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

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

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

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

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

“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

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

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

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

“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

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

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

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

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

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

“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

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.

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

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

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

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.