I do.
About the author of Painting the Truth.
Hanna is a Japanese senior student who studies at the American school of Lima, Peru. Moving to Canada and Peru, she has learned to speak English and Spanish. She plans to study Art and Creative Writing in Japan, States or Canada.
Things That He Should Know
Today my heart is aching,
Hiding things I could not say;
Things I wanted him to know
But my tears got in the way.
He gave me comfort in his arms,
My light was in his eyes.
His touch was soft and gentle,
His heart could tell no lies.
I hope he knows that I'm still here
To listen if he calls,
To cheer him in his glory,
To lean on if he falls.
The only one to really know me
Outside as well as in,
I hope we're still connected
Even if we're only friends.
Location: Calgary, Alberta, Canada
|About the author of Things That He Should Know. I think that poetry is a great way to relieve stress or hurt or any emotion anyone is feeling. I hope my poem was liked.
As this growing dark puddle of burgundy slowly surrounds and engulfs my body, I think of my life.
I have never made a difference in anyone's life.
I have never even really tried.
They have never tried either.
They just stand behind their big glass windows and stare at me like I'm some kind of doll.
Some kind of display.
Some kind of creature sent to make them and only them happy.
Sent to be their servent.
I suddenly fall to my knees and start to praise them knowing deep in my heart that it is all lies.
I can't seem to stop.
They peer into my soul and brush me away as if to mock me.
I catch a glimpse of a little boy crouching in the corner of the street.
He stares at my innocence and proclaims that he has seen an angel.
An angel of light.
I then fall and am caught.
I then feel serenity and love.
I am in peace at last.
WHEN FLOWERS BLOOM...
She wanted more out of life
But she simply couldn’t find it
The dreams she set her sights on
Steadily unwind it
This thing she called a life
What she held so dear
Became what she despised
Personified her greatest fear
For what she used to calm her nerves
Became her own worst enemy
She became afraid of everything
Terrified of what she couldn’t see
The blade of insecurity
Cuts deep, and wounds the heart
It ruins friendships, breaks bonds
Ends marriages and rips lives apart
She’s been chipped along the way
The pieces get bigger every time
The ridicule she endured was brutally harsh
Much worse than any crime
Her expectations and criticisms of herself
The biggest burden that she wore
She pushed herself to the brink
‘Till she couldn’t bare it anymore
She cried herself to sleep that night
The night she tried to break away
She shed the tears not for pain or sorrow
But from the realization that they wanted her to stay
The brightness of so many loves
Replaced the darkness in which she felt so alone
The music of her heart played so loudly now
And her light so brightly shone
The transformation was so far beyond beautiful
It was the thing of dreams
She found out what she thought was missing
Wasn’t always what it seemed
The frowns have turned to smiles
And she is alive once more
What was before a life of unhappiness
Is more full than ever before
The blooming of a flower
Opens up the child’s eyes
The blissfulness in which she grows
Takes the place of all the tears she cries
About The Author:
I am 16, male, and enjoy writing whenever I get the chance. I play football and love music and friends. Hope you enjoy it!
this was about simple health
death covered in flowers and spice
with what beautiful people call 'the weight of the world'
he asked me
"do you want to catch my disease?"
so I took that as a request for my leave
I said no
I wanted to be sick
my vision blurred to water lilies-
I inhaled deeply
as he starched the air around me-
but I got no more kisses today
than I got yesterday
I knew this was simple health.
If he died,
it would be the fault of everyone who'd ever touched him-
lent him gifts given to me.
If he loved me, he'd cherish them.
I knew if he didn't that he'd give them back.
My vision blurred to gravel roads-
I waved as the cars sped past.
It was simple health, really,
to walk towards screaming traffic
I ran when the headlights came
and stepped to the curb, at least,
to find that the mimosas felt
tasted better when I left them alone.
the gifts i gave
sent thank you notes in return.
my teeth were self-cleaning.
it was a perfect world at night when I was on foot.
This was about simple health
not the contrived things that I do
or the contrived things I say-
the way you could say love
and it still would sound like 'beautiful' or 'sorta'.
My vision blurred to cones and rods
the green separated into the sky and trees
the trees separating into leaves and squirrels.
either soon or 17 hours from now
there would be a midnight to walk with.
there would be a boy under tight covers
and a girl to mimic the echoes of the night.
singing though her throat hurt.
walking with bruised feet towards sickness.
It was simple health
to just stay home.
About The Author:
I am a star breather! A biographer of lost thoughts.. A death seeker! I am a poet!
"We are the music makers, and we are the dreamers of dreams." I would like to affectionately say that I like to write, and this is something that I wrote.
I am a silent butterfly
with my dainty little wings
so easily broken.
In a world so filled with hate and crime,
I go overlooked by all of you,
and I stay in my own cocoon
|About the author of Silent Butterfly: I haven't been writing poetry for a long time at all, and this is the first time I've ever submitted any of my poems to anything like this, so I hope you enjoy!
I retire for the day,but the day never ends, the night never comes.
My tear-stained weary eyes won't rest,
They refuse to permit my peace.
I alone know of the sins,
Of my lonely crooked mind,
that yearns for love so tender,
To love and to be loved,
existing in someone elses thoughts.
I pretend to myself that my
fellow people portray a sense of
friendship and warmth towards me.
I bathe in the feeling of being wanted.
But Alas, when I break down
and reveal my weaker spirit,
my so-called friends have fled.
Leaving me cold and alone.
Then I cannot deny the truth,
I meet with it and weep at
the cruel fact.
Only I can see the heartless acts
>committed by my lost soul.
I beat the most unimaginable thoughts
and yet put on a mask of pure innocence.
Free me from my guilt
For I know I will go insane
With being so alone and crooked.
|About the author of Lost Soul. I put my feelings on paper because I can't express my feeling any other way.
I see you standing their with your outstretched arms
for me to run to them.
But you have to understand you see,
that this has happened before to me. And if I remember correctly, all you
did was stand their while I
with no one to confide in except my pen and paper.
So now it's you instead of them, and I won't let you make my heart
to a million pieces.
So I will be strong, and I will not let you break my heart will not let you
tear my soul. But the only way to do this is to
away from you to the closest and farthest strong arms that are identical
and opposite to yours. And this man actually gets me to
because he offers me the one thing everyone except myself can give to me.
And he makes me
which is something I haven't done in so long.
But everyone knows that dancing naked and drunk under the fool moon can get
the virgin in
So here I am once again, climbing through your window. Where you will letme sit and sob like I used to do such a long time ago when all we had to worry about was each other.
And in an instant it hits me that I'm not brave at all, that I'm
Because we are from two different worlds, and no matter how well we know each other you can't remove the mystery from an unread book. So you have the ability to
and I would never ever know if you loved me or not, or if every time you wiped away my tears you put a hole in my heart.
But when you leave your friends for hours and hours just so you can spend a minute with me
I want to laugh even though their is no wine. And I want to
At the lopsided grin that only I've seen.
And then you get me drunk all over again, not with the wine but with the fizzing and sparkling champagne in your eyes.
|Virgin Champagne is a poem that was written with one of my best friends in mind, as well as another friend of mine who I've frequently "danced under the full moon" with in a manner of speaking. I'm 14 years old, and I usually prefer to write short stories. I am currently working on one now called Living Ophelia. My writing usually comes from my day to day life, with embelishments. :-)
Entrapment surrounds me, enlighting the flame
Pushing me into a world of hatred, and unforgiveness.
Pain aching my soul, my body is filled with sorrow, each drop weighing me
Invited to a world unknown, I am lost in the darkness, not knowing how to
Unwanted cries fall through the ridges of
my flaming heart. A need for love.
The human race look on in silence
Entruigued by innocent beauty
The need to be heard
The need to feel alive
Drowning sorrows washed out in my lonely, troubled world.
Waiting to be found , pain twists through my body and soul, I reach for
I long to see the light once more
In my last breaths I write
Sydney, NSW, Australia
About the author of Kristel
Kristel is a 16yr old living in Sydney, Australia who enjoys to communicate with others through her pieces of writing. Kristel enjoys to write a lot about her thoughts and will hope to achieve publication.
Littered like vertebrae on the floor,
the wet, soiled floor,
the floor to live on.
Redundant, ugly preachings
Stabbing Westward and
The window closed and broken,
depraved and gutted,
familiar as the wound.
Bowling Green, Ohio
|About the author of Untold Lyric: My name is Lita (clap clap, clap), I don't like spinach (clap clap, clap), I am a Spartan (clap clap, clap) so check me out.
I fear, I am scared, I am afraid
I fear I will, someday,
fall into a big, endless, black hole.
As big as the waves fishermen fear
everytime they have to go to work.
As endless as the ocean, when I
ook at it sitting on the dock of a bay.
As black as when I close my eyes
and forget I have to open them again.
I am scared of the past, the present and the future. what I did, am doing,
and will do.
There is no book that can teach me
what is right or wrong, or simply
which path to follow.
I will only move my feet and
make sure all the steps I give
are given firmly.
And change fear into curiosity.
I am afraid of loneliness. Of
talking to myself and finding no answer.
No words and too much silence.
Like a day without the beloved ones,
like a life without being loved.
I fear, I am scared, I am afraid
of a silent ocean and a painful breeze.
Like A Song
And waking up
To see the same face
To hear . . . ?
Like a song
I only scream when I'm
I scream when no one will hear me
Like a rose in the sand
Bloom so sweet
Waver so easy
Wilt so quick
Time waits not for beauty
Bloom so quick
Wilt so quick, beauty
Await the day
Awaken the stars
Hear the silence of lights
The stars are fire
Inside the forever-night
Burn so quickly
A black-hole never
Burnt out and repeated
Awake, they are gone
I only scream when I'm down
I only sing . . . ?
I only scream for
I only scream when he won't hear me
and then I scream like a song
Bowling Green, Ohio
|About the author of Like A Song: Carmen likes taunting smallish dogs, playing with snowglobes and egg timers, writing pathetic teen poetry, and doing funky midget dances. She can be reached at the Psychic Friends Network from 3-7, Mon-Thur. Calls are free for the first 3 minutes, $.25 per minute afterwards.
The end is coming
The beginning is here
Starring at the stars
The world crashing a-round me
Why can't it be...
Like starring at the stars
Just you and me
With each day
We found our strength
With each day
We found our love
When the days have come and gone
With strength and love, we press on to tomorrow's dawn
The end is coming
The beginning is here
Times have changed
The world around begins to tumble down
Love will catch the ashes
Times are like they were once before
All to touching...
you and me
With each day
We found our strength
With each day
We found our love
When the days have come and gone
With strength and love, we press on to tomorrow's dawn
|About the author: My name is Jim I'm 18 years old. I've been writing for a little while now and I thought it was time to share my work and get feedback.
My first encounter with death came at the age of nine. After months of turmoil over his stolen car, my grandfather Lev was struck by a second heart attack that proved to be fatal. To this day, I remember the quite knock on our door that seemed to echo loudly throughout the house. On the porch stood our next door neighbor whose tragic expression spoke for itself as she softly whispered the news. My grandfather was dead, the same grandfather who played house with me the day before and whose laughter had the ability to cheer me up in a moment of sadness. The same grandfather who was a role model and a friend all at the same time and never failed to stop by with a bag of my favorite candy bars. The idea of such an occurrence was almost impossible to comprehend, as I stood in the doorway dumbfounded, unable to express any trace of emotion. I tried to pretend that I was simply dreaming and that in a few minutes I would wake up and everything would be back to normal, but the reality of the funeral preparations that followed disregarded my hopes. The instances I spent in a room where my grandfather laid motionless in his coffin were enough to shatter any thoughts of miracles that would bring him back to life. And yet, his face lacked any trace of death and his tranquil expression made it look as if dying was the best thing that ever happened to him. Well, it was far from the best thing that ever happened to me, for I spent the next seventy two hours alternating between sleepless and often tearful nights, to days filled with terror of going into the living room and seeing my grandfather’s body. I tried to mask my emotions for the sake of my relatives, who had enough to deal with, but at the funeral service, hours of suppressed sobs turned into an uncontrollable river of tears. I cried for the life of my grandfather that he lost so early, for the things that we would never get to do together and for the loss of the kindest man who had acted as a father to me ever since I could remember. As many attempts as I made to control myself, that many attempts failed and I was ushered into the adjoining bedroom by a distant relative whose name I struggled to remember. I was nearly forced to remain in the dimly lit room where countless coats formed a giant heap on the queen size bed, as if crying was not an appropriate way to express one’s sorrow. I stood next to a door leading to the balcony, reaching out with my eyes to the depressingly gray sky and imagining my grandfather floating behind the gloomy clouds. Suddenly, a light tapping on my right shoulder interrupted my process of thought. Caught by surprise, I sharply turned around, only to bump into a middle-aged man. He appeared to be in his fifties, of average height, with pitch-black curly hair and skin that appeared to be a result of many days spent in the sun. Thinking he was just another one of those neighbors who came strictly for the food, I took a step to the left and proceeded to storm past him. However, the man turned out to be persistent in following me out into the hall and asking me for a minute of my time, as if I was a CEO of a major company with an appointment book full of names of people who wanted to see me. I was too upset to argue, so I stood there listening as he babbled about theoretical families, lost addresses, prior arrangements, forbidden visits and on and on, all the while looking as terrified as a teenage boy asking for a date. At the end, all that I got out of the conversation was that he was my father’s father, or my paternal grandfather who was forbidden to see me for six years. Six years … too long a time for a grandfather to be forbidden to see his own granddaughter, I thought as I began to apprehend the information this man, named Alexander dropped on me. And I wanted to enjoy the idea of getting another chance to spend time with a grandfather, but my happiness was overshadowed by the thought that somehow Alexander was meant to be a replacement for the grandfather who still laid quiescent in the next room. Nevertheless, I felt a tingle of excitement for the first time in over a week when my new grandfather went on to tell me that I was to spend every weekend with him and my paternal grandmother, whom I still had to meet. He was true to his promise, for every Friday after school he picked me up and as the bus slowly dragged itself down the street, we led conversations on topics ranging from politics to the new toys inside the ever-popular chocolate eggs. We spent every available minute trying to make-up for six years apart and tried to fill in every single detail into our life stories. I soon found out that his black, almost blue curly hair and dark skin were traces of his Greek heritage and from then on, whenever I looked in the mirror, I saw pieces of him in myself. I got used to his intelligent perspective on every little thing around us, his over analyzing and even his frequent moments of grouchiness. I came to know his habits, such as his explosive behavior whenever he had a toothache and his tradition of watching every soccer game without exception. And every time I sat down next to my grandfather to watch some guys in uniform kick around a ball, he embarked on endless journeys into the memory lane and offered fascinating stories about the times when he too was a soccer player for the national league of Georgia. His stories were just a few of his many strong points, for he told each and every one with an immense pride in everything he had accomplished. In fact, he was proud of everyone around him and I felt stronger and more self-accepting when I was with my grandfather. When was down, he picked me up and gave me courage to go on with whatever task I had in mind. And he was always there to help me with problematic homework assignments, which came mostly from my math notebook. Ever since fourth grade, I struggled with intricate equations and sets of numbers that might as well have been written in a secret code. I can still remember my math teacher telling the class that math was like a brick structure, and if one brick fell out or crumbled - the whole structure stood a chance of collapsing. Beginning then, I watched brick after brick crumble and fall out of the structure of my knowledge in math. My grandfather was always there to pick up the bricks and place them back into the structure. No matter how long it took; he patiently sat at the large table in the sunroom and aided me in solving numerous equations, despite my tears of protest. He never let me give up on something without realizing that I was fully capable of excelling at it. And although I could write pages about his wonderful qualities, in short, he taught me to challenge myself beyond all expectations and to never seize to discover new things about the world and the people around me. My grandfather and I were faced with another separation when I turned twelve. My family was moving to United States and the odds that I was not going to see my grandfather in the next five years were very high. At the time, it seemed incredibly unjust that we were forced to part after less than three years of knowing each other. There were still so many stories to tell, so many things to learn and countless math problems to solve. But even as I parted with the man who became such an important part of my life, I could have never imagined that I was saying my last goodbye and that I would never see him again. For the first few months of my new life in United States, I called my grandfather almost every week. The calls were expensive, but I dialed the number time and time again to the weak protests of my mom. Although I missed him terribly, it felt good to have someone to share my experience in a new country with. While listening to his intellectual interpretations of the way things were done in America, I felt as if nothing had changed and that tomorrow I would still be sitting on a dingy bus with my grandfather. And yet, everything was different, for I could no longer visit my grandparents whenever I wanted to or give them a call just to say hello. Even the weekly conversations that gave me so much comfort seemed to cease after a while. I no longer got the chance to dissect every single aspect of my existence with my grandfather, for every call was picked up by my grandmother who constantly made excuses not to call her husband to the phone. I pondered my grandmother’s exclusions of him out of the phone calls and never came up with anything that made sense. Was he no longer interested in what was going on in my life? Was he really sleeping every time I called? The answer came unexpectedly and stunned me to the core of my being. My grandfather had a brain tumor. And although brain tumors were usually possible to remove, his has spread conquering almost every inch of his brain and there was nothing anyone could do. All that was left was to make him feel loved during the time he had left to live. My grandfather suffered through constant seizures, during which he forgot another piece of his former life and lost any realization of the surroundings. He was not able to eat or process any sort of information and his life flickered as a candle about to burn out. I can only imagine how hard it was for my grandmother to watch the man she loved lose sense of reality and turn into a mere shade of a human being. And in a way, it was a relief when he lost the struggle and left us on February 25, 1998, for it was much harder to watch and hear about him suffering than knowing that he was finally free of all pain. I got the news of his death while I was at a friend’s birthday party and for a while I stood still, holding the phone and unable to believe my mother’s words. The fact that he kept uttering my name before he died did not help ease the pain, for I felt guilty for not calling more often or spending more time with him while I still had the chance. But, I did not cry and I never even told my friends who were at the party. I pushed it to the back of my mind and tried to forget as I went on with my daily routine. It was only three months later that I let myself go and allowed myself to cry. I was in Israel, on top of the mountain Masada at the former military base. The military base that once served as Israel’s biggest weapon against their enemies now laid in ruins with no sign of its past grandeur. As I chanted the words of a Jewish prayer of mourning alongside my classmates, I could not help but remember my grandfather. His presence seemed to fill the air and bounce of the surface of the still waters of the sea, piercing them like rays of sunshine. I could feel him everywhere, surrounding me and making me remember our times together. And I finally let myself cry, for I knew at that m
|About the author of Letting Go: I am a sophomore at a private school in Cleveland, Ohio. I enjoy writing non-fiction and news articles, shopping. reading Shakespeare, going to the movies, etc.
A Christmas Angel
High above me, she sits, looking down and watching over us all. Brown hair and green eyes, a small smile plays at her rosy lips with cynicism and mystery. Her eyes dart back and forth across the living room, at all the Christmas decor and festive presents. The small smile turns, fades, disappears.
This used to be her favorite time of year.
It's simple coincidence that this beautiful angel that sits atop my Christmas tree looks like my best friend. I mean, we've had her (the angel) for how many years? I can't really believe just how close the faces actually look. But, alas, I have to deal with it. I have to accept that she's really gone.
This is my first Christmas without Megan. I used to have all my shopping done by December 10; Megan always made me. This year, however, I've only bought 2 presents: Both for her family. I guess I'm a glutton for punishment. Or maybe I just miss her.
The snow won't be the same this year without her, neither will New Years 2000. We'd been planning that since 7th grade...Renting a hotel room, cramming all of our closest friends into it and (hopefully) our current boyfriends and partying our way into the new millennium. Together we had a lot of dreams.
My other friends are having the same, hard time, you know--accepting that this time of year when everything means double in emotions, one of our closest friends is...gone. Disappeared, never to be found. I wake up every morning and go to school, wondering if maybe I drove by Roosevelt after 2:20 she'd be waiting there for the bus like she always used to.
Sadly, I know she won't be.
There's a big Christmas party this weekend, made possible by a few friends from my new high school. Saturday is also the 10 month anniversary of Megan's death; her sudden death.
I pause, look again at the beautiful angel smiling again atop my tree. As I finish placing a few of the final ornaments on the tree I grab a chair sitting near me and stand on it to get a closer look at the gorgeous little porcelain creature.
She's dressed in a white, satin-like material. Her hair is not real, but a coarse brown material and her eyes are clear and green but with a weird glazed look to them. The face is two shades too pale and the expression upon her lips is one Megan would never have worn. I shake my head and put her back on her evergreen pedestal. She looks nothing like my best friend.
Megan is gone, my own Christmas Angel she has become, watching over me from the stars and making sure I don't do anything stupid. I love her and always will and instead of December being a month of grief, it will be hours of joy because I will celebrate this holiday season for 2 people: Myself, and Megan; the real Angel sitting on top of a tree that no one can really see and shining brightly as we remember her.
|About the author of "A Christmas Angel"...Happy Holidays! I'm a 16 year old sophomore from Seattle who's living this joyous season by singing every song at the top of my lungs and baking 20 dozen cookies too many. :) Christmas is both a sad and happy time and I urge everyone to find their own "Christams Angel" and hold on to them for as long as they can.
Chemistry of Love
“Man, chemistry is booooring,” he murmured, an opinion he already expressed through his body language. He sat sprawled over his desktop, his arms and shoulders looking like their bones had dissolved, leaving them limp and formless. Krys had long ago lost interest in the teacher’s banal lecture, focusing all of his energy into being a bored high school student. He was looking off at nothing and imagining how his date with Chrystl, the girl 3 rows in front of him, would proceed. This truly was daydreaming; he was no closer to getting a date with her than winning the Nobel Prize for chemistry. His focus then rested on the set of pipettes on his desk, each one labeled with the name of the chemical it contained. Why do we do these stupid experiments? We’re just mixing all the same chemicals that last period did, last year’s class did, and the class our teacher took in high school did. We’re never going to find out anything new or spectacular. I’d just as soon take the teacher’s word that this reaction will happen, just like it has since the beginning of time, and move on, he thought.
From his prostrated position he could see the door, its image blocked by the spired silhouette of his pipettes. He sighed, knowing that it would be only after much activity with those stupid pipettes that he could leave through that door. Suddenly he was aware of distinct activity in the classroom; notebooks were being put away, goggles put on, and lab sheets being passed out. After his sheet had been passed to the back of the row, he began to scan through the procedures prescribed. He sighed again and began to set up his lab. He created a chart and began to record each reaction he observed next to its equation. He worked quickly, finding each reaction happening exactly as he expected it to. After finishing his data collection, he looked at the clock, only to find that he still had 15 minutes of class left. Having no motivation to work on his lab write-up, he reverted back to apathy and boredom. He began to idly mix chemicals, with no rhyme or reason to his mixtures. He observed the occasional effervescence and colorful precipitate, and had gotten about all the enjoyment out of it that he was going to, when he noticed something very unusual. The pool of chemicals he had mixed on his labtop seemed to be alive, suddenly writhing and moving, seeming to boil and glow. The puddle, whose diameter exceeded four inches, gleamed and shimmered with azure, crimson, and lavender light, one moment translucent and the next opaque. He was transfixed by the thing, for it certainly was a thing- alive with light and motion. It gave off a bluish gas, which began to diffuse into the room. By now other students had noticed, and a general confusion and excitement had enveloped the room. Some students were afraid of this unknown thing, moving away from Krys’ desk. In the aisles they were met by rushing students who flocked towards the spectacle like excited children to a shiny new toy. Shortly the pungently sweet odor of this unknown gas permeated the room, creating a translucent cloud that would ever so often sparkle, l The students’ minds began to interact with the vapors, creating vast hallucinations, each one individual to that person’s thoughts and desires. It was a beautiful and numbing sensation, each person travelling farther and farther from each other in their own mind. Krys saw valleys and rivers, all three dimensions melting into one. He came to the top of a mountain, where a beautiful person’s figure was outlined by the sun, looking much like the pipette on his desk that had obscured his view of the door. The pipette began to form into a human shape, slender shoulders curving down from auburn hair to athletic thighs and nimble feet. Chrystl took his hand and looked at him with piercing green eyes, flecked with amber. Krys looked down, and saw they were standing on the edge of a cliff, whose canyon below was clouded by fog and foliage. He looked back over his shoulder, only to see his chemistry class, school, and his previously boring life. Simultaneously their eyes met, and she said, “Let’s jump.” He nodded in accordance and looked down at their destination. The whistling wind began to get stronger. “One.” The wind began shrieking, and thunder boomed overhead. “Two.” Their hands tightened on one another, and they tensed to jump. But before the count of three came, a tremendous flash of light and noise filled their senses. The lightening strike was the last thing Krys remembered as his world of wonder dissolved into light. He found himself awake on the floor of his 4th hour chemistry class, his head in a great deal of pain. “He’s going to be fine, but we should call an ambulance anyway,” said the nurse as she checked the boy’s pulse.
“I can’t believe he’d pull a stunt like that,” Krys heard Mr. Kisner say across the room. “To go into the back room and get out these very, very dangerous chemicals, and then to combine them at his desk, risking the lives of everyone in the room- I can’t believe it! He’s just lucky the explosion wasn’t any worse than it was. If he had used more of each chemical, it could have blown up the entire 2nd floor!” After receiving the news that Krys would be okay, the shaken teacher addressed him directly. “ You are in serious, serious trouble young man. And don’t try to deny it. I have twenty witnesses that saw you do it. You can just pack up your things and go home. You won’t be back in this school for a long time, if ever!” He was now screaming, spittle flying from his old mouth and tears running down his flushed cheeks.
Krys, still unsure of what had really happened, decided the best course of action was to get the heck out. He emerged from the classroom, and Kory, who sat to Krys’ right, angrily yelled something at him from down the hall. Krys couldn’t take much more, and ran for the south exit, towards the parking lot. The sun was lucidly bright, giving his situation an increased sense of doom and confusion. He squinted as he walked up to his car and unlocked the door. His window was down about an inch, in a hopeless effort to keep the car cooler while it was parked, and it had allowed a fine layer of dust to cover the inside of the front seat. He frowned and opened the door, bending down to wipe off the seat. What he didn’t expect to find on his seat was a piece of paper that had been shoved through the small opening. He gasped at what he held in his hand: half of a lab sheet, with the inscription ‘…3’ written largely. Underneath it was a phone number.
Fort Collins, CO
About the author of Chemistry of Love:
Grant C. is a senior in Colorado who loves to ski, play basketball, read, and write. He will be attending Dartmouth College in the fall of 2000.
Splinters On The Floor
All I feel is the overwhelming sense of nothingness, all I see is darkness. I am not trapped, I am not dreaming, I am suspended in time without motion almost floating in the air. I wish that I were dreaming so that I might find some sense in this insanity. My eyes are widened, I scream for some thought for some recognition that I am even breathing that I am even alive in this pit of eternal darknes. There in the distance I can see a flicker of a single flame and the taste of smoke fills my mouth with disgust. In an instant, flames combust before my eyes it should hurt but I'm still numb. Smoke surrounds me and the feeling of safety from the insanity of the silence is lost for a moment as it turns to the feeling of insanity for what is before me. My mother, the one true person in my life. My loving mother lying on the groung begging for the life that is all but lost already. She kneels there and prays aimlessly as the flames engulf her and the hands that used to hold me tight, are blackened. The love in her eyes are replaced by fear and the only hope left to her is that I will go on. She dies before me and all of my hope is lost. Then I awaken to the all to familiar silence of my own room and the smell of a breakfast cooked hours ago. I run downstairs eager to recieve her into my arms and all I find is a note on the counter. The note says:
sorry I didn't wake you but the office called and I have to go burn
today so I'll be late tonight. Don't wait up for me.