He was there with his cold stare and unreadable face. His hands gracefully slithered down the small of my back. Whether the embrace was passionate or oppressive, it left my body feeling numb and my head sore.
How do I tell this man I don't want him anymore?As my head falls neatly into his shoulder the thudding heartbeat seems all to familiar. With every word whispered into my ear, my body shakes and he pulls me closer. His eyes become more and more menacingly transparent as he kisses my hand.
Our heartbeats no longer matched as he took me to a new place. Every touch and every look seem to burn with the coldness of his eyes. This is not the man I once knew. With one last shudder I was released from his grip. As his hand slithered down my arm to the fingertip.
There was something else he desired. He went to the table to get us drinks. Through his lips I could hear him say something, but I couldn't understand it. My head was screaming with fear and the want to escape. He put the cup to my lips and I felt the icy chill go down my back. Everything seemed different now. Suddenly everything went black...............
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Wide Open, Anthony Herrera
Five years ago, Rebecca Simon got wind of the worstnews she'd ever gotten in her eleven years of life.While walking the short distance from home to herschool, Becca's father had been the result of drunkdriving. Taking a head-on collision of eighty milesper hour from an SUV, Derek Simon never stood a chanceof survival.Falling into a deep state of grief and anger, KathySimon, Rebecca's mother, blames her daughter for herHusband's death. Unable to cope with the feelings,sheworks several jobs,and neglects Rebecca so much thateven she feels it's her fault her father was killed...
Wide Open
A monologue for a female
My door is wide open. Mother’s standing there in the doorway with the same unfathomable look she wore when we found out what happened to Dad. Why he never came home that night. I sit, gripped to the spot, knife in hand. Big red drops are dripping down my arm. Drip. Drip. Drip. My eyes are locked with hers, except now I realllllly wanna giggle, and currently, that’s a bad idea. I stifle my childish urge, my eyes flicking toward the pink in her hair. Mom never wears pink! Really! I flinch – Mom’s moving, just not towards me. She’s spun around, snatching the door handle along the way. I let my stained knife clatter to the ground, wincing along with my shaking room. I look up, just in time, watching my shelves shake one more time. And with the same bewildered expression when Mom stormed in, I watch it crash to the ground. My door was wide open.
Wide Open
A monologue for a female
My door is wide open. Mother’s standing there in the doorway with the same unfathomable look she wore when we found out what happened to Dad. Why he never came home that night. I sit, gripped to the spot, knife in hand. Big red drops are dripping down my arm. Drip. Drip. Drip. My eyes are locked with hers, except now I realllllly wanna giggle, and currently, that’s a bad idea. I stifle my childish urge, my eyes flicking toward the pink in her hair. Mom never wears pink! Really! I flinch – Mom’s moving, just not towards me. She’s spun around, snatching the door handle along the way. I let my stained knife clatter to the ground, wincing along with my shaking room. I look up, just in time, watching my shelves shake one more time. And with the same bewildered expression when Mom stormed in, I watch it crash to the ground. My door was wide open.
Saturday, December 16, 2006
Stars of a Neighbor; Industrial Giant, Ginny Georgekutty
Stars of a Neighbor
See the stars in the sky
Their glow absent-minded
Of those below
Their eyes look down
With a boastful grin
On top of the world
Yet only one part of the universe
Their presence no greater
Than the rest of ours’
For those stars
Up in that sky
Are being just like us
Trying to survive
Past their ups and downs
With ups that soar above the clouds
And downs that crash onto the earth
In the end
We are all the same
Lives in this world
Just trying to reach our true potential
Industrial Giant
Peace once
Succumbed to its roads
The sand that trailed
Beneath my feet
Peace once
Breathed against my hair
Through the nearest
Spring breeze
Peace once
Stormed across the grass
Bringing forth
Chicken in mid-fright
Peace once
Lived within this place
Recognized as my home
More than anywhere else
Yet where did it all go?
Where is this place
Now hidden beneath
Industrialization
‘Americanism’
That simply corrupted
This place I loved
And turned
To an
Industrial giant
See the stars in the sky
Their glow absent-minded
Of those below
Their eyes look down
With a boastful grin
On top of the world
Yet only one part of the universe
Their presence no greater
Than the rest of ours’
For those stars
Up in that sky
Are being just like us
Trying to survive
Past their ups and downs
With ups that soar above the clouds
And downs that crash onto the earth
In the end
We are all the same
Lives in this world
Just trying to reach our true potential
Industrial Giant
Peace once
Succumbed to its roads
The sand that trailed
Beneath my feet
Peace once
Breathed against my hair
Through the nearest
Spring breeze
Peace once
Stormed across the grass
Bringing forth
Chicken in mid-fright
Peace once
Lived within this place
Recognized as my home
More than anywhere else
Yet where did it all go?
Where is this place
Now hidden beneath
Industrialization
‘Americanism’
That simply corrupted
This place I loved
And turned
To an
Industrial giant
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Surprise, Anonomyous Contributor
It was a warm, bright sunny day. The cool crisp wind blew against my hair, frizzing upon its' touch. I slowly treaded upto the entrance, the doorway into the school that I, like many others, dreaded entering. It was the same as any other day. Open bag. Remove ID. Close. Swip. Return to nearest location (usually my pocket). Walk up steps. 2nd floor. Locker. Bend down. Turn. 5.12.15. Push down. Remove lock. Place unnecessary baggage. Return lock. Push up. Push down and turn to lock. Stand. Walk up steps--again. 5th floor. Breath. Class. Walk in. Sit down. Take out book. Attempt to listen and 'participate.' Yet, today--lucky me--there was a substitute. So, now instead of attempt to listen and 'participate' for an hour-- its' attempt to 'entertain' myself and survive this dull, boring classroom for an hour. The attendence sheet was placed on my desk. Yet, the substitute lingered there. So, I signed my name quickly and handed it over. And there, on her face was this smile-- the same joyful yet mischevious smile that plays across my mother's lips whenever she is onto something. That's the thing that surprises me most.
Monday, December 11, 2006
Get On The Left Lane, Chris Chattergoon
“Get on the left lane...On the left lane!!! Hurry Hurry. Mash the brakes!” cried my mother as I swerved left and right, dodging traffic as I raced alongside the road at 20mph. Twenty. Miles. Per. Hour. And there my mother was, shrieking in a state of panic as I sat there, discombobulated and terrified all at the same time. It seemed as though, everyone and everything was against me. The wind knocked about my car, horns honked all around me, and the morning glare blinded me as my foot mashed on the brakes, bringing my car to a full stop and sending us flying toward the windshield. And there it was. A flashback. Thirty minutes earlier.
I felt the bursts of adrenaline rushing through my veins. I could feel the ecstatic chills that I embraced. Pumped and ready to take this old Toyota on the road, with all the world watching me, I felt like the center of attention. Today was the day. The one day where I was exonerated from these confined cages that had withdrew me from the freedom of driving. I hopped in the front seat of the car, and that’s when everything suddenly disappeared. And there I was, my mother and I, along with the infinite earth that I had yet to discover. The ignition turned on. For some reason, I do not know how. The feeling in my hands went Num, for I was to apprehensive about this totally new experience.
The car gave out a huge surge of energy and power that had exploded throughout this fine piece of craftsmanship, as the car roar for speed, for life. It was ready, but was I. I sat there, head straight forward, as I waited for something to happen. Today was the day when I claimed my superlative being. Another rush of adrenaline, and then another. One after another, each one more and more intense, and suddenly, it happened. I slammed on the gas, accelerating down the once populated street, as I faced yet another obstacle, the nearby panic of my mom as it over-empowered me. Can you just think way back to when you first got you driving experience? The thrilled and arousing sense of feeling that you got when you fingers first touched the wheel. That feeling brought me back more than ten years ago when I was just a child driving behind of the wheel of my own red truck. The little two by two vehicle with plastic flames extending up towards the windshield as I zoomed past my parents going no faster than the footsteps of their pace.
Once again, we fast forward time to the actual setting. There are no fake flames, no one mile an hour speed limits. It seemed as if the whole world was sitting, watching me, against me. The wind blew my sense of direction off corse. The long veins of the trees stretched as it screeched against the windshield. The tires burned all its rubber from the acceleration of the car. And then it came. It started off as early spring morning. The plants and trees sprung up, as if waiting for years for an opportunity like this. There was no more wind. Instead, a light breeze floated across the air, gently twitching you nose and it passed on by. But this wasn’t the morning paradise I was waiting for. The sense left as quickly as it came. I watched as it chased away the clouds, and it felt as if the whole world just held its breathe for a split second. The blinding sun poked it small, but powerful glare at me, forcing me to end my road spree, and come to a near stop. At that same instinct, the leaves rained like confetti on a New Year’s night. The once so gentle breeze turned into a coalesce of dirt, sand, and pebbles. And, then, as I turned my head up, the sun had disappeared. It was like an act, an illusion. You may think you see what’s going on, but further away something more important is always happening. Suddenly, torrential dropped like bombs in mid-air, huge bursts of water exploded as it tore at the roof if the car. The wind knocked about the car like wild gun fire.
My formidable feeling was now turned into a state of melancholy depression. The journey, the long lost quest I had yet to discover was overturned by a larger obstacle with greater experience and power than mine. And, with my back hunched over, I opened the door slowly, and exchanged places with a person that had much more experience. My time of greatness had ended. Now on the right side of the vehicle, the co-caption side, the passenger side, I took one last look up into the sky, and the rained slowed down, nothing but a little drizzle here and there. It was over, but its damage was done. My trial was over as a driver. Seats exchanged, errands already delivered, there was nothing left to do but go home. It seemed like the option left, or was it...
I felt the bursts of adrenaline rushing through my veins. I could feel the ecstatic chills that I embraced. Pumped and ready to take this old Toyota on the road, with all the world watching me, I felt like the center of attention. Today was the day. The one day where I was exonerated from these confined cages that had withdrew me from the freedom of driving. I hopped in the front seat of the car, and that’s when everything suddenly disappeared. And there I was, my mother and I, along with the infinite earth that I had yet to discover. The ignition turned on. For some reason, I do not know how. The feeling in my hands went Num, for I was to apprehensive about this totally new experience.
The car gave out a huge surge of energy and power that had exploded throughout this fine piece of craftsmanship, as the car roar for speed, for life. It was ready, but was I. I sat there, head straight forward, as I waited for something to happen. Today was the day when I claimed my superlative being. Another rush of adrenaline, and then another. One after another, each one more and more intense, and suddenly, it happened. I slammed on the gas, accelerating down the once populated street, as I faced yet another obstacle, the nearby panic of my mom as it over-empowered me. Can you just think way back to when you first got you driving experience? The thrilled and arousing sense of feeling that you got when you fingers first touched the wheel. That feeling brought me back more than ten years ago when I was just a child driving behind of the wheel of my own red truck. The little two by two vehicle with plastic flames extending up towards the windshield as I zoomed past my parents going no faster than the footsteps of their pace.
Once again, we fast forward time to the actual setting. There are no fake flames, no one mile an hour speed limits. It seemed as if the whole world was sitting, watching me, against me. The wind blew my sense of direction off corse. The long veins of the trees stretched as it screeched against the windshield. The tires burned all its rubber from the acceleration of the car. And then it came. It started off as early spring morning. The plants and trees sprung up, as if waiting for years for an opportunity like this. There was no more wind. Instead, a light breeze floated across the air, gently twitching you nose and it passed on by. But this wasn’t the morning paradise I was waiting for. The sense left as quickly as it came. I watched as it chased away the clouds, and it felt as if the whole world just held its breathe for a split second. The blinding sun poked it small, but powerful glare at me, forcing me to end my road spree, and come to a near stop. At that same instinct, the leaves rained like confetti on a New Year’s night. The once so gentle breeze turned into a coalesce of dirt, sand, and pebbles. And, then, as I turned my head up, the sun had disappeared. It was like an act, an illusion. You may think you see what’s going on, but further away something more important is always happening. Suddenly, torrential dropped like bombs in mid-air, huge bursts of water exploded as it tore at the roof if the car. The wind knocked about the car like wild gun fire.
My formidable feeling was now turned into a state of melancholy depression. The journey, the long lost quest I had yet to discover was overturned by a larger obstacle with greater experience and power than mine. And, with my back hunched over, I opened the door slowly, and exchanged places with a person that had much more experience. My time of greatness had ended. Now on the right side of the vehicle, the co-caption side, the passenger side, I took one last look up into the sky, and the rained slowed down, nothing but a little drizzle here and there. It was over, but its damage was done. My trial was over as a driver. Seats exchanged, errands already delivered, there was nothing left to do but go home. It seemed like the option left, or was it...
Saturday, December 09, 2006
Him, Tom Pascal
Different
He breathes it
Sleeps it
Bleeds it
Cries it
The smiles fade
The whip of reality comes down hard on his bare back
It burns
Sears
Leaves telling marks on his heartstrings
They too scream "different"
For no one but he
Can feel as he does
He does not love "right"
Does not think, feel, believe…"right"
That crack in the window
The paint chipping off the softened, fragmented wood
Is wider than ever
The breeze now more vicious
Makes his tender skin tense with agony
His mind enraptured in sugar-coated dreams
Trying to mask
To dry the tears
And yet
They seem to engulf his spirit
He doesn't deserve this
Can't know why
The agony
The sweat builds on his forehead
Boiling
He cannot satisfy his soul
For if he'd been given just one chance
He would make everything
Perfect
But these wounds can never heal
Because to everyone else, they're anything but real
And he knows
What people don't see, they don't believe in
Well, its no surprise he's so talented when it comes to being
Invisible
He breathes it
Sleeps it
Bleeds it
Cries it
The smiles fade
The whip of reality comes down hard on his bare back
It burns
Sears
Leaves telling marks on his heartstrings
They too scream "different"
For no one but he
Can feel as he does
He does not love "right"
Does not think, feel, believe…"right"
That crack in the window
The paint chipping off the softened, fragmented wood
Is wider than ever
The breeze now more vicious
Makes his tender skin tense with agony
His mind enraptured in sugar-coated dreams
Trying to mask
To dry the tears
And yet
They seem to engulf his spirit
He doesn't deserve this
Can't know why
The agony
The sweat builds on his forehead
Boiling
He cannot satisfy his soul
For if he'd been given just one chance
He would make everything
Perfect
But these wounds can never heal
Because to everyone else, they're anything but real
And he knows
What people don't see, they don't believe in
Well, its no surprise he's so talented when it comes to being
Invisible
Saturday, December 02, 2006
Mask Poem, Jonathan Mendoza
Who am I now?
Just a mere shadow
floating on the
breeze?
This false fortress
I’ve created,
so fragile,
the walls are closing in
The world sees a lie,
a suit, armor
created to protect himself,
little does he know it is
slowly making his shattered heart bleed
Each laugh thick with sorrow,
caught in an epic struggle
to suppress
the tears that burn
as they trickle slowly
d
o
w
n
telling the story of his
torn soul,
scarred from internal battles
that are forever raging
behind these walls
He tries to fill the abyss
with false happiness,
but relief never comes…
The fortress really his own grave…
How he yearns to break free from the
shackles that bind him…
Each link a deception
crafted from his
wicked lies
A silent cry is uttered,
forced out by the pressure, the burden building
up,
pulsing in his blood
surging through his veins,
throwing him into a sad darkness
waiting for the day when
light
will break
through and
Salvation
will come…
Just a mere shadow
floating on the
breeze?
This false fortress
I’ve created,
so fragile,
the walls are closing in
The world sees a lie,
a suit, armor
created to protect himself,
little does he know it is
slowly making his shattered heart bleed
Each laugh thick with sorrow,
caught in an epic struggle
to suppress
the tears that burn
as they trickle slowly
d
o
w
n
telling the story of his
torn soul,
scarred from internal battles
that are forever raging
behind these walls
He tries to fill the abyss
with false happiness,
but relief never comes…
The fortress really his own grave…
How he yearns to break free from the
shackles that bind him…
Each link a deception
crafted from his
wicked lies
A silent cry is uttered,
forced out by the pressure, the burden building
up,
pulsing in his blood
surging through his veins,
throwing him into a sad darkness
waiting for the day when
light
will break
through and
Salvation
will come…
Friday, December 01, 2006
Parenthood, Kaitlyn Pyne
Rant on the Concept of Parenthood
(After an argument with my mother)
The whole concept of parenthood infuriates me. What's the point of giving life to a human being who grows to hate you? You are a kid for eighteen years. You go to college and fall in debt for four years, eight if you are really ambitious. Then you have maybe another four or five years before your Great Aunt Sally starts reminding you that your biological clock is ticking. You do not want to be known in your family as the spinster who did not procreate, so now all of a sudden you are in a rush to start a family. You marry the first person you share an apartment with because you are "comfortable," have 2.5 kids, who rack up insane amounts of therapy bills when mommy and daddy do not love each other anymore and get a divorce. You have a mid-life crisis and marry the mysterious artist from your past after your kids move out. You and your new husband jump on a plan to Cabo and party like teenagers, before finally buying that beach house you have always wanted, where you spend the rest of the short life you have left. What is the point? Where is the "you" time? Studying your ass off in college? Chauffeuring your kids to soccer practice? Crying over you failed marriage? Or when you are old enough to apply for an AARP card? You go from being a teenager to an adult to a mother in about seventeen years, which is around the same amount of time you spent trying to get rid of your parents. Why would you want to be one yourself? Giving birth may be one of the most beautiful miracles that ever happens to a woman, but is it worth sagging parts of your body that you didn't even know sagged at thirty, losing your keen fashion sense, having a husband who cheats with the nanny, or a van you swore to yourself at fifteen you would never buy that you do not even have enough kids to fill? Sure kids are great and our main purpose on Earth is to continue the human race, but are they worth the freedom you have fought so hard to have? Eventually I will become one of those mothers I loath in matching sweater sets and badly dyed hair, arranging play dates, but that will not be for a very long time. For now I am content with my individualist lifestyle, until one day in the very far future I surrender my protest against conformity and marry a man I love and have kids whom I will always love, although they might not always love me.
(After an argument with my mother)
The whole concept of parenthood infuriates me. What's the point of giving life to a human being who grows to hate you? You are a kid for eighteen years. You go to college and fall in debt for four years, eight if you are really ambitious. Then you have maybe another four or five years before your Great Aunt Sally starts reminding you that your biological clock is ticking. You do not want to be known in your family as the spinster who did not procreate, so now all of a sudden you are in a rush to start a family. You marry the first person you share an apartment with because you are "comfortable," have 2.5 kids, who rack up insane amounts of therapy bills when mommy and daddy do not love each other anymore and get a divorce. You have a mid-life crisis and marry the mysterious artist from your past after your kids move out. You and your new husband jump on a plan to Cabo and party like teenagers, before finally buying that beach house you have always wanted, where you spend the rest of the short life you have left. What is the point? Where is the "you" time? Studying your ass off in college? Chauffeuring your kids to soccer practice? Crying over you failed marriage? Or when you are old enough to apply for an AARP card? You go from being a teenager to an adult to a mother in about seventeen years, which is around the same amount of time you spent trying to get rid of your parents. Why would you want to be one yourself? Giving birth may be one of the most beautiful miracles that ever happens to a woman, but is it worth sagging parts of your body that you didn't even know sagged at thirty, losing your keen fashion sense, having a husband who cheats with the nanny, or a van you swore to yourself at fifteen you would never buy that you do not even have enough kids to fill? Sure kids are great and our main purpose on Earth is to continue the human race, but are they worth the freedom you have fought so hard to have? Eventually I will become one of those mothers I loath in matching sweater sets and badly dyed hair, arranging play dates, but that will not be for a very long time. For now I am content with my individualist lifestyle, until one day in the very far future I surrender my protest against conformity and marry a man I love and have kids whom I will always love, although they might not always love me.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
He Is My Problem, Shanicca Conyers
He is who I love
He is who I can never let go
He is my love/enemy
He is what I want
He is who I crave
He is what eats me up inside
He is why I act the way I do
He is who did this to me
He is who I hate
He is who they hate
He is why life will never be the same
He is what I want but can't have
He is who I hide
He is my problem
He is who I can never let go
He is my love/enemy
He is what I want
He is who I crave
He is what eats me up inside
He is why I act the way I do
He is who did this to me
He is who I hate
He is who they hate
He is why life will never be the same
He is what I want but can't have
He is who I hide
He is my problem
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Approaching Perfection - by: Ashley Hughey
I’m going to a track meet today. It’s in Syracuse, NY so we we’re going to drive in the night before the track meet and spend the night in a hotel. Its wonderful, fun, everything you can’t imagine a long car ride to be. I thought we were approaching perfection. Unfortunately, I thought wrong. But as fun as it was we didn’t make it to Syracuse, we made it to Kings Point. The car flipped over four times and we had no idea what was going on. My friends were fast asleep in the back and I was in the front just observing the night ride. We weren’t wearing seat belts. We were all ejected form the van that night. My friend died. I was shocked, here perfection was so close and someone just came and snatched it from us. After filing out police reports and spending the night in a hospital, I began to wonder where perfection decided to go. After her funeral, everything started falling back in place. Life was good again. It wasn’t the best/perfect because I had lost my friend and perfection. But it was good. One day as I reflected on my friend and her crazy ways, I thought about why perfection didn’t want her around. Then it came to me, she was perfection. As I cried because of sadness and joy, I felt her surrounding me; I finally realized I was approaching perfection again. She was back!
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Future Phone Calls, Ashley Alongi
"That's how we're going to die. I'm going to push the button and our kids will think we're crazy. We are crazy."
A typical phone conversation between the amazing duo of Ashley and Shanyce. We like to plan our futures. We usually start out with death for some unknown reason. Then we move on to kids, weddings, going backwards until we reach the present.
It's a fact that parents that didn't have sibling have a hard time raising more than one kid, I say. I point the facts and statistics in these schemes. But you have to have three she points out. Natasha, Dimitri and Anastasia. Three names she knows I love and knows I want to name my children. Even though the name Dimitri will surely result in therapy. I'm Ukrainian, not Russian and Russia is a ripoff of Ukraine. Well, you're having three ,she says. And it doesn't matter if you can't control them because I will. Just tell them Aunty Shanyce is coming and they'll behave. That's a threat I know isn't short lived. I hear her yelling at her sister to do chores and sometimes it scares me.
I hope she can come over and take care of my kids if I have any. I can't cook, can't clean, and don't see the point in ironing. Apparently those are thing I need to know before I have kids. At least that's what Shanyce says. Maybe I'll have a husband with siblings. Shanyce says it's a sure thing. I believe her because Shanyce is my best friend and you're supposed to trust your best friend, even if she is going to kill us both by pushing the self destruct button. Yep, even then.
A typical phone conversation between the amazing duo of Ashley and Shanyce. We like to plan our futures. We usually start out with death for some unknown reason. Then we move on to kids, weddings, going backwards until we reach the present.
It's a fact that parents that didn't have sibling have a hard time raising more than one kid, I say. I point the facts and statistics in these schemes. But you have to have three she points out. Natasha, Dimitri and Anastasia. Three names she knows I love and knows I want to name my children. Even though the name Dimitri will surely result in therapy. I'm Ukrainian, not Russian and Russia is a ripoff of Ukraine. Well, you're having three ,she says. And it doesn't matter if you can't control them because I will. Just tell them Aunty Shanyce is coming and they'll behave. That's a threat I know isn't short lived. I hear her yelling at her sister to do chores and sometimes it scares me.
I hope she can come over and take care of my kids if I have any. I can't cook, can't clean, and don't see the point in ironing. Apparently those are thing I need to know before I have kids. At least that's what Shanyce says. Maybe I'll have a husband with siblings. Shanyce says it's a sure thing. I believe her because Shanyce is my best friend and you're supposed to trust your best friend, even if she is going to kill us both by pushing the self destruct button. Yep, even then.
Friday, November 10, 2006
My Favorite Place, Vickie Lennon
I pry open my eyes and discover that my room, which was totally engulfed in darkness, is now bright. Each shadow which once made my body tremble is now clear. The sun illuminating my room warms my face and entire body. Outside my window the wind shakes the trees as a young child shakes a maraca, making a faint rustle. I pull my blankets closer to me and cocoon myself in their warmth. I am too tired to think of the monotonous duties of the day. So I lie, aware that the world is going on around me. But I am at peace, my body at rest, and I am hidden from the start of my day.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
SECRETS, Ginny Georgekutty
SECRETS, Ginny Georgekutty
Bright, Blue eyes stared back at me. My Guilty conscience Reflected in their depth. I knew I could not keep it from her much longer. But, how do you tell a friend this secret, a memory I’ve kept hidden for years in hopes it would disappear?
“Well?” she said as she took a step back. Her eyes no longer pierced my conscience, but rather pleaded for entrance. I could not tell her. It would tear her apart. No, worse, it would drive her away and she was the last friends I had. Well maybe not the last, but the only one, I knew for sure, I could trust and understood my life for what it was. I could not lose her.
“What?” I asked again for the hundredth time, hoping she would drop the subject.
“You know very well what” she replied sternly.
Well, so much for that. There was no way I could stop her from asking. Maybe it was time to let it out and ‘clear my conscience.’ I gazed to the side and sighed.
“Okay, I’ll tell you. Promise that we’ll still be friends?” I said, my hands out, ready to seal the promise.
“Of course” she said, embracing my hands in our secret handshake. I could sense some hesitation as she did so, but I ignored it.
I plopped into the nearest chair, trying to sort out how to tell her such a secret. I looked up at her, her blue eyes more impatient by the minute. Well, here it goes. I took a deep breath and began.
“Well, I have this secret, but not a normal kind of secret. You know, like those secrets about a secret crush or a hidden fear. It’s worse than that. That was part of the reason I didn’t tell you or anyone for so many years. I also didn’t know how you’d react or how to tell you this without bluntly doing so.”
“Well, that’s what friends are here for, right? Friends never leave you because of a secret” she replied with a comforting smile. Whether it was sincere or afraid I did not know.
Nevertheless, my face eased and I relaxed a bit. Maybe it wouldn’t turn out that badly. So, I continued.
“It was one of those unclear moments, you know?”
She looked at me confused so, I explained.
“You know those moments where you can’t quite figure out if you should do the right thing or the wrong thing. When you are stuck between the two, each of them as appealing as the other, maybe even more?”
Her eyes widened as I finished, maybe starting to realize just what kind of a secret I had. Maybe she was beginning to think I no longer was the girl she thought she knew for so many years-the humble, morally good person she had trusted. I hesitated. Maybe I was wrong.
“You okay?” I asked, hoping she was not thinking what I thought she was thinking.
Her eyes sank back down and she nodded, attempting to smile as she had before. But, I could see right through. I did not even BEGIN to tell her my secret and I had already scared her off. Maybe there was still time to make things like it was before the moment I decided to go through with this mess.
“You know what? Just forget about it. It’s nothing, really.” I said, trying to drive her away from those thoughts, the suggestions of what I might have done. I think it took her awhile to process it all because only 10 minutes later did she snap back and realized I had stopped.
“Why did you stop?” she asked with her anxiety itching to pull free.
“Were you even listening?” I asked, maybe slightly angrier than intended. I wasn’t upset at her, well, not really. I mean, I would have reacted the same way. Maybe not so early on, but I would’ve reacted the same way, right? So, why did I respond in such an irritated tone? Was I hoping inside she would’ve been different? That she would’ve listened to my story before flipping out? That she would’ve understood?
But, she simply gazed to the side, as if a figure stood there watching.
“I have to go. It’s getting late and my mom’s probably worried.” She said with anxiety dancing upon each word.
She got up and started to leave, but I simply stood there watching. Just give her some time, I thought. She just needs some time to absorb it all, I reassured myself. Little did I know that it was the last time I would see her. By tomorrow, her family had moved and no-one had a clue where.
Who knew such a secret could cause so much chaos? Even half-revealed, the secret left me to live my life alone with the burden of such a secret heavier than ever before. Yet, perhaps such a secret saved me from a friendship I was not meant to have, a friend whose comfort was as fake as her words. “Friends never leave you because of a secret”—unless such a secret was as deadly as mine. Even unsaid, my secret was deadly as a poison seeping in your veins.
Do you believe in secrets?
Bright, Blue eyes stared back at me. My Guilty conscience Reflected in their depth. I knew I could not keep it from her much longer. But, how do you tell a friend this secret, a memory I’ve kept hidden for years in hopes it would disappear?
“Well?” she said as she took a step back. Her eyes no longer pierced my conscience, but rather pleaded for entrance. I could not tell her. It would tear her apart. No, worse, it would drive her away and she was the last friends I had. Well maybe not the last, but the only one, I knew for sure, I could trust and understood my life for what it was. I could not lose her.
“What?” I asked again for the hundredth time, hoping she would drop the subject.
“You know very well what” she replied sternly.
Well, so much for that. There was no way I could stop her from asking. Maybe it was time to let it out and ‘clear my conscience.’ I gazed to the side and sighed.
“Okay, I’ll tell you. Promise that we’ll still be friends?” I said, my hands out, ready to seal the promise.
“Of course” she said, embracing my hands in our secret handshake. I could sense some hesitation as she did so, but I ignored it.
I plopped into the nearest chair, trying to sort out how to tell her such a secret. I looked up at her, her blue eyes more impatient by the minute. Well, here it goes. I took a deep breath and began.
“Well, I have this secret, but not a normal kind of secret. You know, like those secrets about a secret crush or a hidden fear. It’s worse than that. That was part of the reason I didn’t tell you or anyone for so many years. I also didn’t know how you’d react or how to tell you this without bluntly doing so.”
“Well, that’s what friends are here for, right? Friends never leave you because of a secret” she replied with a comforting smile. Whether it was sincere or afraid I did not know.
Nevertheless, my face eased and I relaxed a bit. Maybe it wouldn’t turn out that badly. So, I continued.
“It was one of those unclear moments, you know?”
She looked at me confused so, I explained.
“You know those moments where you can’t quite figure out if you should do the right thing or the wrong thing. When you are stuck between the two, each of them as appealing as the other, maybe even more?”
Her eyes widened as I finished, maybe starting to realize just what kind of a secret I had. Maybe she was beginning to think I no longer was the girl she thought she knew for so many years-the humble, morally good person she had trusted. I hesitated. Maybe I was wrong.
“You okay?” I asked, hoping she was not thinking what I thought she was thinking.
Her eyes sank back down and she nodded, attempting to smile as she had before. But, I could see right through. I did not even BEGIN to tell her my secret and I had already scared her off. Maybe there was still time to make things like it was before the moment I decided to go through with this mess.
“You know what? Just forget about it. It’s nothing, really.” I said, trying to drive her away from those thoughts, the suggestions of what I might have done. I think it took her awhile to process it all because only 10 minutes later did she snap back and realized I had stopped.
“Why did you stop?” she asked with her anxiety itching to pull free.
“Were you even listening?” I asked, maybe slightly angrier than intended. I wasn’t upset at her, well, not really. I mean, I would have reacted the same way. Maybe not so early on, but I would’ve reacted the same way, right? So, why did I respond in such an irritated tone? Was I hoping inside she would’ve been different? That she would’ve listened to my story before flipping out? That she would’ve understood?
But, she simply gazed to the side, as if a figure stood there watching.
“I have to go. It’s getting late and my mom’s probably worried.” She said with anxiety dancing upon each word.
She got up and started to leave, but I simply stood there watching. Just give her some time, I thought. She just needs some time to absorb it all, I reassured myself. Little did I know that it was the last time I would see her. By tomorrow, her family had moved and no-one had a clue where.
Who knew such a secret could cause so much chaos? Even half-revealed, the secret left me to live my life alone with the burden of such a secret heavier than ever before. Yet, perhaps such a secret saved me from a friendship I was not meant to have, a friend whose comfort was as fake as her words. “Friends never leave you because of a secret”—unless such a secret was as deadly as mine. Even unsaid, my secret was deadly as a poison seeping in your veins.
Do you believe in secrets?
Sunday, November 05, 2006
Untitled, John Zurz
Well I’ve done it now. You might ask: What could a person do to get into a situation like this? I happen to be asking myself the very same question. Maybe I should start from the beginning. Though it is really more like the middle, if you want to get all technical.
It started with a girl, as all great stories do. Well, a pretty girl because since when do great stories start with a girl that looks like she should be attacking Tokyo? Also there were two friends who were fighting over who should ask her out. If it were up to me I would just have them flip a coin and be done with it, but that’s just me. Now they both happened to be friends of mine, you can see where this is going can’t you? They both decided to have a series of challenges and the winner would ask her out. Naturally I was stuck as the referee. Lucky me.
It started off pretty simply. They had a race, the one hundred meter. They tied. Now they were timed so this wouldn’t happen and both times turned out to be the same. Down to the nano-second. So they tried again with the race, same thing happened. So they decided to have a hotdog eating contest. Again it was timed. They both ate the same number of hotdogs in a minute, this happened to be half a hotdog. By now I realized that this was getting ridiculous. They insisted that they try again. Guess what happened. Yup. They decided to move on. To what you may ask. They wanted to climb a rock wall. The same thing happened, again. They wanted to try again but I talked them out of it. They still refused to flip a coin so they had another race. This time in cars. It was from one side of the city to the other. Now you need to understand that neither of them are very bright, big surprise huh? Naturally they both forgot to fill the gas tanks, change the oil, or to inflate the tires with air. This was another draw.
Now this kind of thing went on for a while. I felt that I had to take one for the team, so I asked her out. She said yes and we had a great time. Now, when they found out they were mad as hell. I am not sure why though; I saved them both a lot of time. They had one last contest. Now I did not see the point of it. It was over. But no, they insisted. So here I am. In a tree. Surrounded by dogs. My shirt soaked in meat. Don’t ask how because even I am not sure. Now if only I knew how to tell them that the girl moved away a week after our date. But I won’t. Then they would get angry. I would hate to see what they would do to me.
It started with a girl, as all great stories do. Well, a pretty girl because since when do great stories start with a girl that looks like she should be attacking Tokyo? Also there were two friends who were fighting over who should ask her out. If it were up to me I would just have them flip a coin and be done with it, but that’s just me. Now they both happened to be friends of mine, you can see where this is going can’t you? They both decided to have a series of challenges and the winner would ask her out. Naturally I was stuck as the referee. Lucky me.
It started off pretty simply. They had a race, the one hundred meter. They tied. Now they were timed so this wouldn’t happen and both times turned out to be the same. Down to the nano-second. So they tried again with the race, same thing happened. So they decided to have a hotdog eating contest. Again it was timed. They both ate the same number of hotdogs in a minute, this happened to be half a hotdog. By now I realized that this was getting ridiculous. They insisted that they try again. Guess what happened. Yup. They decided to move on. To what you may ask. They wanted to climb a rock wall. The same thing happened, again. They wanted to try again but I talked them out of it. They still refused to flip a coin so they had another race. This time in cars. It was from one side of the city to the other. Now you need to understand that neither of them are very bright, big surprise huh? Naturally they both forgot to fill the gas tanks, change the oil, or to inflate the tires with air. This was another draw.
Now this kind of thing went on for a while. I felt that I had to take one for the team, so I asked her out. She said yes and we had a great time. Now, when they found out they were mad as hell. I am not sure why though; I saved them both a lot of time. They had one last contest. Now I did not see the point of it. It was over. But no, they insisted. So here I am. In a tree. Surrounded by dogs. My shirt soaked in meat. Don’t ask how because even I am not sure. Now if only I knew how to tell them that the girl moved away a week after our date. But I won’t. Then they would get angry. I would hate to see what they would do to me.
Saturday, October 28, 2006
Dayle Wise; First CAV Recon, '70, Vietnam
Dayle Wise; First CAV Recon, ’70, Vietnam
joanna vogel
“People shot at me, I shot at them.”
1.
Now he is an activist,
a poet with a limp
and long hair.
He paces in a blazer and dungarees,
pauses at length, mid-sentence;
wonders which word to use
to describe which image.
2.
“ We were being picked up in the fall,
the fall of nineteen
seventy.
We were running to the helicopter
and we cut through a house
full of women and children
(no men)
because we could do that;
we carried M-16’s.
And this little girl
got in my face,
just planted herself there
and looked at me.
My knees went weak and I almost
went down.
I have thought about her
every day
for the past
thirty years.
3.
At nineteen
he was a scrawny sergeant,
placed, by mistake, amid the vehement
decades—
in command of a “black unit”.
4.
“To get respect,
the lieutenant suggested I start chewing tobacco,
a disgusting thing to do.
So I used to chew tobacco and spit
on people’s shoes.
I was a bastard.”
5.
In the nineteen
nineties, he went back
“in country”
to “deliver medical supplies in the form
of reconciliation.”
A bomb had gone off
and this man,
who had only ever hunted people,
sat with men like himself; missing pieces.
Only, they were missing hunks of skull,
of flesh,
and he could not see
their souls,
only his own,
pierced too many times over
by every bullet spit,
while he shot
photographs
with his eyes closed.
6.
“I don’t remember nineteen sixty-nine”
his friend Bill says.
He is missing this year of memory,
and many more of life.
7.
Dayle is afraid of himself,
of his anger.
He resents,
rejects whole pieces of himself:
they should not be there,
they do not have the right to be there.
But he is missing so much more than that
space of anger
could possibly swallow.
How can he decide to
discontinue
anymore?
Large pieces have been lost,
they are lying in the hollow spaces
of buried bullet shells,
in spilt blood that has been drunk up
by tree roots.
They are sleeping
nestled next to decomposed
bodies, in coffins of rotted wood.
They are suffocated,
stuffed underground,
in country,
in Cambodia,
in Vietnam.
8.
“I didn’t say anything.
I just let it happen to me.
I just let the pieces fall where they would.”
Like hundreds of tiny bombs that are dropped
and don’t explode
for thirty years.
“I just let the pieces fall.”
joanna vogel
“People shot at me, I shot at them.”
1.
Now he is an activist,
a poet with a limp
and long hair.
He paces in a blazer and dungarees,
pauses at length, mid-sentence;
wonders which word to use
to describe which image.
2.
“ We were being picked up in the fall,
the fall of nineteen
seventy.
We were running to the helicopter
and we cut through a house
full of women and children
(no men)
because we could do that;
we carried M-16’s.
And this little girl
got in my face,
just planted herself there
and looked at me.
My knees went weak and I almost
went down.
I have thought about her
every day
for the past
thirty years.
3.
At nineteen
he was a scrawny sergeant,
placed, by mistake, amid the vehement
decades—
in command of a “black unit”.
4.
“To get respect,
the lieutenant suggested I start chewing tobacco,
a disgusting thing to do.
So I used to chew tobacco and spit
on people’s shoes.
I was a bastard.”
5.
In the nineteen
nineties, he went back
“in country”
to “deliver medical supplies in the form
of reconciliation.”
A bomb had gone off
and this man,
who had only ever hunted people,
sat with men like himself; missing pieces.
Only, they were missing hunks of skull,
of flesh,
and he could not see
their souls,
only his own,
pierced too many times over
by every bullet spit,
while he shot
photographs
with his eyes closed.
6.
“I don’t remember nineteen sixty-nine”
his friend Bill says.
He is missing this year of memory,
and many more of life.
7.
Dayle is afraid of himself,
of his anger.
He resents,
rejects whole pieces of himself:
they should not be there,
they do not have the right to be there.
But he is missing so much more than that
space of anger
could possibly swallow.
How can he decide to
discontinue
anymore?
Large pieces have been lost,
they are lying in the hollow spaces
of buried bullet shells,
in spilt blood that has been drunk up
by tree roots.
They are sleeping
nestled next to decomposed
bodies, in coffins of rotted wood.
They are suffocated,
stuffed underground,
in country,
in Cambodia,
in Vietnam.
8.
“I didn’t say anything.
I just let it happen to me.
I just let the pieces fall where they would.”
Like hundreds of tiny bombs that are dropped
and don’t explode
for thirty years.
“I just let the pieces fall.”
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Cherrystones -- joanna vogel
Cherrystones
You led me to your back porch,
it was late in the afternoon
and there were great rounded bees
weaving about in your mother’s dahlias.
You carried a long stemmed glass, deep as a cauldron,
and a black plastic bag
weighted down with white wine and blood colored cherries.
The porch wood was warped, from years of rain and carelessness,
I lit a cigarette for the two of us and you laughed;
pointed to the burned spot of wood from your very first cigarette,
produced from your pocket a box of a different brand
and smoked your own.
Now you sat at the edge, long legs thrust
through the cracked bars of the railing
like those of a scarecrow garbed in dirt
crusted sneakers and torn denim.
But there were no crows that afternoon,
only bats, as afternoon evolved into evening,
swooping about overhead, eating insects.
We each ate nine cherries,
sucked away each fleck of flesh,
and counted out the naked stones, repeating
an unspoken wish with every one
spit into the bottom of the glass
to be covered with wine.
You filled the glass
too far up the brim to lift
without spilling.
So we sipped together
lips nearly touching, but not quite,
across the chasm of the glass’s mouth.
You kissed me,
your mouth tasted of cherries and tobacco,
and we shared the rest of the wine,
emptying the bottle,
while you promised me that my wish
would come true, without asking
what it was.
I smiled and drank your wine,
counted your cherry stones,
tasted your tongue,
and never told you,
that I hated cherries.
You led me to your back porch,
it was late in the afternoon
and there were great rounded bees
weaving about in your mother’s dahlias.
You carried a long stemmed glass, deep as a cauldron,
and a black plastic bag
weighted down with white wine and blood colored cherries.
The porch wood was warped, from years of rain and carelessness,
I lit a cigarette for the two of us and you laughed;
pointed to the burned spot of wood from your very first cigarette,
produced from your pocket a box of a different brand
and smoked your own.
Now you sat at the edge, long legs thrust
through the cracked bars of the railing
like those of a scarecrow garbed in dirt
crusted sneakers and torn denim.
But there were no crows that afternoon,
only bats, as afternoon evolved into evening,
swooping about overhead, eating insects.
We each ate nine cherries,
sucked away each fleck of flesh,
and counted out the naked stones, repeating
an unspoken wish with every one
spit into the bottom of the glass
to be covered with wine.
You filled the glass
too far up the brim to lift
without spilling.
So we sipped together
lips nearly touching, but not quite,
across the chasm of the glass’s mouth.
You kissed me,
your mouth tasted of cherries and tobacco,
and we shared the rest of the wine,
emptying the bottle,
while you promised me that my wish
would come true, without asking
what it was.
I smiled and drank your wine,
counted your cherry stones,
tasted your tongue,
and never told you,
that I hated cherries.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Welcome... again!
Welcome all to a magical new year at the QHST Literary Magazine! This is going to be amazing, we promise. If you would like to submit pieces of your writing (language on the generally appropriate side, please) you can send your submissions to the team at QHSTWrites@gmail.com. We look forward to reading and posting your writing and spreading the creative writing love around QHST.
Cheers,
The QHST Literary Magazine Team
Cheers,
The QHST Literary Magazine Team
Friday, June 02, 2006
"horse"-by Wesley
To be a horse is to be
wild free and untamed
my friend wishes to be a horse
but all she would ever do is run
run from the darkness
until one day she stopped
she stopped for love
but it wasn't real love
it was just a mirage
she got trapped
she was stuck in a lie
captured and tamed
but the darkness kept coming
faster and faster
until she was swallowed up by it
but she still looks for the light
wild free and untamed
my friend wishes to be a horse
but all she would ever do is run
run from the darkness
until one day she stopped
she stopped for love
but it wasn't real love
it was just a mirage
she got trapped
she was stuck in a lie
captured and tamed
but the darkness kept coming
faster and faster
until she was swallowed up by it
but she still looks for the light
Monday, May 29, 2006
A longer story - John
22 pages, 17 chapters, lots more to go. It has a working title that might change though. Depends on weather or not I come up with a better one. Check it out, hope you enjoy.
http://www.fictionpress.com/read.php?storyid=2182391
Edit: Ch18 added.
http://www.fictionpress.com/read.php?storyid=2182391
Edit: Ch18 added.
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Story of a girl...By-Jennifer Canales
Somewhere through her eyes,
you open up the door,
take a look inside,
see sorrow in her soul.
Hearing all the lies,
trying to ease the pain,
suffering inside,
love she wants to gain.
Want to slip away,
prisoner to her soul,
hearing what "they" say,
her heart is what they tore.
Finally feeling done,
black clouds in the sky,
smoke comes out the gun,
have to say goodbye.
Murder of her life,
Story of a girl
you open up the door,
take a look inside,
see sorrow in her soul.
Hearing all the lies,
trying to ease the pain,
suffering inside,
love she wants to gain.
Want to slip away,
prisoner to her soul,
hearing what "they" say,
her heart is what they tore.
Finally feeling done,
black clouds in the sky,
smoke comes out the gun,
have to say goodbye.
Murder of her life,
Story of a girl
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
"as it passes by"-Wesley
time is an illusion
as it passes by
the one thing that never ends
but we never have enough of
as it passes by
second by second
hour by hour
day by day
as it passes by
in a never ending cycle
we call life
as it passes by
as it passes by
the one thing that never ends
but we never have enough of
as it passes by
second by second
hour by hour
day by day
as it passes by
in a never ending cycle
we call life
as it passes by
Saturday, May 06, 2006
"Runnin' to no End" - Anonymous
Oh, slow down
slow down, stop
right
there
turn around
can you see what you are runnin’ from,
what was chasin’ you?
all I can see are shadows, of those who tried
to help, to understand, to explain
That you can’t run,
you can’t hide, you can’t keep it all inside
‘cuz you ain’t the only one who don’t know what they want
what they need, or why they’re runnin’
What have you been searchin’ for?
It’s been right in front of you, starin’ you in the face
like a life preserver floatin’ in that sea you can’t name,
tryin’ to tell you what that,
that message in a bottle is sayin’
It’s sayin’
That you can’t run, you can’t hide
it’s pointless to keep it all inside, ‘cuz you ain’t
yea you ain’t the only one who don’t know what they want
what they need, or why they’re runnin’
slow down, stop
right
there
turn around
can you see what you are runnin’ from,
what was chasin’ you?
all I can see are shadows, of those who tried
to help, to understand, to explain
That you can’t run,
you can’t hide, you can’t keep it all inside
‘cuz you ain’t the only one who don’t know what they want
what they need, or why they’re runnin’
What have you been searchin’ for?
It’s been right in front of you, starin’ you in the face
like a life preserver floatin’ in that sea you can’t name,
tryin’ to tell you what that,
that message in a bottle is sayin’
It’s sayin’
That you can’t run, you can’t hide
it’s pointless to keep it all inside, ‘cuz you ain’t
yea you ain’t the only one who don’t know what they want
what they need, or why they’re runnin’
Thursday, May 04, 2006
"Dreamin' with your eyes open" - Anonymous
Left is right, up is down
right is wrong, light is dark
the world is complicated shades of gray
but it wont end, not until we know why
until we know why we live, we die, we dream
The world ain’t simple, it never was
never was meant to be, that’s the point
the point of it all, the point of life
Everythin’ backward, upside down
topsy-turvy, right side up,
all right, all wrong, always a mystery
like that place of shadow, deep in the heart
the unfilled void, that just wont fill
The world ain’t simple, it never was
it was never meant to be, that’s the point
if it was: How could we dream?
right is wrong, light is dark
the world is complicated shades of gray
but it wont end, not until we know why
until we know why we live, we die, we dream
The world ain’t simple, it never was
never was meant to be, that’s the point
the point of it all, the point of life
Everythin’ backward, upside down
topsy-turvy, right side up,
all right, all wrong, always a mystery
like that place of shadow, deep in the heart
the unfilled void, that just wont fill
The world ain’t simple, it never was
it was never meant to be, that’s the point
if it was: How could we dream?
"Blue" -- Poem by Joanna Vogel
Reminded of those cool tears that I cannot cry,
that,
if only they would,
could rinse the dirt and grime from this weary soul
which lies clenched beneath my breastbone;
the bright rubber birthday balloon too filled with tap water and yet,
miraculously maybe,
still refusing to pop as,
with a mischievous grin,
you deign to fling it form the terrace and watch the splash
from four stories up.
that,
if only they would,
could rinse the dirt and grime from this weary soul
which lies clenched beneath my breastbone;
the bright rubber birthday balloon too filled with tap water and yet,
miraculously maybe,
still refusing to pop as,
with a mischievous grin,
you deign to fling it form the terrace and watch the splash
from four stories up.
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
"Window" -- Poem by Joanna Vogel
Dangerous,
pockmarked wood and glass sheet
with a great jagged crack across its width.
Lavender paint splashed sloppily up onto the glass,
in front of molding molding
and beaten wood, striated by age.
pockmarked wood and glass sheet
with a great jagged crack across its width.
Lavender paint splashed sloppily up onto the glass,
in front of molding molding
and beaten wood, striated by age.
Monday, May 01, 2006
Welcome to The Q.H.S.T Literary e-Zine!
Welcome to the QHST Literary Magazine Blog! This is the first of many posts that you will see from The Q.H.S.T. Writing Center. Here you will find literary works from many of our own, home grown Q.H.S.T. writers and some works from outside writers that we just enjoy and feel like sharing with you all! Please support us by leaving constructive comments and if you would like for us to post some of your work in the literary magazine, please send us an e-mail containing your writing to Prestidigitator42@gmail.com or simply come visit us in room 203 during tutorial and bring your work with you!Remember, you can always use the human resources here at th eWriting Center to work on your writing, or just to share your work with us and get some constructive comments. We are always open during tuturial (Monday-Thursday, 2:20 - 3:00) and would love to hear your work.
Hearts!
~The QHST Literary Magazine Staff and Writers!!!~
Hearts!
~The QHST Literary Magazine Staff and Writers!!!~
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