QHST Literary Magazine

Compass Rose (a song),Chrissy Garcia

2010-02-08T17:52:00.000-05:00

There's just a tiny, minor Setback in your plan
Just watch it spilling
Over your pride like sand
I don't remember a
Connection between dark and light.

A sharp-tongued comment
Bangs upon your front door
You strike a bargain
And you trade your dawn for night
Content with the moonlight
That you'll extinguish soon enough.

Minus the redemption
From your list of blessings
Smash a compass rose
Find a new direction
Dead center in the wreckage
Awaiting another crash
To finalize your plan:
Connections between dark and light.

Well, go and taste the poisoned
Medicine you make
I've lost my patience
And it's time for you to take
The burden of deceit
And bury it beneath your grave.

This compass rose
Won't point me north or south or
Where I'm meant to be.

Minus the redemption
From your list of blessings
Smash a compass rose
Find a new direction
Dead center in the wreckage
Awaiting another crash
To finalize your plan:
Connections between dark and light.

A bridge built over the sea
Won't carry out your plan.

This compass rose
Won't point me north or south or
Where I'm meant to be.

Dead center in the wreckage
Awaiting another crash
to finalize your plan:
Connections between dark and light.

It Will Not Lead You Far (a song for Jazzy),Chrissy Garcia

2010-02-08T17:49:00.000-05:00

Somewhere in your bones You can find the words
Smothered in fantasies
Comforting lies
Leave an imprint
Upon your skin
Call them back to war
Like a sunflower
You smile and ignore
The spreading dark
I have tried to burn
The books of fairytales that have
Smeared my way.

Well, the late night stories
Built my dreams
Bring the pillars down so I may see
The imprisoned in between
A clear blue sky
Will not tempt me
I've hit the concrete
And now I am free
And walk on my own.

Onward to the brink
Of choice and fate
Where justice won't come
To stand and fight
Meaningless phrase
You speak of courage
But will not take the blame
Call them back to war
Like a sunflower
You smile and ignore
The spreading dark.

Well, the late night stories
Built my dreams
Bring the pillars down so I may see
The imprisoned in between
A clear blue sky
Will not tempt me
I've hit the concrete
And now I am free
And walk on my own
I won't settle down.

I won't settle down
Don't hush my thoughts.

Camouflage with the veil
Of shadows that is draped
Over what you thought
Was the only way.

The Sea (a song for Nupur),Chrissy Garcia

2010-02-08T17:41:00.000-05:00

I recall a morning breeze
Racing to me
Whilst aboard a ship without a sail
And there I'd wait
For a wave
To engluf me
Into fathoms I can scarcely dream of.

Wake up
In an azure memory
Of you
Trying to find a way back home
The sun has sunk too low.

Jagged shores pretend
To accept me
Desperately searching for a whisp
Of your remains
Silence me
And reclaim me
Heart in my hand to give freely.

Wake up
In an azure memory
Of you
Trying to find a way back home
The sun has sunk too low.

Take me back to
Your beginning
And show me, tell me
Why life's designed this way
If I had power
To rewrite this
Story, I'd drain the sea
So you'd be with me

My first goodbye, Tatiana Cadet

2009-11-28T22:46:00.000-05:00

So I woke up this morning to an unfamiliar loud cry. I tried to ignore it and continue to sleep, my cries continued. I slowly walked downstairs to find my Mom bawling in the bathroom. Her cries were louder than a banshee. As I walked towards her I noticed she was on the phone. I knew the reason for my mother’s tears, but I didn't want to believe it. I let a million bad thoughts run through my mind, anything but the thought I was afraid of. She paced through the kitchen saying her farewells to the person on the phone. She walked to the living room and took a seat on the coach. I sat beside her on the arm of the chair. She put the phone on speaker, and I heard my aunt’s voice. Before my mom even said a word, she began to cry loudly again. I leaned her head on my chest and held her. "His fingers are turning blue" she said into the phone "He's unresponsive and they have him on life support" "Wow" my aunt continued to reply, I guess she was at lost for words and wow was the only thing she could say. After their conversation I let my shoulder be there for my mom to cry on, as her cries began to sound like screams for mercy. I began to imagine how the funeral would be like and sobbed quietly as I held her close. I listened to my mom talk on the phone with all her brothers and sisters one at a time. Conversation after conversation, I had heard it all. The last conversation I listened to was the one she had with my aunt Betty. All I remember her saying is "His line is flat, he's not breathing...wait, it’s up again. Now that's it, he's gone 7:49. I love you Daddy" I slowly made my way upstairs, locked myself in the bathroom and ran the water to muffle my cries.

I love you Papit, you were the only grandfather I ever knew and the best. You couldn't have done a better job. You will be forever loved and missed.

No Thank you...,Anthony Herrero

2009-11-19T23:05:00.002-05:00

No thank you, wench. I learned not to judge people to harshly or to quickly. There are two sides to everything. And sometimes even more than two sides! But there is a break from such perfect ideology here. Just for you, my dear sweet birth giver. I don't want to bother with you. I don't need to deal with you. While my hand is usually guided by the calm and effortless motions of fair judgment I will blind my self worth here. Perhaps it was because I couldn't exactly voice my opinion. Having been in diapers and all? But that's okay. I'm sure I did a well enough job at wailing my lungs out. While you bellowed at my Father. While you two tried to beat each other into the ground. I bet it was a grand spectacle. Enough for all the homeless fools to stagger out of their drunken state for the daily spouse match-off. Who would win? Who would lose?

Who cares!? Just show us some blood!

So no thank you, Mrs. Hernandez. You didn't merely leave. You changed the course of my fate. Damned me to lurking in the underbelly of civil court. Banished me to discovering whom exactly wept in the shadows of lost siblings. This isn't necessary – you aren't necessary. I should have never sought you out. Never cracked open this particular can of worms. If everyone is given a freebie for their lack of judgment than you are my mine. I take back all we ever discussed among the blood lusty mosquitoes. Forget the black tarp cover up for our midnight tropic heart to heart over the coconut sips. I never shared with you exactly why I grew hair this long. You don't know Sarah – don't deserve to. So erase that as well. There was never a contemplation to see what life was like with you. Never,never. And another thing. I will always speak Spanish the way I do.

You don't like how I sound like a tourist?

Deal with it!

No thank you, Jajaria. I have lapsed for the final time. You have gone beyond that boundary. At least, for me. I will not ponder your side of this story. Or any story. You made your choice, all those years ago, to choose her over me. Now it's my choice! I guess I am my mother's son, after all, aren't I? Because I am leaving. Don't call me, don't text me, and don't IM me. There's no use. I choose you over her. Maybe now you'll get it. This is the end, for both you and me.

No thank you, Mother Dearest, you don't have to be my mother. You never were anyway

Katie Rose, Ashley Alongi

2009-11-18T17:30:00.004-05:00

         Katie Rose Shrewsberry was a perfect cliché. She was beautiful, blonde haired, blue eyed. Completely oblivious to it all. And I was the boy hopelessly in love with her. Unrequited of course, which is often the way these clichés go. I settled for the label of best friend.
          With her knees curled up to her chest we would sit in some corner of the school library, hoping to steal a few minutes alone together. We would read the bible. And like pseudo conservative renegades we covered it with a book jacket from a copy of War and Peace so we weren’t bothered. I didn’t know if Katie Rose was religious, sacrilegious, sadist, evangelist or whatever. But I didn’t really care. And I suppose this is all subjective, but when she read the bible it was like listening to poetry.

         That was all we treated it as. I sat with her not to discuss ideals but be silent and listen to her. Her voice like warm breath on a frosty windowpane. All tender whispers.
Katie Rose Shrewsberry is gone now.

          Sitting in our corner, I close my eyes and breathe in the lingering smells of ink and strawberries. I try to imagine our heads bent together for just one more time, and find in my mind a memory of her voice reading to me:

You are my dove hiding among the rocks on the side of a cliff. Let me see how lovely you are! Let me hear the sound of your melodious voice.

And in this moment, I understand what she was trying to tell me all along

Untitled, Brandee Hailey

2009-11-18T17:29:00.001-05:00

The last time I saw him, I cried.
His arms sat soft over my shoulders.
His words we're like daggers and delayed my heart the sorrow.

My eyes watered in a mass of my face, and I had no control.
I wanted to run lose, but my body wouldn't allow it too.
These thoughts were scrambled, like sea shells on a beach
And I wanted to hate him but, all at the same wanted to love him.

He said this was it, but it wasn't the end.
He told me he didn't want it to be like this, but yet he was the reason
It was like this. His words mad no sense, and my mind didn't want it to, I just wanted to dislike him.

I wished, and wished I could hate him, but the kindness
I had so far down in my body wouldn't even begin to let me.
Was it worth caring, Should I had fought harder?
Was the time that had passed, wasted?

Wonders of my mind tend to still fall upon him.
My mind considers it, and then represses.

Distant love that once was, happiness now was sweet tears.
Forgiveness was never an option that I offered myself.

The last time I saw him. Was the last time I saw him.
The last time I cried, the last time I worried.

The last time I kissed him, because the last time I saw you
Was the first time I saw through, to what really matters…Me

A hundred times no and one time yes, Jada Cooper

2009-11-18T17:20:00.001-05:00

Shall I be a disappointment?

No I shall not

Shall I be a failure?

No I shall not

Shall I be pressured?

No I shall not

Shall I be stressed?

No I shall not

Shall I let someone destroy me?

No I shall not

Shall I be a success?

Yes I shall

Shall I be something great?

Yes I shall

Shall I be a delight of joy?

Yes I shall

Shall I make my parents proud?

Yes I shall

No and yes is a part of life. It can determine whether life will knock you down or bring you to a higher ground. I’m sorry is what I always say but what I need to starting saying is I will do better or I can or I am going to do better.

Definition of Love,Tesah Reyes

2009-11-18T09:28:00.001-05:00

What’s the definition of love? Well people say that it’s “a profoundly tender, passionate affection for another person.” But I’ve been told that it’s more than that. When you love someone, it’s an unexplainable set of words that can be close to what you’re feeling. I’ve never been in love before, but I’ve seen every bit of it. From the kissing, to cuddling, to holding hands, and to the way he looks at her. It’s something everyone wants in their life. It’s something that we need to get through those difficult days. But sometimes it’s not something I want to experience. The screaming, the tossing, the pain, the tears. I’ve seen it before too. It’s happened to my friends, my family, and strangers that I haven’t met before. My sister told me it’s a great feeling that cannot be explained with her words. It’s a very rare thing to find that’s what she says. But sometimes, when I look at her, I see worry, regret, and pain. A lot of pain. If you listen hard enough, you could hear the tears falling off her face and slowly hitting her pillow. You can hear her voice crack as the phone rings. She seems so lonely at times even though she has a full family right here by her side. With all the people in the world, why do we all seem so lonely? That’s what I ask myself all the time. It’s a good question that has over a million answers. But the answers to our loneliness will come soon enough. I can’t write everything about this topic of “love” because I’m still at the stage where I don’t need it, but I know that it’s around; just waiting to strike at the right time.

Untitled, Tatiana Castellanos

2009-11-18T09:21:00.000-05:00

The alarm clock cannot defend itself.
It screams and cries and beams with pride.
All the while I kick and moan and yell so quick and loud but I feel so alone.

I cover my eyes with my soft old blanket.
It’s filled with lies from a once very young soul who was told she was better off keeping to herself.

Finally after the third shriek, I furiously grab my helpless alarm clock and smack it against the drawer repeatedly.
But I know it’s not the alarm clock that I resent, it’s the sound it beats.
The sound of pain. The sound only I know from previous screams and fights and flowing bloodstreams that come from a light so bright.

The sound imitates my fear.
It imitates pain.
A place where I can catch all of that somewhere near here. We’re not safe, thought it’s been a good year, we can always shift a gear and clear the past for only we know that this pain comes and all we can do is shed a tear. Dear child its only a matter of time until we can be able to once again cheer. And for a mere second steer life into the direction we want but that only happens when you drink one too many beers.

We never get what we want.
And we take it out on that poor alarm clock that is only trying to follow its orders that came directly from us.

What I Want To Be Remembered For!, Jeneice Johnson

2009-11-18T09:20:00.002-05:00

When I am gone there is one thing I want to be remembered for
I want to be remembered as the girl who never settled for less but always wanted more
I want people to think back and think of good things I’ve done
Not think of my past mistakes or the fights that I’ve won
I want people to respect my glorious name
Not think of me and shake their heads in shame
I want people to look up to me
I want people to say she’s someone I want to be
Don’t remember me for how I left or the mean things I said
Don’t say I’m glad this is her outcome she’s made her bed
Don’t remember me as the girl who on the outside looked fine
Don’t feel bad you never listened and that you didn’t have time
Remember me for my laugh or my need to be free
Most of all remember me as happy to be

Me!!!!

Life, Gwendolyn Johnson

2009-11-18T09:20:00.001-05:00

It’s a sad story when somebody dies;
the skies cry;
the grounds flood;
tears flow and hearts hurt.

It’s unbelievable to know
the world still goes on
outside your dark little world.
Time flies;
minutes pass;
hours go by, and days keep coming.

Outside your window
you can hear the birds humming
their happy little song
that somehow keeps you going;
keeps you believing that somehow
tomorrow will bring sunshine and blue skies;
tearless days and less heartache.

It’s strange to say
these things usually never take place.
The tears are always there;
the anger is always felt
and the will to go on is hard to be kept.
In the end it must be dealt
within the heart;
within the soul;
throughout the body and in the mind.

Ultimately we all find
it’s a hard journey that takes time.

It’s a sad story
when somebody dies;
the tears in your heart arise
and everybody cries
but that’s life.

Fun things to do, Jonathan Cedat

2009-11-18T09:19:00.002-05:00

There are fun things to do like playing ball in the street.
There are fun things to do like playing in the heat.
There are fun things to do like playing at the park.
Your life is a bore you need a new score.
There are fun things to do then stay at home.
There are fun things to do then watching TV.
There are fun things to do then going on the computer.
So go play once a day.

May,Joanie McGranaghan

2009-11-18T09:01:00.000-05:00

The pale face
Turns to dust
As you lie there
Waiting…wishing…
You look so different
Its really not you
Your cheeks
They’re cold
They feel
So cold
When I press mine
On yours
Its hard to breather
To speak
What do I say?
How do I manage?
As you lie there breathless
I wait for your heart
Your heart to beat again
The disappointment
Is slowly breaking my heart
I look at you
Dying over there
Alone, so pal
In the coffin
Surrounded by flowers
All your loved ones
We all cry
You lie alone
Some don’t take it
They leave
Mommy takes my
hand
While I stand
Waiting…wishing…
Watching over you
The day it ends
The last time I see you
So I say my
Goodbye
and
I love you

The Truth About Pens and Paper,Chrissy Garcia

2009-11-18T08:52:00.001-05:00

A pen that refuses
To leave the paper
Is one that is destined
To make a mark.
When pages are blank
With no mind of their own
That is when they are most
Happy
Are the most ignorant.
Ignorance:
A vice and a virtue.
Is it better to study the darkness
Or to study that which is aflame in color
That ensures a damaged heart?
Is there such a thing as
Knowing too much?
A blank piece of paper
Is a servant
And is told secrets
Even if they wish not to listen.
A pen, too is a slave
To knowledge
But it has no mind
To call its own
To begin with.
Neither pens nor paper are gifted with choice
But one feels pain
When they are told the truth.

Untitled, Bellene Fisher

2009-10-03T19:37:00.000-04:00

When I was younger, I saw the moon. He was my best friend. He slept with me during the day and ran around with me in the midnight blue, lighting up my path. He made everything look more beautiful. He made water glitter; pavements shine like they had been touched by pale angels. Everything he touched looked like it was leading to heaven. But the moon would disappear for weeks at a time. The water had no angelic luster and the pavements had no heavenly shine. I was alone cold and depressed. Bad things started to happen when the moon wasn’t there. When the lonely weeks slowly dreadfully passed and he crept back so we could unite like when I was younger. I saw the moon but he was the worst friend that couldn’t make a commitment.

Untitled,Wesley Young

2009-04-20T16:21:00.000-04:00

As I walk down the empty hall, it gives me a feeling of restriction, as though no matter which direction I walk in or stairway I go up, I'll be trapped inside the isolating and depressing walls of the demonic institute that can be described as high school. As I walk down the hall approaching my locker of dismay and disorder, I see a door my that sets off a rush of memories from my childhood. It was a spring day, a Thursday like any other Thursday with people trying to recover from the disaster of Wednesday. I recall it was the last period of the day, and I was in a moderate mood considering the cage-like classroom I was sitting in...math. The meniacal dictator returned math projects of doom, as she handed me ine without even giving me a look of acknowledgement. I thought maybe there was a chance that she would nod her head at least and give me the fulfilling feeling of knowing I did well without seeing my grade. She didn't. As the depression set in, I peeled back the front cover, and it sucked my soul into the ink that read 6 1/3, the grade absorbed more than my soul, it absorbed all the hopes and dreams I had of passing math. As I stand outside of the classroom of death in the hallway of evil, I shake my head and turn to go to the weird and wacky writing center.

Desire

2009-02-18T09:55:00.003-05:00

What I desire

Love, Money, and Power

Anything from a one night stand

to the one and only.

From a penney

to a million dollors.

To being able to control myself

to WORLD DOMINATION.

I desire so little but yet

so much.

For I am greedy

Because I desire

EVERYTHING!!!

By Wesley Mazzara

Confusion,Tatiana Cadet

2009-02-06T18:12:00.001-05:00

I feel like a writer with a blank page and no pencil,
I don't know where to start or where I'm going from here
I feel like a young child who's lost its way
and is left wandering around in search for a familiar face
I feel like the famous index finger that wanders from one choice to the next
"Inny, minny, miney moe..."
Or a never ending duck duck goose game minus the goose:
"Duck, duck, duck, duck...."
I feel like a young toddler tired and exhausted
But afraid of the dark, and lost without his night light
Or a little girl crying for her favorite teddy bear
I feel like a female who
Has no idea what her purpose in life is
Doesn't know when she'll ever make the right decision
Feels lost and (blank) about her feelings & emotions
And who doesn't know how it feels to be loved
I'm a young lady who can't see past her caramel brown skin
Her thick thighs, fat butt or her 36C cup
Can't see behind the dark circles and bags that cushion her eyes
Or her magnetic love handles & shoulder length brown hair
I can't see anything because I'm confused
Confusion
You'll feel like a flower lacking sunlight

What I need

2009-02-06T08:37:00.003-05:00

As I am right now I an incomplete,
As I take steps towards the future I ponder,
"What do I need? What is it that will make me whole?"
Is it money I need?
Is it power I need,
Is it love I need?
Or is it something beyond comprehension.
What is it that I need in order to be complete?

WHAT!!!
I just don’t know...
I think so hard
But I’m losing my mind
And I begin to understand
I was never incomplete
I am who I am
Nothing more Nothing less

Just Me.

By Wesley Mazzara

Decision

2009-02-06T08:22:00.002-05:00

The time has come,

The time when we must choose,

The time that will determine everything,

The time where things will change,

The time for you to think,

The time the future becomes reality,

The time we spend in solitude is over,

The time to embrace society,

The time has come,

Its time to deside.

By Wesley Mazzara

John 3:16,Ashley Alongi

2009-01-14T16:33:00.000-05:00

For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten son, that whosoever believeth in him shall not perish, but have everlasting life.
I know this verse
along with others
I try to believe
I try to understand
That God gave his only
because God can only have one son?
and he has to die?
But I let it pass
I hold my questions
Because I know of unhelpful answers
So I go to church
I learn my creeds
I learn my sacraments
I learn about Doubting Thomas
Jesus saith unto him, Thomas, because thou hast seen Me, thou hast believed: blessed are they that have not seen, and yet have believed
Do we know what happened to him?
Afterlife wise that is…
No?
So I sing the hymns
I read the scriptures when asked
I repent for sins and wait for some feeling of forgiveness
I dig deep down to the bottom of my soul and wait
Wait for a feeling
a feeling that everyone else seems to have
a feeling I desperately want
a feeling that never comes

Let Everything Burn,Anthony Herrero

2008-11-12T19:33:00.001-05:00

My nose stings with the intake of third world country.
Stale sex, urine and beer wrapped around
buildings promising futures and dreams
entrapping innocents and bystanders
I don't want to be here.
Don't want to watch his form
sprawled out like a chewed rag doll atop ratty cardboard.
No one should. His body sinks into it sadly almost...
Willing it to swallow him whole. I want him to stay like this.
Alone and broken, lusting for the innocence he robbed me of.
I could sit and watch his eyes, red and pulsing
roll back to the top of his skull. Stare right into the whites.
The image is a warming one. Then he would trouble no one.
Not. Even. Me.
And yet, this Hispanic woman I swore was a street whore
clops to a sudden stop; she gazes as I gaze
I know what will occur
The hell that shall be wrought. Her thousand bracelets clink and slink
in time with her jumpy, jarry movements. Spikes skulls swirls.
It's all on display to see. Pitch black hair, curves bathed in latex.
I shudder and am repulsed as they speak. Enjoy one another.
Their smiles are sickening. What use is it to warn them?
Of the son they'll nearly destroy together?
Or the daughter who will learn to earn the loss of innocence faster
than both of them put together?
Is it fair to tell him of the blood he'll spill, the girl he'll yearn for?
The son she'll abandon, the daughter she'll give up on?
I refuse to warn them of the future and it's radio shattering,
sword hurling, fury infested single sectioned path they'll walk
I don't feel like interfering and letting them miss out
on the misery handed from
Father to Son
Mother to Daughter
Parent to Child
It's so much easier to observe the match kiss the paper
and
let everything burn

Need, Joanna Vogel

2008-11-06T18:54:00.001-05:00

I am waiting for quiet, for a very specific
kind of hush. I am
waiting for a time when there aren't
any words that I don't
want to hear.
I am waiting for there to be
no words at all –
only eyes; only teeth and lips and
long hair that kicks up everywhere,
swirls like a wild halo of golden leaves
when you drive with all the windows down.
I am waiting for hands.
Specifically, I am waiting for your hands,
for your arms, waiting to be wrapped
in you. I am waiting
for you to forget
everyone else
but me. I am
waiting. I am
waiting…

Waiting,Tatiana Cadet

2008-11-06T18:29:00.002-05:00

So many things to look forward to
to wonder about, to be frightened by,
Like the future.
Waiting for the future to come
Waiting for a miracle or a revelation of some sort.
Who's waiting for the right time to talk to their child about sex?
Who's waiting for the right time to quit smoking?
Who's waiting for the right time to improve or make a change?
Who's waiting for the right time to be educated?
Who's waiting for the right time to speak out loud?
Who's waiting for that right person, the Prince Charming or Princess To Sweep them off their feet?
Who's waiting for the right time to listen & pay attention?
Who's waiting for the right time to get tested?
Who's waiting for the right time to do something about global warming or pollution?
When is the right time?
Why wait, when the right time is now?

I am waiting for my time to shine
& my voice to be heard
and recognized as more than merely a child
or just another teen....
Maybe that time is NOW!

I am waiting for,Ashley Alongi

2008-11-05T17:50:00.002-05:00

I am waiting for a poem
To fly in through the window
Introduce itself and decide to stick around for a while
Or one to sneak into the room
Shifty eyed
And plant itself on my paper when I’m not looking
I'd take in a homeless poem
Down on its luck
Or a sick poem
And with some revisions I’d nurse it back to health
I'd prefer it not to be with someone already
Or it to be well to do
It can come in stumbling drunk for all I care
And I won't question how it got here
Because right now
I am waiting for a poem
And I’m getting pretty desperate…

I am waiting for, Anthony Herrero

2008-11-01T21:21:00.002-04:00

I am waiting for you.
I am waiting for the clouds to part,angels to sing.
I am waiting for this cell phone to lose meaning.
I am waiting for your guard to drop.
I am waiting for your walls to drop.
Not like molasses,that's much to slow,I've endured so much already
But like change down the sidewalk,rolling so fast you've gotta sprint to catch it
I am waiting for the music to hush.I am waiting for words - my words - to form literal meaning.
I am waiting for people to follow the rules they made.
I am waiting for the rules to get tired of boxing us in.
Slowing our every motion.Invisable last second,at my neck the very next.
I am waiting for my lungs to breathe evenly.
I am waiting for your voice to chirp happily.
I am waiting for the sun to rise.
I am waiting for a true blue new beginning.
I'm so sick of being needy,When I'm this good at everything I do.
I am waiting for my friends to cease dying.
I am waiting for pain to become gain.
I am waiting for the fire to quit burning.
I am waiting for Karma to take affect.
I am waiting for rules to be followed.
Isn't that all we have?Aren't we empty-handed when we disobey?
I am waiting for the pen to be mighter than any sword.
(Or,persay,a gun in these modern times.)
I am waiting for the good guys to win.
(the bad guys to end up in jail.)
I am waiting for endings to be joyful celebrations.
(for endings to have depth and meaning.)
I'm still waiting for you.
to have you
see you.
you.

Self Portrait Of a City Chick,Tatiana Cadet

2008-09-25T21:03:00.003-04:00

The rocky roads and cracks in the cement
As i walk up the sidewalk
The crowds of city buses
And cluster pedestrians
My pace begins to hinder
As I look around
At the faceless people
That surround me.

I wonder if they see
The same blank image
Where my face belongs
I walk alone up the path to my destiny
And wonder why these aliens
Who are supposed to be like me
Are nothing like me at all.
They wander down the hill in groups
As I struggle to arrive to the top
AloneI wonder what lies above
Is it even worth this lonely walk
That is known as my fate.

Self Potrait of a Hallway,Bria Scott

2008-09-19T15:25:00.005-04:00

Dirty and worn
paper ball here, pencil here
completely covered in tile, various hues of blue
if only I could speak
Sweat and shampoo , is it?
That smell is very much eminent wherever I go
Right here, he did it, he pulled it
And as they shuffle one by one
into me, on me, I surround them
Thy are engulfed as they follow me to their destination
Some run, some walk , talk, some are nervous
Claustrophobia perhaps?
He grabs her ass right there
She tripped you man
I see it all
I know it all
If only I could speak

The Last Time you Saw Someone (or a not so depressing piece of work), Maya Orr

2008-04-26T00:06:00.001-04:00

It was the first and last time I ever saw her. I'm still crossing my fingers that I'll never run into her again. She was an idiot. Seriously. She looked nice though - very pretty. I know this for a fact because some guy walked up to her and gave her this corny pick-up line. You know, the one about rearranging the alphabet to put u' and 'i' together? Though maybe he was on a dare or something. I don't know. Anyway, her response? "I thought they were already next to each other." She meant every word. She was totally clueless. I was a bit weirded out but didn't really care. I didn't know her. I didn't want to know her. Problem solved - except not. I was waiting for my best friend to arrive, and as if she had been waiting for this cue, she did arrive. She didn't see me at first, but she did see the clueless girl, walked towards her, hugged her (they knew each other!?) and when catching sight of my, made her way over, girl in tow.
"Hey, remember when I said I was going to bring a friend?" my friend asked. No, actually, my mouth began to form. "Yeah, so, this is her. Bridget, meet Maya. Maya, Bridget." Thanks for letting me answer oh dearest friend. With introductions over with, we headed for food, settling on a pizza place. Simple but a good choice. Or maybe it would've been had Bridget NOT taken twenty minutes to decide no, she didn't want pepperoni, she wanted mushroom and the pink Vitamin Water. Really? How long does it take to decide that? Then she took it a step further and the cash register (I swear, the cashier looked ready to kill himself - I couldn't blame him): "How much do two quarters and a dime worth again?" Oh, please spare me. Whatever. By the time she bought her slice, I was on line for a second one. Oh give me a break, I didn't have breakfast. No break was given. he new girl somehow thought that we had been bonded to sisterhood at our introduction and let all her thoughts fly out of her mouth the second she thought them. Unfortunately, each was insulting and/or dull-witted. She talked about how all the guys like her, they were all staring at her (yeah, because you're an idiot, I felt like shouting), how greasy the pizza was, and why did they put so much grease on the pizza? Then she went on to saying how I was lucky that I didn't care what other people think about me, so on and so forth. Argh! Would someone shut this girl up? Lovely lovely Diane, my knight(ess?) in shining armor, my best friend in the universe (even though she had been the one to introduce us in the first place) took control of the conversation, talking about more educated things, touching on politics and reasoning behind certain actions in not-so-political settings. Bridget had no words to say, looking incredibly dumbfounded (a Kodak moment for sure). Thank God for small miracles, huh? I don't know if I described it, but her voice, ugh. It was like...melted sugar over needles - way too sweet with a way of attacking the mind causing instant headaches, and don't let me get started on her laugh. Although I'd like (not) to give more examples of her stupidity, I think I've (blessedly) unconsciously blocked those memories since they were so traumatizing. I don't know how Diane ever became friend with her, but last I heard, she moved to California. Watch out Hollywood. No, seriously. Pick up and run away. Now.

Super Best Friends, Ashley Alongi

2008-04-26T00:05:00.000-04:00

It had started with child abuse. Or perhaps it was a symbolic sign telling me he was ready to leave the nest. Maybe. But for the sake of the story we’ll call it child abuse. Behind the Plexiglas window of the cage there she was, unmistakably the mother of all the little ones running around. In other words….fat. And there he was, much smaller , brown with big black eyes, inching over towards her. And like any loving mother would, she pushed him over with her head and let him fall over failing his tiny arms and legs about. That’s when I knew he was the hamster for me.
Thinking back on it now, following him with my finger probably wasn’t the most effective way of keeping track of him, but whatever way I did he was the one who wandered into the tiny cardboard box. This unnamed creature was enjoying all the comforts of gong to a new home. A brand new cage and food in the backseat. My mom had even put on the cars AC, which was a rarity. And yet he felt the need to squeak the whole way home. And that when the name Squeaky was born.
He spoiled me. After he was gone I couldn’t understand why the other would do certin things, like fall asleep in my pocket. Thinking back again, he probably was a narcoleptic. Every small thing he did excited my 9 year old self. The first time he walked from hand to hand, the way he put food in his cheeks to the dance he did when he peed. Everyday I would take him out for hours, most of the time forgetting he was there, catching him just in time before he would run under my bed , never to be seen again. He probably would have been fine though seeing as how he and the cat had come to a mutual agreement that if they didn’t bother one another they would be cool.
The day he died I can remember perfectly. He had a bloody nose that morning, but that wasn’t odd because he has been getting them more and more lately. I remember leaving him sitting on my mother, calling to him as I went down the stairs to school that I would see him later. I remember that day at school, someone had sunflower seeds at lunch and I had brought some home for him. But when I reached home I found my mother standing in the driveway to tell me that after three years and four months of companionship, that Squeaky was dead. Not believing I rushed upstairs to see him with a tissue draped over him like rodent CSI had shown up. One of his eyes was open and his body was rigid. This was not the Squeaky I knew. I refused to pick him up having m mother burying him in the front lawn while I watched from the window. But as she brought the empty cage upstairs I took on of the sunflower seeds from my hand and buried it next to his grave, Not only because he was my first pet, but because however lame it was, he was my first best friend.

My Dictionary, John Zurz

2008-04-25T23:59:00.002-04:00

For my seventeenth birthday a friend of mine gave me a most unusual gift: a subscription to a series of a word a day e-mails. It almost made me feel like those people who buy those calendars that give them a new word each day to help them expand their vocabularies. I say almost because those people tend to use their new words incorrectly and or at the wrong times. And so for the last year I have been getting these e-mails with different words in them.
For the longest time I had used a dictionary my mother bought me when I was in grade school, it is one of those dictionaries with the words most people use, one without fluff words. By fluff words I mean words that aren’t in a person’s essential vocabulary. After all who would call a kindergartener learning his ABC’s an abcidian? Odds are they wouldn’t understand and neither would most people. It evokes an image of a class of geniuses who are trying to find the meaning of life, not your average kindergarten class. In the dictionary my mother bought me I went and looked up words that I needed to know for vocabulary tests and such. When middle school came I began looking at certain four letter words that one begins to hear on TV and such. While we all now know what “hump” means there was a time in each of our lives when we merely thought that it was a small hill, bump, or that thing on the back of the old man drinking beer outside of the corner store.
It may sound odd to be talking this way so soon, but remember I am a teenager and as most people that looked through dictionaries was because it could be reasoned that they might have pictures or descriptions of said four letter words. As it goes the “S” section of my dictionary was the first to become worn. The others were soon to follow. You can always tell what kind of dictionary you have by the definitions of the words in it: the more primp; conservative dictionaries will give the bare minimum when it comes to defining certain words. The other kind would give slightly more detailed definitions, while they do not come close to the Urban Dictionary, they are quite telling. It’s funny how the way the dirty words are defined will tell you what kind of product you are looking at.
For the longest time words have been giving negative connotations when they do not deserve them. Since when did liberal become a four letter word? Or even conservative for that matter? ‘Son’ now can be used to refer to a friend or acquaintance, and has been for a few years. Pop culture has influenced our vocabulary more than we think. A character of the popular show The Simpsons, Homer’s catch phrase has been added into the dictionary. Now and forever “Do’h” has been immortalized as a word to be used when someone screws up or hurts themselves. The primp dictionaries won’t have it, but if you want to know what “Hunky Dory” means odds are it will be in there.
The same friend that gave me the present of the e-mails that bring me new and pretty words to use has a vocabulary to match. All of the words she uses are nice and pretty, she may curse every now and again but she sounds much more natural when speaking with her flowery vocabulary. I suppose that is the kind of vocabulary one gains when they like to write poetry. As for myself I am constantly using words I never even knew I knew how to use when I am writing. It may seem odd but none of them are large words, they all seem to be quite short, quaint even. I am no poet nor do I pretend to be, I have no pretty words to use. While they some may be quaint, they all sound rough, even when I use the nicer sounding words they always seem to come out jagged.
For some reason when I write anything I tend to ignore the word “stuff”. When teachers would go over our work they would say don’t use “stuff” or “things”. In writing these two words have become as bad as curses, they are not to be used, while when speaking no one ever says “don’t say stuff”. There seems to be a disconnect, both are ways of communicating, of expressing an idea so what goes for one should go for the other. Shouldn’t it?
I suppose the word a day e-mails may be considered the most useful present I have received in my long eighteen years of life. I especially enjoyed the week where they used words that sounded dirty but actually weren’t. Though they may not have been useful, (When would be the right time to ask someone if they were masticating?) it was certainly entertaining. I may not be in bated breath, but I certainly look forward to seeing what new gem is in my inbox tomorrow morning.

My Father sleeps with his mouth open...., Kerri McCord

2008-02-27T20:21:00.000-05:00

My father sleeps with his mouth open, drool running down his chin, Budweiser in hand, CNN on the television. Stretched out on the couch, newspapers scattered around him and on the floor serve as evidence that he continues to search for the perfection he lacks in his own life. He dwells on the rapes and murders reported, happy to have a discussion topic at the dinner table. As my father sleeps, I can almost picture his dreams. They all consist of a perfect housewife who lives to cook and clean for him and the children, and children who obey him in a snap, with straight A's and brushed hair, kids he never has to lecture, a wife who vacuums and boils water "his way". My father snores and jerks, spilling beer on his hand and the floor. He continues to doze and I wonder what would happen if I held his nose closed. I also begin to worry that he will choke on his saliva that somehow manages not to overflow onto his five o'clock shadow. Something else catches my attention; a spider is building a web around the lightbulb above the couch. The notion of my father waking up to this spidey-friend on his nose is quite satisfying.

I Believe, Sahiba Reen

2008-02-12T18:06:00.000-05:00

I BELIEVE
It took me many moments of loneliness
to discover that I was never alone.
I call myself blessed, in a true sense
as when I ask, he replies back
talks to me face to face.
I remember having asked him "why me?"
I was shown the very next moment
everyone around me
asking the same
I got the answer.
In times as I grew,
I knew he was there
as all said but
a few actually believed .
As I walked on the path shown by my parents
I discovered more
than what they thought.
They showed me the path
to reach the satisfaction
to preach his teachings .
The Almighty, we address as God.
They showed me the path
trusting me to follow it
and carry on the family tradition.

As I walked on the path shown by my parents
I saw, still see
people doing all sorts of things
to know if he really was .

They pray
some for hours and hours together.
Some fast, religiously and honestly.
And somewhere a little child
standing next to it’s parents
watching to see, how it’s done.
Men and women don’t cut their hair,
men and women keep Rozas
men and women spell each word
of the book,
unmistakably perfect .
Sheer ignorance !
They only don’t speak
to the one they are looking for
who is so near.
I tell her, I talk
My mother complains,
I don’t pray.

For the Birds, Ashley Alongi

2008-02-10T21:36:00.001-05:00

There are certain things a parent remembers from the child’s younger years. These memories stay with them and they often take them at face value. Lately though my parents have begun to understand that not everyone of those childhood moments of mine were like they seemed.
One particular moment was in kindergarten. The golden years of firsts. Many of my firsts happened in Ms. Eichner’s classroom. The first day of school, losing my first tooth, the first time I learned that not everyone was as smart as I was. But that’s a different story.
This story is about the day I cried in class. I wasnt upset about anything and couldn’t understand why it was happening, I just began to cry. They wasn’t any sobbing involved or loud noises. No sniffling or anything. The were just steady streams of tears coming from what seemed endless. Somehow Ms.Eichner , probably with those eyes in the back of her head she'd told us saw much about, saw . She motioned for her TA to take over while she lead me to the back off the room . Bending down to my level she sweetly asked me what was wrong.
In my five year old mind I knew a simple answer of “ I don’t know” would not satisfy her and would cause her to pry further. Maybe even take me to the “everything is sunshine and rainbows” guidance counselor who might have caused me to cry for real. I looked her in the eyes and simply replied “ My bird died”
She bought it. She gave me a hug, handed me a tissue and told me everything would be okay. At the end of the day she even told my mom, who offered the same support.
It hadn’t been a total lie though. My bird had died. A week before. And I wasn’t really upset about it. I actually didn’t care that much. But for the moment everyone was satisfied and I saw no reason to ruin
that.
Afterwards I often thought about telling my mother the truth, but as we walked home together I thought “its not like she’ll ever remember....”

An Old Man's Ramblings, John Zurz

2008-02-04T17:03:00.000-05:00

I’ve been alive eighty-two years and I seen everything. What, are you waiting for someone? I remember when I was waiting for someone. Had to walk fifteen miles uphill to get to that dog gern restraint. It was this lady I had met the week before, we was gonna have dinner. Where was we gonna—right at Uncle Bill’s Steakhouse Beefatorium BBQ and Grill. They made a good salad. I remember the first time I ever had a salad, musta been—well I can’t remember. I do remember my mama made it for me. My daddy was sitting there next to her and after I was done they made me go upstairs so they could have a “talk”. I remember the first time they ever talked; it was at Uncle Bill’s Steakhouse Beefatorium BBQ and Grill. They made a good salad. Why that reminds me of the time I was meeting someone there. Had to walk fifteen miles uphill, didn’t even show so I had to walk thirty-five miles uphill to get back home. Then my mama called up and asked me to pick up her medicine, reminds me of that time…

Memoir, Daniel Metz

2008-02-04T11:23:00.001-05:00

“Lucy and Mario were like another set of grandparents to me”, I loved them both. I was at Lucy's funeral saying my final words. “Although they have passed we still have their memories. Dinner at Jonathans, the dancing, and many others.” I am sure that you all know how hard it is to let go of a loved one” I said to the teary crowd. “But now we can be happy that they are together forever. Whenever I hear the song “I’ll never smile again” I remember the fun my old neighbors used to have dancing. They were at least 80 years old each and they still loved each other. When Mario died and I didn’t hear footsteps I got worried so I ran upstairs to find Lucy sitting where Mario used to sit. I asked what was the matter. She said “his is the day we used to dance”. I held her hand and said even though he’s gone you still have his spirit and the music” and on that note I pulled her up and danced, we danced to all the oldies and had fun. It was the most fun I’ve had in a long time and I think she had a good time too I remember that my family went out with the Mondells every month to Jonathan’s restaurant. I would always have the grilled cheese sandwich, my brother and sister with the chicken fingers and French fries. “You’ll both turn into chickens one day” my grandma would always say eating her tuna platter. Lucy and Mario would always share a Tuscan chicken sandwich with barley and mushrooms I still remember the smell and whenever I smell it that always cheers me up inside. Whenever we have happy memories we try to pencil-sketch our previous life so we can contrast to the Technicolor of the moment. I think it was the saddest day of my life when Mario died. All others days seem like a cakewalk but if I had to relive it I wouldn’t be able to handle it. Some say that your brain twists and bends to deal with the hardships of life I think on that day my brain snapped in half. The year was 2002 it was nearing the beginning of summer and I had just been let out of school. I jumped from the bus and was in a particularly good mood because extended day was cancelled that day. I after school I would always go upstairs because nobody was home by the time I got there and they had cable TV and soda. After watching a little “Hey Arnold” I called “Mrs. Mondell…Hello…Mr. Mondell…Are you there?” so I walked towards the back of the house and I saw Mario sleeping on the sofa. I thought to myself “He never sleeps on that couch it hurts his back”. I went to wake him up by tapping his shoulder. It pains me even to write this. I remember after a while I knew something was wrong I ran down the hall and grabbed the phone and gravely dialed my moms cell phone. 1516…6? I couldn’t remember it so I did the only thing I could do dial 911. I hysterically plead to the emergency hotline to “come over quickly please I think my grandpa is dead” I didn’t know why I called him grandpa it just seemed right. When they finally came, along with my parents they rushed him to the hospital but there was nothing they could he’s been dead for 3 hours. I don’t know when I stopped crying that night but that night I had a dream of one that afternoon me and him were standing in the sunset and he turned to me and smiled and for one brief moment all was right in my world.

The System, Wesley Mazzara

2007-12-09T21:32:00.000-05:00

Today I carry the samething
the samething I carried yesterday
I carried yesterday as I carried the day before
the day before I carried the day before that
day before that is all the same
all the same every single day
every single day since I entered the system
entered the system the day I was born
I was born into a certain style of life
style of life that I was forced to adopt
forced to adopt by the very people who made me
who made me something I never wanted to be
wanted to be an individual with no system
with no system but the one I want
one I want is a free place
a free place to express
place to express whatever I want
whatever I want yes I want what I want
what I want I do not know
do not know because I was never taught
was never taught by the system
by the system I was born into

Untitled, Ashley Alongi

2007-11-19T18:43:00.000-05:00

It would happen every Sunday. Or was it on Saturdays? Well, it was on the weekend. We would sit on my grandmothers couch, blue with daisies. Or was it green with roses? Anyway, on some kind of couch we would sit. I would be in the middle clutching my scarecrow doll, Elmo would be to my right, with my grandmother and Zoe (another seasme street monster) to my left. I would be babbling about some sort of adventure the three would be having and grandma would be copying it all down. After an always delicious lunch of elbow macaroni with lots of cheese, I would take the journal from my grandmother and start drawing pictures. She would have to remind me what each page said, seeing as I how I couldn't read or write yet. I treasured those days and I think she did too, waiting to see whatever weird story I could come up with next. Eventually the visits stopped and so did the writing. And then she moved to Florida. But before she left she gave me the journal. The book I had marveled over so much when I was little was now falling apart, its pages loose from its binding and the gold design flaking off the leather cover. But yet I still loved it. She told me to keep using it, maybe actually write the words in myself this time. I never did though. It still sits on my bookshelf, untouched so that the memories of The Adventures of Elmo, Zoe and Scarecrow girl can stay they way they always were. Perfect.

Mansaray Hope, Alison Ailsa

2007-11-19T18:42:00.000-05:00

Mansaray Hope
I have finished one part of my journey
I have come to the fork in my road
What can I look forward to
What do I set as my goal
A group home a day program
Packing groceries at a check out stand
Say good morning please and thank you
Should I be grateful that some respond
I am happy I live I hope
You have finished one part of your journey
You have come to the fork in your road
What can you look forward to
What have you set as your goal
Business finance college of choice
A trades school a skill or maybe a job
Look in the mirror
Stand tall close your eyes and see
A graduate a career
Success in its own way
Look in the mirror with me lets see
Compassion endurance kindness
Simple humanity
We will all finish our journey eventually
Grateful happy with love
With hope we will see

Why won't you stop crying?, John Zurz

2007-10-09T17:15:00.000-04:00

“Why are you crying?”
“You know why I’m crying!”
It’s a trap, I can feel it. Its something I did, I know that much, but I don’t know what I did. There is a way out of this though.
“Ok, I’m sorry.”
“Really,” the crying had paused and she looked happy but then, “What are you sorry about?”
Shit.
“You know….”
“You have no idea why you are apologizing do you?”
It was a nice try, but as I always say you can’t win them all. Though for once I would like to win one.
“Not a clue.”
With that she started crying again.
“Please stop crying.”
Nothing.
“Please stop crying?”
Now it was getting worse.
“Stop crying, stop crying. Oh dear god, please stop crying.”

My Favorite Place - Maya Orr

2007-10-06T11:46:00.000-04:00

My favorite place is among jungle trees. Vivid greens, reds, yellows and blues pop up from the plants scattered across the forest floor, plant screeping up century old tree trunks carressing them lovingly.

My favorite place is on a pirate ship. People bustling around to keep the boat running smoothly with repetitiveness broken only when Waterwatcher cries 'Ship!' and all rush to battle stations in hopes of becoming richer.

My favorite place is in a dragon's cave. Gold and jewels gathered, hoarded, and tossed around haphazardly, keeping their shape with even the hottest of dragon-flame

My favorite place is in a unicorn's meadow, with gentle creatures calmly chewing jade colored grass while one may even consent to giving me a ride.

My favorite place is beneath the ocean, surrounded by merpeople. Watching bright exotic fish play tag with the shadows, the reef, and the merchildren.

My favorite place is in the sky. Wind singing with all the different tunes in the world, and then one changing in the blink of the eye. Clouds rolling past lazily that can almost look like some animal or thing if you squint.

My favorite place is in my home. A warm promise of love and, at times, asubtle tinge of arguments and dischord, within a quiet neighborhood. Where I can curl up in any corner or lie flat on the floor and crack open a goodbook where I transport to all my other favorite places.

Everything I couldn't say, John Zurz

2007-06-18T19:52:00.000-04:00

See the sun set in your eyes, the moon rise by your side
I don’t know how to say it, but I do
It’s a feeling from deep inside—comes out when I look at you
Wind blows through your hair
And I can’t help but think
Wish that I could take it all back
That you would take me back
If only you knew what I couldn’t say
On the tip of my tongue, I can’t find the words
It’s that rose blooming at your feet, the prayer’s saving grace
The slight of hand that made you smile
The joke that made you laugh, your eyes sparkle
Like those stars in the sky, oh how I wish I could say
That I could tell you, that I love you

- For those two whose names I don’t know, but I took a picture of anyway. If only they showed up in it. Hope everything turned out ok.

An Open-ended Letter to My Babies in The Writing Center, joanna vogel

2007-06-12T18:31:00.000-04:00

Hello my lovelies! Hello my beautiful writers and readers (and you few Math and Physics studiers!), who continuously surprise me by sacrificing sleep to dredge up to the fifth floor and take up the pen (or pencil Jonathan, or pencil)!

Hello and… I suppose… goodbye? Oh, how I loathe leaving you all! For who else would I buy countless chocolate munchkins at seven o’clock in the morning and sacks of oranges to sell at bake sales? For who else would I obsess and obsess and… obsess?

Maybe I’m just a writer and, as such, am abusing the tendency to over-dramatize but, really, look, my friends, at all that we’ve been able to create in such a short time! We’ve eaten, we’ve studied math and science, we’ve held bake sales, kibitzed, partied, read, listened, laughed, ridden the F Train, banished some words and badly abused others.

We’ve written up a storm.

Now, as I leave you, I’m full of some kind of strange, almost heartbreaking sentiment. Sort of like a big fat mother bird flying out of the nest, just as her eggs have hatched and are chirping to be fed. Only, now you will have to fend for yourselves. You’ll get no regurgitated worms from me! (Well, maybe just a few, if you ask really nicely…)

But, hasn’t it been lovely?

Yes, it has. And now hopefully you’ll all learn from my many shortcomings this year and continue on to be even more beautiful and wonderful than you were when I was there to yell high-pitched prompts at you and snap my fingers for your extraordinary poetry and prose. And, while I’ve neither the time nor the tissues to write each of you poems and letters saying how much I love you and value without end your writing and dedication, know that without the support and hard work of all you pretty people, none of this magic would ever have been even remotely possible.

Thank you so much for playing along, and I hope you got as much out of the Writing Center experience this year as I did. Please keep on sharing the joy and magic of writing and literature with future generations of QHST Writing Center goers.

Peace. And thank you again for making this year so magical for me.

XOXO
-joanna

Cybersoul, Kerri McCord

2007-06-11T20:43:00.000-04:00

Mysterious identities collide,
Electric connections of questionable reality link.
Hearts melt together by bruises and bloodshed,
through exposed sentiments and
rectified clumsiness.

Cheating is justified when
one is not satisfied.
Passion travels are heart-stopping distance,
Lack of trust affixes itself to such feelings.
Separation is maintained by fear.

Passion can die in midair,
the only memory of each other lying in
old conversations, instant message boxes.
Two strangers remain apart.

Remember Quetzal, joanna vogel

2007-05-31T11:01:00.000-04:00

I remember,
not how to say I remember in Spanish,
but being read to
your voice speaking Spanish to me
like the purring of a cat –
you know the type of cat,
the one you’ve stroked until it
can’t sit still,
can only press itself, for dear life,
against your fingertips;
into the palm of your hand.

You read to me
about the Quetzal
no te muere nunca we said together
and you looked at me with green eyes,
beautiful feline eyes,
kissed my hand
and continued reading.

Beautiful
beloved
warrior boy who
cannot die is
shot through the heart by a
jealous arrow and since he
cannot die
the gods decree he will become a bird.

I knew the story already,
so I allowed myself to drift
in your purring voice,
rising from someplace deep in your throat,
bubbling up like thick,
dark honey.

I wondered about the Quetzal
and us.
What would happen if he, like Icarus,
flew too near the sun?
Would he be singed, burnt,
and fall into the sea
to drown?
Or would he mimic the Phoenix
burst into a mad dance of orange
and yellow flames and emerge
unscathed
and more beautiful?

In the same vein,
could I, a mere mortal, riddled with blemishes
and clichés,
lie so close to you,
my accented goddess,
and not be burnt by your cool skin,
not drown in the honey of your voice?
Could I be Quetzal and Phoenix,
could I be daring Icarus,
and orbit you?
Could I then fold up my wax
wings, roost safely in the
flames of you hair
a bird being read to by a beautiful cat?
You will not melt my wings.

Silent Defiance, Ginny Georgekutty

2007-05-29T20:32:00.000-04:00

“She’ll end up killing somebody”
You say
And although you speak
Those words as a joke
There is one truth
Beneath it all
That you believe
The belief that
Silence is a flaw
A problem
A social “no-no”

As part of that silence
I believe otherwise

For my silence
Is not simply shy
No,
There’s more to it
Than you may recognize

For my silence
Is a voice that stands out
And takes a side
Even if you fail to recognize
The words that lie
Hidden beneath my closed lips

My silence symbolizes
The silence of millions
Because of
Hunger, poverty, natural disasters, tragedies
Or abuse
Happening all across
The world

It spits upon
The many imposters
That con millions
Of their money
Just for their pleasure

It listens to
Every word of
Every conversation
That many of the outspoken
Disregard

It silently tortures and scolds
My victim
To the point
That they are left
Clueless as to why
Exactly
I was silent
In the first place

My silence is
My polite response
To your looks
Your questions
Your gaze

And my restraint
From any possible outburst
Of words, emotions
That would later
Haunt and humiliate me

However
To be fair
I agree that at times
My silence is
No more than an escape
To evade your question
And try to guess at
The definite answer
That you are looking for
Yet
I do not know
Or to simply
Stop myself from
Saying “I don’t know”
So many times
That I look more
Ignorant than naïve

In its’ true form
Or as with my own,
Silence is anything
But a flaw
Whose voice
Is flat and ordinary

Our Nation, Adam Samaroo

2007-05-10T22:09:00.000-04:00

I have seen the devastation and contemplation
of our nation

I have heard the pain, for the gain
of our nation

I have touched the dead, and the tears they shed
of our nation

I have smelt the lead, the sulphur bed
of our nation

I have tasted the hate, and the want to eliminate
of our nation

long belts lash upon all of our faces

ETERNALLY SCARRED

Ode To a French Stewardess, Will P.

2007-05-09T22:28:00.000-04:00

I'm in flight Air France 493
And I'm seated in seat 36C
And as the French beauty of my dreams
Walks past 36C
All I'm thinking is that this seat
Is the second best 36C

Because on this plane
Is a woman with no name
She stole my heart and fastened it securely
She explains how to use my life vest
Just incase her and I need to make an:
In-flight-emergency-evacuation
Falling in love from 36,000 feet is no easy task.

Oh french stewardess
We we are about to take off!
Because I got my cockpit locked in its upright position
Anytime you walk past
I feel like first class
Let's start some turbulance french stewardess
And let our lips crash into a, French kiss

But as you hand me my
Pre-packed
Shrink-wrapped
In-flight
Single-serving
Fresh off the conveyer belt
Worse than Taco Bell
Poor excuse for,
Peanuts,
I saw your ring

My non-stop flight to your heart has been cancelled
Are we loosing cabin pressure?
French Stewardess

Ode To My Watch, Ginny Georgekutty

2007-03-31T09:45:00.000-04:00

Silently Ticking as the hands move
so precious is the time
that your mechanisms express
smooth is your metallic plate
wrapped around the black oval
1-12 do you range from
but eternities do you hold
so granted do we take those seconds
those singular moments of anticpation
that years later
we look back upon
with simply
regret and remorse
with dread do we then realize
that your knob on the side
can not turn back the hands
to those moments
a second time
for us

Grandma's Thimble, Ashley Alongi

2007-03-08T08:37:00.000-05:00

My most prized possession is small. It has never been and probably will never used by me. It is tucked a way in a small blue box. It is a thimble. But not just any thimble. It was my grandmothers. It was the one thing I wanted when she died. Through the piles of jewelry my cousins kept shoving at me I found it, entangled in a strand of pearls. Taking it out of its box my fingers running across the velvet lining, I placed it on my pinky and began to laugh. That thimble which my cousins felt had no value was an inside between my grandma and I. While the thimble could fit on everyone of her long slender fingers it could only fit on my pinky finger even at the age of five. Even though that day I left with expensive gold necklaces and rings all cared about was that 15 cent thimble. The thimble, now losing its shine, sits on my bookshelf. When I look at it , it helps me remember all the good times and it makes me laugh. Not just because of my insanely large fingers, but because I don't think grandma sewed one day in her life.

Untitled, John Zurz

2007-03-05T14:46:00.000-05:00

Tuesday, February 15th, a day that will live in infamy. It was on this day that one of the most ghastly crimes ever committed took place. It occurred in the classroom of one Ms. Johnson, a math teacher at James Garfield High School in Queens, New York. It was in this room that the school was forever changed. Ms. Johnson was away from her desk at the time, she wasn't even in the room, another class was in there and she was taking a well deserved break from yelling at and berating her math classes. It was during her break that it occurred, a troll doll was viciously attacked.
Being that she was not in the room at the time no one took notice of it, no one noticed what had happened. Another teacher, the police refuse to name her due to the ongoing investigation, was in the room at the time, yelling at and berating her class. When the class was over Ms. Johnson returned to her classroom and talked for a few minutes with the other teacher, when her class started filtering in she went to her desk to get her seating chart, so she could call them by their names as she embarrassed them in front of their peers. It was then that she discovered what had occurred. The troll doll was lying there on the desk, unmoving. When she went over to pick it up she discovered the new mustache and beard, both drawn in marker.
She immediately called an ambulance, but it was too late, the marker had set in and could not be removed. The troll doll was stuck with the beard and mustache. One of the first responders, an EMT, had this to say, "I've seen some pretty bad stuff, I saw people killed by stiletto heels, others cut their own throats, but this takes the cake. What kind of sicko would do this to a defenceless troll doll?" After the EMT's had found what had happened they called the police, specifically SVU (Special Victims Unit) who were trained to handle crime scenes other officers couldn't. Even they were shocked. A few of the officers threw up upon arriving to the scene; the smell of marker was still strong.
The detectives on the scene immediately found the marker used in the attack, a Stanford brand permanent marker, a Sharpie as it is called on the street. The attacker had left it on the desk not three feet from the troll doll, preliminary reports state that no fingerprints were found on it. The police were able to rule out Ms. Johnson as a suspect, but every other student who was in the room that day is still under suspicion.
Reports state that the troll doll is in stable condition at Long Island Jewish Hospital, doctors said that it was touch and go for a while but the doll will make it. Though they say the marker will never come off. Ms. Johnson has declined comment at this time and is current;y at the troll doll's side.

R-igin-L, Will P.

2007-03-05T14:41:00.000-05:00

Were all copy cat clones
of zeroxed drones
Dislexic in a fun house
these mirriors are my home
Pale blank faces
with their cold blank stares
their his and goodbye's
show that the world really cares
Run to your 9 to 5
and rely on your news
But when will you realize
a tie is just a noose

The Writing Center, John Zurz

2007-03-05T14:33:00.000-05:00

In the writing center, well, we write words. These words become sentences or stanzas. They are then made into stories, poems, or even plays. Naturally we take it all very seriously. Ok, you got me, we are all insane. Some of us more than others. You would be hard pressed to find a relatively normal person, but who is normal anyway?
The heart and soul of the writing center is writing. Though it has been known to shift to other places, like Math or gossiping. But mostly writing. When writing, there is usually a prompt involved. The prompts could be normal, awkward, funny, or at times cause tears. We learned that one the hard way, no more hysterical crying for us. Though, we could have done without the awkward prompt phase as well.
After writing there is usually sharing, or in the case of others (MAYA!!) not sharing. We have been trying to ween people off the little disclaimers that they tend to give. It isn't working, though we haven't tried electro-shock therapy yet.
In addition to this, people are encouraged to bring in pieces of writing for revision. It could range from something creative to one of those essay's that your scotch drinking, chain-smoking English teacher assigns. No one does, ever. This is why most of the math and gossiping takes place. But if anyone ever did bring anything in our criticism would leave you with a warm feeling inside. That feeling would be internal bleeding.
Our lawyer, Mr. Kavorkian, is currently trying to inform me that this is probably not the best way to draw attention to ourselves. Also we probably shouldn't have hid that body in the closet. Anyway, we hope to see you at the writing center soon. Hopefully to write and not to serve us a summons.

Untitled, Michelle Asciote

2007-02-09T19:12:00.000-05:00

Even though you think you see me I am hidden
Although you say you hear me
You're not understanding me
You say that I am strong
Why do I feel so weak?
I am told that I am confident
Why do you belittle me?
You say that I am different but
I feel like a stereotype
Even though I stand tall I feel so small...
Don't act so different around me
Fearing you might upset me
I can't take everything you've thrown at me
But I'll keep on swinging after you've finished
I may not be everything you so blindly believe me to be
One thing you've forgotten
One thing I pride myself on
is heart
I know how to love, like I loved you
I have compassion, but I can't keep feeling for you
But I will continue
Most of all
I know how to forgive
Just like I've forgiven you

A Place to Continue Wishing, joanna vogel

2007-02-09T11:23:00.000-05:00

America is not a place you would call
a homeland.
You cannot squeeze good folktales
out of three hundred
years and apple pie
topped with cheese
or grow a proper fruit tree
from cement.

The streets of New York do not smell
like the folds in your mother’s skirt
or the stray tobacco leaves in your
grandfather’s shirt pocket.
And, if these streets do sound
like a kitchen;
bursting with aunties wielding
wooden spoons, mother dressed
in the apron with frayed
strings
and a patch beneath the pocket,
you cannot understand what they are saying.
America is the place
you go to dream
about the old country, to remember
the homeland, and a place
to continue wishing.

I Would Like To Lose, Jonathan Mendoza

2007-02-07T16:08:00.000-05:00

I would like to lose… I would like to lose… Honestly, I don't know where to begin. Being someone who was born with cerebral palsy, I've always dreamed, not of losing, but of gaining something. Gaining the freedom to run and run until it feels like flying, gaining the freedom to glide upon that shimmering coat of ice in the middle of winter.

Losing what I was born with would completely change my life. Sometimes I don't know if that's good or bad. My hunger for reading and my drive to write has always come from what I don't have; that seemingly unreachable goal.

In some ways my disability is a gift; something that makes me want to reach beyond my boundaries and ignore limitations. You see, even though I might be physically disabled, I've always pushed my mind to the limit, imagining what life would be like on the other side of the looking glass and striving to do the best with what I have.

I think that losing my disability would sap my drive. It might prevent me from looking and thinking outside the box, because there won't be a box anymore. I know I sound crazy, but losing my disability, would be like losing a part of me. Losing all the memories, and all the experiences I've had, tucked away with me in my little box world.

Never Forgotten, Ginny Georgekutty

2007-02-02T17:07:00.000-05:00

Never Shall I forget that time when words became a weapon.
Never Shall I forget the moment his face popped out of the window with such hatred against us.
Never Shall I forget that night, a darkness that greeted my sister and I with dirt and pebbles that scraped our faces.
Never Shall I forget the fear I saw transfixed in my sister’s eyes.
Never Shall I forget his words that brought shame onto our identity.
Never Shall I forget the eyes cast down, silent yet fearful as they kept walking,
Never Shall I forget how powerless we were to stop it.

Never Shall I forget the silence that filled the air with our hopes that he would disappear

Nor

the words of an elder to simply walk the other way and ignore him.

Never Shall I forget those moments even now, years after he has vanished.

Never.

Pencil Love, Natasha Bascombe

2007-01-26T00:03:00.000-05:00

Why Oh Why do you neglect me? Is it because I don’t pencil in to your busy schedule, or maybe I’m never on point. Is the “Hustle and Bustle” of life too much for you to handle, so much that you can’t have one minute with me! NOT ONE!

I noticed our time was fading, so I decided to reflect. Reflect because I knew what was to come. I thought of the great masterpieces we created together. Your sweet hand around my waist… Your grip not too strong, not too lose, but firm and confident… All the complex problems we went through, Fought through, and FINISHED! All the sweet nothings you wrote that poured from your soul into mine! I collected them ALL, HELD them for YOU, I WAITED!

I WAS THERE! RIGHT THERE! Your friend! Your companion! Your LOVE! YOUR LIFE. I lived for you and you for me. We were what is said “meant to be”. Our connection gleams like star rubies, blinding everyone with our talent. A duet we are, A duet that sang a song with no end… The melody rings loudly in my head now as I glance down at reality. What once was, but no longer is. I look down at the blank paper and see my vanishing soul. That once loving hand reaches again, but this time to throw me away. For I am just a pencil now…No Longer your own…

Zindagi, Deepika Kewlani

2007-01-24T21:26:00.000-05:00

Zindagi is not just breathing
It's not just surviving
Zindagi nahin hai just being a human figure
Aapka zindagi kimti chees hai
Please don't waste
Reincarnations, nahin pata hai kya hoga
Enjoy every minute as if there is no next
Kyun ki nahin pata hain if there is anything left
Do you really know the truth?
Zindagi mein sab chupa chupi hain
You need to live to find out what zindagi really is
Yeh toh son nahin hai, lakin kimti toh hai
Lakho is not enough to purchase life
Aapka kyal rakhna, zindagi pura karo
Don't waste something more precious than gold
LIFE

This Friend of Mine (Ode to a Bar Stool), Kaitlyn Pyne

2007-01-22T16:11:00.000-05:00

A lifeless, dull object lies below me
the copper color as bright as a shiny new penny
I feel like an empress gazing down at her subject,
on a cushion as soft as a feather
Blue stripes, alive as fireworks,
dance across a dark blue sky
This tall obtuse object with secrets from the past,
alive in its backbone,
aching for more gossip, more heartache
It looks soft and timid among the other objects
ashamed of its color, its size, its shape
it's no wonder why, with legs long like a model
Alive is this lifeless shape,
content am I

nuts..., joanna vogel

2007-01-12T17:58:00.000-05:00

The last man on earth sat in a room…
There was a knock on the door.

“Damn-it Sheila!” Herb screamed, banging his fist on the mahogany arm of his swivel chair.

“Herb, Soup’s on!” Sheila gave a final smart rap on the door, ignoring the “Do Not Disturb” sign that hung from the knob (the other side of which read “Maid, Clean This Room") and walked back to the kitchen where steam rose from a pot of murky green, split pea soup that rested on the stove.

What a loon. She thought, slicing a small loaf of olive bread. All this “I’m the last man on earth and it’s up to me to continue populating the species. Come on Sheila, come on baby, play along.” Why couldn’t he do something normal like start a bridge club or be a Trekkie? Anything.

But no, always this last man bullshit. Three O’clock in the morning and there he is, poking away. “Come on baby, come on. It’s for the good of the species…”

As if it wasn’t enough that she had been married to him for thirty years and had borne him two children. No. Now at fifty years old she had to start re-populating the goddamn planet.

“Ouch!” Sheila nicked her thumb with the bread knife just as Herb strolled into the kitchen, bare feet sticking to the linoleum tiles. Fly open. He didn’t even say anything. Just stood there with his fly open, leaning against the fake marble countertop to give her the best possible view of his open fly.

A drop of blood fell from Sheila’s thumb onto the un-sliced portion of the bread. It rolled down the floury crust, to create the tiniest pool behind the un-sliced bread, on the wooden cutting board.

“Oh for goodness sakes.” and she ran at him with the knife.

Life, Ginny Georgekutty

2007-01-10T20:35:00.000-05:00

Every day she woke up
sitting in the kitchen
gazing out the window
with their faces looking back
not with the same smiles she knew
only with the regret, the fear and the anger
hidden deep inside her
It had been years, probably three
if she had to guess
yet she still could not grasp
that they were truly gone
she kept thinking
It couldn't have happened
It must have been a dream
Yet she knew inside
it was the only true reason
for the mess her life became
they say time heals all wounds
sure she thought, but with a scar
as a reminder each day
of the life she now faced
all alone, by herself
Why did it have to be her
Why not the bloke down the street
or the one next door
who's simply bored out of his mind
she didn't want this life
with nothing but pain and suffering
nothing but a million corpses
or the funerals of their families
grieving over their loss
of course, what would you know
you didn't live this life
She got up with a heavy sigh
and walked out the door
willing to finally face
the cruel, unfair reality
she tried to hide from, for years
in spite of her fears
of being alone,
or making mistakes
without them there to help her up
but that's the way life works
random with its twists and turns
she just had to learn to face them,
and make the most of them in her life

"Ashley Wrote This in The Car This Morning Because Ms. Mayo Said To" (or "Normal", if you'd prefer something more conventional)

2007-01-03T19:27:00.000-05:00

Why aren't you like us?
Why don't you like what we like?
What aren't you normal?

What is normal?
Aren't I normal when I act like myself?
No normal is what's usual

Then whats the usual?
How I usually act?
No usual is whats ordinary
Normal is ordinary!

So, whats ordinary?
Something thats not special

What about unique
Different
Remarkable
Me?

Well thats why
Thats why I'm not normal

for you on a holiday, joanna vogel

2007-01-01T00:42:00.000-05:00

I am not in the fashion of receiving
gifts.
I make strange faces
to convey gratitude,
then cover them with my hands.
All you see are my
nervously bitten fingernails
which cannot really tell you how
much I think my heart
might fall out from loving you,
and how inadequate I feel in return.

I think I may be a little old
to start breaking out the hot glue,
the paper plates, elbow macaroni, and,
in the absence of my needles and wool,
I have knit you a poem for Christmas,
for Hanukkah,
for Kwanzaa and New Years.
Now, don't get too excited,
I don't know what you've heard about me,
and remember,
this poem is a generic.
Come to think of it,
I think I might sell it
to my pharmacist,
might barter it with those
silly Hallmark people,
and get you a proper gift.

Shorter Fiction, Michelle Asciote

2006-12-27T10:58:00.000-05:00

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...............

Wide Open, Anthony Herrera

2006-12-20T20:06:00.000-05:00

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.

Stars of a Neighbor; Industrial Giant, Ginny Georgekutty

2006-12-16T15:34:00.000-05:00

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

Surprise, Anonomyous Contributor

2006-12-13T20:39:00.000-05:00

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.

Get On The Left Lane, Chris Chattergoon

2006-12-11T21:06:00.000-05:00

“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...

Him, Tom Pascal

2006-12-09T17:50:00.000-05:00

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

Mask Poem, Jonathan Mendoza

2006-12-02T18:36:00.000-05:00

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…

Parenthood, Kaitlyn Pyne

2006-12-01T11:29:00.000-05:00

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.

He Is My Problem, Shanicca Conyers

2006-11-28T19:40:00.000-05:00

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

Approaching Perfection - by: Ashley Hughey

2006-11-22T18:48:00.000-05:00

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!

Future Phone Calls, Ashley Alongi

2006-11-15T20:41:00.000-05:00

"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.

My Favorite Place, Vickie Lennon

2006-11-10T18:27:00.000-05:00

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.

SECRETS, Ginny Georgekutty

2006-11-08T13:19:00.000-05:00

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?

Untitled, John Zurz

2006-11-05T15:04:00.000-05:00

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.

Dayle Wise; First CAV Recon, '70, Vietnam

2006-10-28T09:28:00.000-04:00

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.”

Cherrystones -- joanna vogel

2006-09-28T17:08:00.002-04:00

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.

Welcome... again!

2006-09-26T21:14:00.000-04:00

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

"horse"-by Wesley

2006-06-02T12:30:00.000-04:00

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

A longer story - John

2006-05-29T14:14:00.000-04:00

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.

Story of a girl...By-Jennifer Canales

2006-05-10T14:29:00.001-04:00

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

Ensemble of Short Stories---Ginny

2006-05-09T14:37:00.000-04:00

Click the link below for the short stories:

http://lonekitty.livejournal.com/

"as it passes by"-Wesley

2006-05-09T14:33:00.000-04:00

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

"Runnin' to no End" - Anonymous

2006-05-06T12:27:00.000-04:00

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’

"Dreamin' with your eyes open" - Anonymous

2006-05-04T16:16:00.000-04:00

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?

"Blue" -- Poem by Joanna Vogel

2006-05-04T14:42:00.000-04:00

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.

"Window" -- Poem by Joanna Vogel

2006-05-02T15:02:00.001-04:00

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.

Welcome to The Q.H.S.T Literary e-Zine!

2006-05-01T17:45:00.000-04:00

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!!!~