W.O.R.D. Club Archives

Week One

Haiku

Calypso Starling

Stars pepper the sky Glowing moon smiles from above Night is falling fast

Ink blots stain my hands Lost in my own world, scribbling Writing 'round the clock

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Ashley Coulson

I slowly look away And say nothing, like always. Still, I know you know.

One picture perfect Girl in a picture perfect World. Really? Look deeper .

Embedded in the Words, trapped in a blissful dream, You hold out your hand.

You look up at me, Panting and grinning, so cute! You’re such a good dog.

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Gabriela Haworth

Sun dips beyond trees; Colours stream across the sky. Do you hear its song?

Stars sparkle tonight, Each a possibility. Step into my world.

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Bailey Glade

Nature during Spring The grass was blowing, In the wing, All was calm and quiet

Flowers Blooming in the sun, Closing with the moon, Always the beautiful, Flowers

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Callista Lovis

Stale, still, pond of old A single, lightest of touch Ripples all around

Piercing golden ray Light through yonder window breaks Single brand of fire

Farewell, my old friend I wait for your arrival To start a new day

Week Two

Chain Story

Calypso Starling

Once, when she was very small, Antonia Oberon discovered magic. Now, it was not your ordinary sort of magic, with wands and incantations. No, this magic was something much, much more ancient.

Ashley Coulson

Not only was this magic ancient, it was also dangerous. Because this magic was drawn straight from the core of the witch. With every spell that Antonia cast, a small part of her faded away. But as more and more of the young girl faded, her magic grew more and more powerful. Though Antonia didn't want to fade away into nothingness, oblivion, she also didn't want to stop her magic. You see, the magic was addicting. Once you start using it, it's nearly impossible to stop.

Gabriela Haworth

At first, when she was young, Antonia had considered this a small price to pay. For does someone else not die with every tick of the clock that goes past? Antonia used to sit in the attic and watch the old grandfather clock - tick, tock, tick, tock... each one of those ticks another person dead, one for each person who has ever walked on the planet, and - eventually - one for her, too. Until recently, this wasn't a thing Antonia felt she could shy away from; it was the rhythm of life. But one day, when the girl reached her early teens and half her life had ebbed away, she met an ancient, wizened man in a marketplace, thought of what it must be to grow old, and from that day Antonia changed.

Anja Murtaja

Antonia no longer wanted for the power when she was not using it. Slowly, the addiction faded, and with every passing day, she thought more and more about her encounter with the old man. He had shown her the expanse of what she would miss if she continued to use her destructive power, and all the good deeds she could do even without it. Despite this, she could not fathom what she could achieve without power, having used it for every little thing throughout her life — she could barely wash her dirty dishes on her own.

Bailey Glade

But she took up the task, slowing ebbing away from the want to use to magic that dwelled inside her. She learned to live without it. True, it was hard and her hand quickly grew calloused, but she was no longer killing herself with each chore and task she performed. Antonia grew to like this new life, and as the want to perform magic left her, her beauty grew. For the magic wasn't only draining her life, it was draining her beauty too.

Week Three

Free form
(With inspiration from the poem Caged Bird, by Maya Angelou)

Bailey Glade

Flying. Oh, how I longed to fly again.
The freedom, the air, the breeze.
I flit, I flutter my wings;
caught, forever, until the end of time.
The despair!
The horror!
Oh, how I longed to be free again,
even if it was only for a moment,
To feel the freedom of the air again;
I beg you, let me be free,
do not take captive my kind,
for if you were caged,
you would understand.
But to save you the horror, I plead:
"Let me free! Let me free!"

Anja Murtaja

Look.
Look how the wind rattles the bars.
Look how the bars slice up the sky.
Slivers of blue,
Breath swoops through the stale air,
Glimmers of reflected light.

Look.
Look how the outside mocks us.
Look how it laughs in our face.
Beyond the steel,
A bird,
Hooting.

Look.
Look how dark it is now.
Look at the gaps.
Too small to fit through,
A confine,
Still.

It's dark enough now.
We could,
Just,
Slip,
Through those gaps.

We tried.

Ashley Coulson

Dear Everett,
I’ve changed.
I’m no longer the girl
I used to be.
The girl who followed.
The girl who listened.
The girl who obeyed.

Dear Everett,
I don’t believe in fairy tales
anymore.
Honestly,
I don’t know
if I ever did.

Dear Everett,
Have you ever watched
the sunset?
The way the colors
streak the sky
and bathe the world
in bubblegum pink
and daffodil yellow
and blue violet
and tangerine orange.

Dear Everett,
I am that sunset now.
Unapologetic.
Unafraid.

Dear Everett,
I don’t believe in walls.
I don’t believe in cages.
I don’t believe in pretending
to be someone I’m not.

Dear Everett,
I’m free.

Ginger Crowdy

Kingfisher's fate

When the sun goes down
And the sky turns red,
Kingfishers' blue gown,
Is seen.

He flaps his wings,
He shwooshes through the air,
To forget all those things.
All those things.

His eyes are sparkling,
When holing the clear air.
Because he knows,
He is the fisher's real king.

He flaps his wings,
He swooshes though the air,
To forget all those things,
All those things.

Freedom and peace?
Gone.
The danger does increase
Up and upon!

He flaps his wings.
He swooshes through the air,
To forget all those things,
All those things.

It is too late,
He has to go.
It is his fate.
And he was gone.

Lucia Fox

I sing
Of the distance
And the time
And the places
Which I will never see

I sing
Of the mountains
And the valleys
And the forests
Which I can only wish for

I sing
And they think I sing for them
But I do not
And they wonder if I know
What I am missing
But I do

I sing
And my song is not one of freedom
Or one of capture
Or one of happiness
Or one of mourning

I sing
And my song is full of wishes
And stars
And rainbows
And clouds

That is why I sing

Rhea Miller

Look to the skies, brush away the vines, clutch the prison bars that hold you, that keep you inside. Long to grasp at the wind till its wrath has yet thinned, listen to what they told you, you must abide. Hold yourself to your promises, honestly, wide eyed and staggered, frightened and ragged, but closing your eyes and clutching onto your dreams. The images that flood your mind like spilled paint spreading and mixing that you dance through, splashing up against the walls as you skid through the puddle of a million different shades.

Look to the skies as you're wrenched backwards from your daydream, open your mouth to scream, but you're muffled by the thin arms that slink around you, blink and they've found you, and you're drowning in the seething vines. Struggle and writhe, retrieve all your knives, cut through the ropes that bind you. Watch the sun circle the sky again and again and you cannot move for the life of you.

Look to the skies from your prison, and you feel yourself give in, and sink down into the bed of grass. A tunnel of darkness blocks the sunlight, and you are flooded with memories, of bare feet running through the woods, of summertime watermelons and sweet juice slicked up the sides of your mouth in a sugary smile, of clutching the rough branches of trees and pulling yourself to the top to feel the sunlight's embrace. And you know, you know, you know that this is a rough patch, and you cannot quite stand, and you miss when you ran, wild and free, through the bright morning. And you know, you know that it will be hard to pull away from the dark, to hang onto the stars, to keep your eye on the part that you know you need to feel. And you know you must do this.

Look to the skies, reach up, up, strain your arms, and pull apart the clouds to allow the sunlight to burn away the vines. Grow bigger than your prison and brush it aside. Fill your mind with just the light.

Look to the skies and feel satisfied.

Gabriela Haworth

This is the end.

This is the end, yet still only the beginning - the very beginning of the beginning; the very end of the end. Time is endless, and it has only just begun.

Surely, if time is endless, then time does not exist...

These are the thoughts that cloud my brain day and night; I open my mouth to sing, but no sound comes out - I am dwarfed by the power of my own mind, locked within itself. You could say I am mad, though I prefer alternative. Not that there’s anyone around to call me alternative, not that there ever will be, ever, until the end of time.
Time, why? Why do all my thoughts inevitably end with time? Why is time even a concept I am considering; why is it even a thought on my mind if I am destined to stay here, trapped in my own eternity, forever? Sometimes I hear whispers carried along by the wind; sometimes they float by my lifelong cell. As each door closes, another door opens, they decree, voices of hope audible even in their resounding, year-long echoes. They do not have time to think of time. They panic, they stress; they cry out in mock desperation that their life is so unfair while I sit timelessly alone and watch them live. Doors open all around them, dancing, flashing bright colours, yet they are too blind even to notice their presence. Leaving me in my own world of fantasy, driven mad by the unreachable prospect of those doors.
They are right; as each door closes, another door opens, but nobody watches as they do so. Nobody takes the time to look; it’s all experience, while for me it’s all look and no experience and there’s nothing I can do.
I doubt any of them have ever seen me, yet I know them all by name; I know every aspect of their lives - I would know if any of them wanted to be known as alternative. Yet there is nothing that separates them from me, nothing but these bars - thin cords of wire in reality, but leagues wide in my alternative reality. A reality that is just as real, but different from theirs.

This, this is why I am not mad, this is why I am alternative and nothing more. Perspective. They cannot see it, but all I can do is see it. If anything, they are the mad ones.

Eliza Corrids

Already feeling
prepared and wise,
Below the purple
hazy skies

Carelessly wandering,
closed my eyes.
Dumbfound as I wonder
ahead what lies?

Eagerly walking,
down the hall.
Following, one or two.

Gawking at the
words that ponder.
How can I not
get there yonder?

Aurora Ranvier

Outgrow

The warmth that used to fill the air
taken over by the veil of secrecy
Once flourished now looks so bare
you know it was never my cup of tea

If you were here, we'd made fun of
the malicious look on their face
I swear they intend to make
my life an utter despair
I mind my own thing,
but they keep giving me their signature death stares
Guess the war has been declared

And it's been years since you moved out
from the house
of your family legacy
Leaving all the memories
locked inside a rusty wardrobe
It used to be our hideout
Your house was bought by someone
to fill the vacancy
Matching bracelets that we bought
now lost with the flow
for they were outworn
We had outgrown
whimsical jokes we once owned
Scolded by the neighbours
we have always been a bother
since we were four
Tin can telephones
left with no response
If you're back in this town
will you smile or frown?
Are there still things we haven't outgrow?

Calypso Starling

Whispers rise from the darkness.
What are they saying?
Nothing.
What are they not saying?
Everything.
I turn, but I’m too late.
The figures have turned to smoke, and wisped away.

Frantic
I run.
Run run run;
Away from the lies and fake smiles,
The treachery and slimy slippery deeds
Of those too hopeless to care.
But I am not hopeless
Yet.
There may be a chance
But I’m running
Out of time.
Running, running.

My feet ache
But I don’t dare let them slow
Let them stop
Lest I fall behind and become
Forgotten.
Forgotten like all those centuries worth
Of sacrifices and love
And pain and violence and
Hate.
We forget,
Forget
So that we can justify our passivity.
Our unwillingness to change.
But when we ignore history,
It has a way of catching up to us.

I’m slowing now.
No.
No, I mustn’t.
But I do.
The train tracks below my feet seem to stretch for miles,
Not another soul around.
I am the only one.

It’s too far
Too much
Too hard.
I slump to the brown, shriveled grass,
Defeated.
But then, a sound.
The whistle
Of a train.
I look back, over my shoulder and
Sure enough, it’s fast approaching.
Speeding toward where I sit.
No, stand: I rise to my feet, barely daring to hope.
And the battered, rusted, graffitied old clunker
Is beautiful to my eyes.

I ready myself.
Shaking out my weary limbs,
Sharpening my sluggish thoughts
On the whetstone of my mind.
Here it comes.
I cannot miss it.
Faster, faster,
Closer, closer.
This is my one shot.
I bend my knees,
A newborn fawn, preparing to jump.
My hands outstretched
Like the tree branches of spring.
Here. Now.
I leap.
Freedom.

Week Four

Group meeting role-play.

Week Five

Words Taken From a Book

Ashley Coulson

The Host by Stephenie Meyer
anything | up| reach| Jamie| get|spoke|
|cheek| discovered| answer| welded

She said that anything
was possible
when you looked up
into a sky woven
with memories
and welded together
with stars
and bicycle spokes
and soft words
and believed
that you would find an answer.
A meaning.
A place where everything
made sense,
where fate was kind
and fire was forgiving.
Jamie believed that, too.
He would cup my cheek in his hand
and point up at the cosmos
his face filled with wonder
as if he were the one
who had discovered it.
I don’t look at the sky anymore.
I can’t reach Jamie
because he can’t reach me.
But sometimes
I still get tangled in a web
of his words
and I look up.
Not at the sky.
Not yet.
Instead,
I look at what lies ahead of me.
And for a moment
just a moment
the hurt vanishes
and I am part of a universe filled with the promises
of tomorrow.

Lillian Davis

Anne of the Green Gables by L.M. Montgomery
white | whole | Anne | crop | clock |
shining | now | yourself | her | call

Hear

Do you hear the sky?
For it calls for you, every morning, without fail
And it continues, late into the night

Do you hear the sun?
Do you hear it shining?
Do you hear her, how she sings?

The clock's ticks are all that fill your ears
Aren't they, Anne?
Do you never listen?

The wind rustling through the crops is
but an invitation, girl;
Take it, it's much delayed

Do you hear how it burns?
White-hot, searing
Yet its cries and calls are not of pain

(come on, listen for yourself)

Now, we ask, for what do you wait?
The sun, the sky, the wind, the fire
They all call for you

Do you wait for yourself?
Do you hear, or do we expect more than you give?

Do you hear yourself, Anne?
Do you hear your song?
For there is much to be learned from its words

(come on, listen for yourself)

Gabriella Haworth

1984 by George Orwell
figure | window | flung | dead |
overwhelmed | understand | issuing | story

Overwhelmed
I see you through the misty glass
fifty yards away,
a hundred years away,
lost, suspended in time,
a shadowy figure,
you move so fast
blink and I’d miss you
I miss you
I miss you already
though you’re not even gone
the story of your life beats its rhythm in my heart
spilling its final chapter into my soul
and I don’t understand
I can’t understand
why you choose to leave this way
but it’s happening
the bridge of a hundred years between us
yet only fifty yards
and a pane of glass
and I want to reach out
but I can’t
and it tears my soul apart
as you throw yourself at the window
our eyes meeting for the briefest of moments
and I can read the thousand terrors
issuing from your heart
I catch them in the palm of my hand
and hold tight,
hold tight as you fall,
a ballerina dancing on the wind,
and flung through the doors of time
and I hear those echoes in my mind
the echoes of the song of the dead
as you alight
on the crest of a distant wave
blink and I’d miss you,
I miss you.

Lucia Fox

Eight Pieces Of Silva by Patrice Lawrence
some | even | know | could | I |
starting | down | so

Some people say
That the winds howl
And steal your breath
And your mind
And even your soul

Some people say
That the winds know your secrets
And that anything
That you whisper to them
Is not safe

Some people say
That the winds could scream
So loudly that you
Could hear them from
A thousand miles away

Some people say
That they saw the winds
And they stole their hearts
And their souls
And left them wild

But I want to be wild
And free, like the winds
With their howls
And their secrets
And their screams

And if that means
Slowly starting to become
One of the winds myself
As some people say
Then I do not care

And if that means
Going down into the depths
Of the winds' valleys
As some people say
Then I do not care

And if that means
Going so far that
I would become a monster
As some people say
Then I do not care

Do you hear me?
I said
I do not care

Anja Murtaja

Circe, by Madeline Miller
Feeling | Know | All | Goddesses |
Spoken | Wiser | Run | Knelt

I’ve spoken a a thousand things
And known all there is to know.
Yet I’ve knelt at the feet of wiser goddesses
And run from feeling too.
All my life I thought I was right
And I was, except for one:
I’m not on my own
I’m pieces of the cosmos,
Living as a human for a while.

Aurora Ranvier

The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, by Douglas Adams
Fiction | Hitchhiker | Convoluted | Liars | Barbarians |
Tapestry | Starry | Void | Sky | Pavement

Sometimes I wish I was inside those fiction books
Where I know every tear I shed will be worth the pain
But now I feel like a hitchhiker
Standing on the side of the road
No one is pulling over
Am I living in such a convoluted world?
Where the liars come out from their hiding
Pointing fingers like barbarians
Whatever I do and don’t do
I cannot change that, can I?
So I lay in this tapestry
Trying to accept what comes to me
But when I look into the starry void
I cannot help but think
What happened when the time is over?
Will we fly high to the sky
Or be buried under the pavement?

Calypso Starling

Mockingjay, by Suzanne Collins
anticipated | blow | know | asks | Peacekeeper |
watched | exercises | everyone | one | match

I didn’t anticipate it.
I should have, but I didn’t.
How that one warm night in spring, while everyone slept,
Something in me
snapped.
How I lit the match.
Blowing on the embers,
I watched the flames grow:
a phoenix-colored blossom, lighting the night.
And as the stars emerged,
one by one,
smoke filled the air.
But I,
I didn’t care.
No, I reveled in it.
The destruction, the despair.
As the first screams arose,
and those who called themselves the Peacekeepers
attempted to cling to some semblance of sanity,
I fled.
But I was watching.
And when the smoke at long last cleared,
and the scent of charred flesh faded,
everyone carried on as always,
and tried to forget.
Sometimes life is an exercise in letting go.
But I,
secluded
and alone,
Have failed to do just that.
So I watch,
silent.
No one knows I am the one who started the fire,
But I do.
I know.

Calypso Starling

The Hunger Games, by Suzanne Collins
moment | murmuring | lady | floor | she |
screams | speak | voice | hearts | piece

The Lady lives alone.
She always has, and as far as anyone can tell,
Always will.
Some say they can hear voices
Coming from her ramshackle old house.
Maybe there are voices.
Who knows?
Oh right, The Lady does.
Every night, as she lies in her bed, the Murmurings begin.
They grow louder and louder,
Surrounding her.
Choking her.
When she can barely breathe
She stumbles from her bed,
And steps across the floor.
Her slippers pass over the broken pieces of many hearts,
Long-since stopped beating,
That lay there.
She pays them no mind.
To her, those broken hearts are old news.
She continues across her bedroom.
The disembodied voices
Follow her.
She glances at the window, but doesn’t stop there.
She’s tried that before.
She comes to the staircase
And takes the steps two
At a time.
She knows there’s nowhere for her to go.
To run.
To hide.
The door at the bottom of those stairs,
The one that leads to freedom,
Is never unlocked for her.
The Murmurings are even faster now.
They hover around her head like a wreath.
Taunting her.
She swats at them as if they were flies.
This doesn’t deter them.
She tries to speak
To beg with the voices.
But the moment she opens her mouth they fill her throat.
She tries to scream, desperate now,
The only voice that should be in her throat is her own
But it is nowhere to be found.
She falls to her knees at the base of the staircase.
Puts her arms over her head.
And this time
She manages to scream.
Then, she falls asleep.
Or is it that she awakens?
But whatever the case,
She will relive it all over again
Tomorrow.

Week Six

Anthropomorphism

Amethyst Logan

The girl was exhausted. It had been a long day, and the only thing she wanted to do was fall into bed. She was about to, but just before she could land face-first in her pillow, she heard a disembodied voice. In her shock, she tumbled backwards, and she rubbed the back of her head. Where was that voice coming from? She looked around, and heard it again.

"Psst! Over here!"

It seemed to be coming from her bed. But that couldn't be true, it was a bed! Beds didn't talk! But hers seemed to be, based on the fact that there was a spew of words that were definitely growing louder.

"Over heeeere! Hey! Not there, here!"

The girl's mouth fell open. "What?" was the only thing she managed to say. She could somehow sense the disapproval wafting off the bed in waves. "You are waaay too violent. You keep jumping on top of me like a ton of bricks! It is not pleasant, you know. I have feelings."

The girl's eyes widened in silent fury. Violent? A ton of bricks? What was this thing going on about? She was a perfectly gentle, average weight girl. She put one hand on her hip. "Yes, I'm sure you have very deep and profound feelings, but I really must be getting to sleep." she said. With that, she threw herself onto the bed with all her might. "Aaargh! What was that for??" the bed demanded. The girl didn't answer, instead crossing her arms and smirking. She wrapped herself up into her blanket like a burrito. She was comfy, cozy, and, most importantly, practically asleep, when she felt a giant heave, and she was suddenly hurtling threw the air like a missile. She slammed into the closet door and slid down. The bed was radiating smugness.

"Hmph!" the girl said. She hoisted her blanket onto her shoulders, and once again threw herself onto the bed. It threw her off. She got back in. It threw her off.

Eventually, she started getting really exhausted. She decided to try a new strategy, since this one obviously wasn't working. She very, very carefully slid into the bed. She wasn't immediately thrown off, which was a good sign. She closed her eyes, and laid her head down onto the pillow. The bed seemed to settle into a restful sleep, and it was finally peaceful.

Anja Murtaja

THE COAT HANGER

They used to hang in front of me, and behind me too. Side by side on rungs too high for the little one to reach. I'm sure by now they're all gone to the sands of time, like the paint on the walls and lacquer on the doors. The rung creaks now, in the wind. Or maybe it's me swinging at my melancholy pace, the metal of my hook squealing against the metal of the rung. I remember a time when we all squealed, but back then we were together, and that was where we belonged.

But now I'm all alone, squealing to my own sad little tune, all my neighbors lost or ground to dust. Yet I've never felt like I belonged more than now. My wood is chipped and greying, the gold leaf inlays flaking. I fit perfectly with the run-down splendor of the once extravagant apartment, whose gaudy curtains flutter in the wind and hang heavy with the rain that patters through the broken windows.

I hang alone, squealing on my single, creaky rung, in the old, creaky building. They say it's to be demolished soon. I overheard them one day, talking quietly as if afraid to hurt my feelings. Then again, it might just be my imagination, driving me crazy on my single, creaky rung. I'd say my friends would vouch for me, but I have no clue as to where they might have gone. Some days it seems as if I can see them, hanging on many shiny, soundless rungs. But then a breath of air will drive through the empty window and make me swing. My arms will shatter the illusion like a thousand pieces of glass, and all that will be left is me, squealing on my single, creaky rung.

It's dark in the old apartment now. I've stopped on my rung for the night, and the chill winds have turned in. I've known many things in my long, long life — fur as soft as a caress of a summer breeze, or as coarse as the bite of a winter gale. Leather as smooth as a moonlit pond, or as rough as the choppy seas. Despite all my experience, I still don't understand quite what my purpose is. I suppose that's why I think I am part of this old apartment, squealing on my single, creaky rung. We are all alone in our own decrepit ways, and that's what truly makes us belong.

Eliza Corrids

The Sun In The Morning

The sun peeked in the stain glass window, creeping around the room. Sasha layed asleep on her bed, sleeping peacefully. The Sun shook her leg.

"AY! LAZY BONES!" It screeched, as Sasha groaned and turned over. The Sun put it's arms on it's waist, and shook it's head.

"One more minute... please mom..." Sasha mumbled, pulling the pillow up over her head.

The Sun scoffed. "You have gotta be the laziest person I have ever met. Its me!" Sasha opened her eye, moving the pillow a bit.

"Oh. Hey Sun-" She yawned, sitting up and stretching her arms. "I didn't see you there." The Sun shook it's head, sitting down on the chair beside her. It laughed.

"You know," It took a sip of coffee. "Your 21 minutes later than yesterday. New record-" It smiled in an Evil sort of way. Sasha glared at it, putting her legs on the ground. She rolled her eyes, standing up and walking to the dresser. She opened it, grabbing a pair of socks.

"Well your an hour off. You see-" She pointed at the clock on her night-stand. The Sun took another drink of it's coffee, looking at the clock. It spit it back in the cup in a very outrageous manner.

"WHAT?! YOU BLAME THAT ON ME?!" It shouted as the room got hotter. Sasha laughed. "I happened to do that on purpose." The Sun smiled, sitting back in the chair.

"If you say so, hot head." Sha laughed, walking out of the room with her clothes. She stopped in the hall. "Adios Amigo."

The Sun waved, steam coming from it's head. It walked over to the window and jumped back into the sky.

Calypso Starling

I Am the Storm

I am the storm.
Watch me rumble;
Watch me crackle with electricity,
Free
And alive.
Watch them cower from my force,
Meek
And afraid.
For I have the power
Both to nurture
And to destroy.
Watch my raindrops fall,
Fall upon the faces of the forgotten
And bring into them new life.
Watch me start raging forest fires,
And in turn, put them out.
Look to the skies
And see me dancing there.
Unapologetic.
Unafraid.

Lillian Davis

The Bridge

There was a time where I didn't speak, or cry. There was, in fact, a time where I didn't wail with voices long forgotten; where I could be mistaken for any structure of brick, mortar, and stone.

I suppose I still am like any structure of brick, mortar, and stone: I have not seen them, I cannot be faithful with my words; please take them with the uncertainty that everyone else has, ever since I sang my first song, years upon years ago.

Well, I suppose that I have always watched. Do other bridges watch? That is a question that you can answer better than I; but even before I spoke, before I sang and cried and wailed, I watched every man and woman and child that passed, every step taken, every look given; I watched with more attention that I can say you ever have.

Perhaps I am just like any other structure of brick and mortar and stone. I will leave that for you to decide.
1.

I am young that day. My cobblestone surface reflects the sun more brightly than the river I cover, and my railings are of lustrous silver. I listen to the musician's whistles (much like a song that I heard the street-boys sing once) and the cries of the mother's child and the jabber of the girl, maybe twelve. The world glistens with the color of life, and then it is sucked out all at once.

First it is the sky to lose its color, I think. It dulls to navy, and so does the river I cover. Then it is the musician's whistles that go (he takes his guitar in hand and he walks quick enough to worry; then he stops) and then the cries of the mother's child and then the jabber of the girl, maybe twelve.

The noise deafens, and I do not pay attention to it as I have the whistles and cries before. This is when sound starts to hurt me. It is when I come to recognize the footsteps (loud and all at once; left. right. left) and the roll of the machines.

Blood is spilled that day, on the cobblestone path that no longer shines and dripping down the lustrous silver of my railings.

That night, I sing the song that the musician had whistled.

It was too lovely to have gone unheard, and I do not think that he would have sung it again.
2.

People talk about the bridge that sings, and they are waved off as lunatics. I sing every night, the same song, at the same time. Bridges do not get bored or tired, I think.

The sky is almost cerulean again before the footsteps come once more (left. right. left) and the roll of the machines grow louder. This time, I think that they will stay, because of the way the sky dips down into black, and the smoke that wafts. I see fire, too; it is far, and I hear its crackles.

Then comes the fire; the other kind. It's loud, deafening. People will no longer care about the bridge that sings. I am just brick and mortar and stone; the fire is louder than me, than the musician long gone. I feel the fear; it is too loud not to hear, too bright not to see.

The day passes much faster after the fire subsides. The people walk the cobblestone surface once more, but I do not hear the cries of the mother's child.

Now, every night, after I sing the musician's song, I cry the way the child had. I remember them, painfully so. It is the least I can do.
3.

People don't speak about the bridge that sings and cries, though I can tell that they listen. I don't blame them. There are more important things to speak about.

The people seem to think that the fire is gone, but I do not. I can see that the sky is never really cerulean again. It dips to navy, but it is gray; like the smoke that wafts when they arrive once more.

I won't bother you with the details this time. You know of them just as I do.

This time, it is the girl who jabbers, maybe twelve, that is gone.

I add her words to my memorial each night. It is what she deserves, at the very least.
4.

What bothers me most is how the people do not speak.

I, of brick and mortar and stone, must say the words that they do not, for when the fire went in finality and when people walked once more, they seemed to pretend that the fire was never there. But there is ash where the people do not look. There is still smoke, and it wafts, but they do not seem to care.

Now, they do speak of the bridge that speaks and wails and cries. They do not speak of the things I say, but I suppose that it is recognition enough.

Every night, when the grey dips to black, I sing his song, and his cries, and her jabbers.
5.

They decorate me with ribbon and velvet, as if that will hide the stains that cover me. They dangle bells, as if they will drown out my cries and whispers.

I watch, everyday, and I can tell that they fear. It is too bright not to see, and too loud not to hear.

I suppose that if people do not acknowledge, then it is the bridge that must. Nobody speaks of the musician, of the mother and her child, of the girl maybe twelve. I listen for their names everyday.

I do think that I am just any structure of brick, mortar, and stone. I am no different than when I did not speak. I still watch. I still hear, the music that plays a bit too quietly, the words that are spoken with apprehension.

Perhaps it is what I have seen that is different.

Yes, that must be it.

Week Seven

Writing From Pictures

Kage Suzuki

The Audacity of Man

The operation is about to begin,
And the universe holds its breath.
At the audacity of man.

Arcing over the sky,
Glittering like a metal jewel,
Flies the raptor.

Clipped wings spread wide,
The jet rushes by.
A gust of wind.

Demanding jobs call.
Pilot thinking about wife alone at home.
I’m sorry.
Sorry I had to go.

Soaring vertical.
Both engines lit.
The sea below holds its breath,
At the audacity of man.

Continents like dinner plates,
Placed on the shining blue spread.
Nothing else matters.
After all,
All are just victims of circumstance.

Engine’s cooling,
Twisting around,
The metal bird flaps its wings,
Heads down.

Swooping over ancient ruins,
At Mach 5,
The world holds its breath,
At the audacity of man.

Everly Charlton

she took her aim.
the rustling and noise,
the footsteps nearing,
the flashes and colors.

she took her aim.
it was vivid,
the pressure of it all,
the weight on her shoulders.

she took her aim.
almost quavering,
almost flinching,
almost leaving.

she took her aim.
holding on to it,
holding on to it all,
not letting go.

she took her aim.

and let it fly.

Calypso Starling

Paint it Blue

When the sky turns grey
With the secrets it holds,
You can't just
Paint it blue.

When the sea becomes brown
From the dirt beneath our nails,
You can't just
Paint it blue.

When glaciers melt
And forget-me-nots wilt,
And bluejays die
And the eyes of a jaguar,
The same hue as ice
Lose their glint,
You can't simply bring it all back
And paint it blue.

But let's forget that.

For in our dreams, the world is our canvas.
And our minds, our paintbrush.
And everything we've ruined
-the wilted willows and dead birds, the dried-up oceans and lackluster jewels-
Are lost under layers of cobalt and turquoise

As we paint it all blue.

Lucia Fox

Tap.
Tap.
Tap.

The world crumbles around her
Slowly, at first, then faster and faster and faster
But she keeps walking.

Tap.
Tap.
Tap.

The buildings are made of paper
Bending, falling, in a dance of destruction
But she keeps walking.

Tap.
Tap.
Tap.

The Earth is shaking beneath her
In horror, in disgust, in fear of everything
But she keeps walking.

Tap.
Tap.
Tap.

Why do you keep walking?
Why do you not look up
From your paper life
And paper houses
And paper streets?

Tap.
Tap.
Tap.

Why do you keep walking?
Why do you not even see
The people made of
Blood and flesh
And bone?

Tap.
Tap.
Tap.

Why do you keep walking?
Why do you not look beyond
The paper cutouts
Of your paper days
And your paper nights?

Tap.
Tap.
Tap.

She keeps walking.

Aurora Ranvier

My roof turned black
Like a swelling storm
You said you'd come back
But it's getting cold

Told me i'll be just fine
Was it a lie?
When my tiny hand
held tightly to your freezing hand
I knew it was a lie

My roof turned dark blue
Like the deepest sea
My heart had been bruised
by the sight i cannot unsee

Told me you'll always be here
Was that a promise?
When i saw the stars
Like a piece of art
I knew you fulfilled your promise

My roof turned bright
Like an incandescent glow
And now I'm coming back
You’ll welcome me home

Week Eight

Group meeting role-play

Week #9

Colors

Katrina Walker



Being a color is a huge responsibility. Heck, it’s more responsibility than anything else if you ask me. I’m in charge of so much that you, quite frankly, would not understand. I have to show up, every second of every day in millions of places all at the same time. Without me, life would be so dull.

I am a shade of red, maroon in fact. I’m described in human language as dusty maroon, or dark brick red, although, it’s a lot more of a specific color than that. I, as a matter of fact, am A83434. I am the unique color of red-tinted mud in the setting sun, the bittersweet color of a faded and dying rose, the color of red on a flag lifted high in the dark of night, the shade of red on the velvet red carpet, the pigment of cranberry juice shared on a summer’s day. Imagining me yet? I’m sure you are. The color just when you close your eyes at the beach, the red color of a Rainier cherry at the top of the cherry tree, the crusty red paint on an artist’s pallet, I am the blaring red of magma hardening in the cool of above ground, the color of the robin feather just dropped off the bird sitting right outside your window.

You’re seeing it now, aren’t you? That glorious shade of red that I am. I’m everywhere, aren’t I? I’d bet you that you probably looked around at some point reading that, looking for my shade of red somewhere around you. There I am! If there isn’t anything, close your eyes for a brief moment, that color, that’s me. In all of my glory. I am rich and velvety, strong and passionate, I hint at anger that is carefully contained, I am proud and loud—red hot, but not overwhelming.

That’s me.

Tory Williamson



They all saw her as boring, as bland. Probably because she was quiet most of the time, just standing in the corner. She was not bright, but she was not soft. Black was the worst color to everyone, it seemed. But there was much more to her.

She was deep with darkness. Her gorgeous shade of black was darker than a night sky, bright as a black panther. She stood out amongst the rest of the bright shades, like yellow and green, almost like a black tulip in a field of sunflowers. She was prettier than anybody could see, and below that grimy, mean surface, her hue was the coolest. Not the kindest, but not the coldest. So many words to describe this inky, marvelous color. It is black. Not yellow, not magenta, not cyan, either. Pure black. Milky and soft, rough and dark. On the outside her personality was like a splash of cruelness and idealism, making you face reality, but on the inside, there was so much more to her. So many different things she could make you feel.

They all saw her as boring, as bland, but that was not who she was. She was magnificent, deep, dark. She was the beautiful color of black.

Kage Suzuki



You'll probably find me in the corners. Doing nothing. Being bored. Soon, you'll find that I'm bored of being bored. Don't worry- it's mutual, entirely mutual. I bet bored himself is bored of grey too. Not the most exciting person, probably on the opposite. I'm entirely bland, with no taste, except for on my high ends. I can be almost black and I can be almost white. Nice, isn't it? I can be three colors at once- three tastes, three sounds, three feels- one for each synesthete.

I adjust to hide the scenes. Got a scratch? I'll darken myself to cover it. A dollop of imperfection? I'll lighten myself to color it- for I am grey. I hide in the dusty corners- I'm tired all the time. I do what I want; no one tells me what to do. I can blend in perfectly well but I can stand out too. I am grey; I always tell the truth. My hue is always right- for you and for everyone. But sometimes- just sometimes, you might find a change in me. Maybe I'll be a little brighter, maybe I'll seem a little darker. Maybe it's to hide something, or maybe it's not.

If you perhaps look close enough- just close enough so it's not too close enough for you or me- you'll see I am not just here; I'm everywhere. I'm in a thousand places at once, in all the dusty corners, crates, and places of the world. But if you stand away; I'm not there at all. I'm merely a part of whatever architecture you happen to find me in. Most of the time, I prefer to blend in- who wants to be noticed all the time? I blend in and watch, and no one ever notices me. I am nothing but the truth- I am grey.

Most of the times, I prefer not to talk. Listening is way better- that's how you gain knowledge. I pride myself as wise, though grey can be strong too. A combination of some necessary traits to be used in everyday life. Normally, you'll find me eavesdropping near a group of loud colors, or maybe loud sounds, if you're that type. I'll be reading or writing or doing homework- I'll look entirely natural. Nothing will be abnormal- it's just grey. Other times, you'll find me in the background, simply just there. I will not be doing anything- just watching, listening, and being there.

At times I like to stand out- to be with other colors. Most of the time, you'll find me with a lighter color, or maybe another one of my kind. A white. A black. But never one of the bright reds or oranges- we don't mix well.

Look around at the world closely- and you'll find my kin everywhere. We're just people- we're all the same. But if you watch- just watch, like me, you'll notice we're the same, them and me. We don't talk much, we just watch and listen. There's greys all over the world- and there's enough too.

I'm just one of the grey.

Everly Charlton



what would there be without me?
what would there be
what would you see?
for without me there would be nothing to see,
for though all you might see
upon the surface's eye
is the bland color
that you might spy
on the ground
in the mud
around the beauty that others see
but then you might
stop and remember
that still, despite
I am the one who let it grow.

Calypso Starling



Indigo Girl

Who is that lonely, astray-looking girl
Drifting by as though she's not there?
Lost in her own indigo world;
Deep underwater, gasping for air.

Silent as the velvet night
She cries, cheeks stained with ink.
Her tears form poems no one reads,
Her eyes hold thoughts no one will think.

As each dawn rises she fades a bit more,
Her purple becoming like watered-down tea.
For she was once the muse of great writers
But as time forgets her, so do we.

Is there hope for Indigo Girl?
Perhaps, if we can start to rewrite
The story in which she disappears
And bring her back into the light.

We must seek her out in the magical places;
The deepest seas, the stormy skies.
The curve of a violet's delicate petal,
The wing of an amaranthine bird as she flies.

And once we've found her, our Indigo Girl,
We will welcome her back with arms spread wide.
And tell her we've missed her, her poetry too,
And that there is no more reason to hide.

But this goes to show we must never forget
The ancient and beautiful things in our world.
We must treasure them lest they ever be lost
Especially wonderful Indigo Girl.

Eliza Corrids



I flopped around, in the ocean blue.
Hoping soon, I’d find both of you.
I panted, heaved, and pushed my way,
Through the water and into the bay.
I sobbed, I cried, my heart, it burned.
And after this, I’d soon to learn.
The ocean, though it may be cold,
Can teach a lesson, for one to hold.
I swam and swam, up to the sand.
Happy, that I was finally on land.
I searched the island, so vast and dear,
Hoping you two would soon be here.
I looked, I hoped, I didn’t stop.
I didn’t stop.
I wouldn’t stop.
I finally stopped...
You two weren’t there.
It broke my heart.
It hurt my brain, tore me apart.
I tried, my dears, it’s true, I did.
But I can’t find you.. my Jo, my Sid.
I will always remember you two.
Good bye, my dears.
I love you.

Darcy Adair



Daughter of summer,
tears do not suit you.
You do not belong
to the ocean's waves
or the sky's infinity.
You cradle hope in your arms,
goddess of promises,
creator of wings,
lover of the past.
Don't cry,
for if you do,
the world will weep with you.
Come with me,
daughter of summer.
Tears do not suit you.

Lucia Fox



Lilac,

You used to tell me
that the world was full of rainbows,
that the galaxy was full of stars,
that you could find beauty in anything
if you looked close enough.

I always believed you.
We could fight anything,
you and I,
just by finding the part of it
that was too beautiful to fight
at all.

I used to compare you
to a dandelion.
Do you remember?
A golden flower in a garden of green,
labeled as a weed.
To Be Destroyed.

But
if a dandelion can survive long enough,
it becomes
something else:
a delicate bundle of seeds
which people pin their hopes to
before letting it fly away into the breeze.

Plenty of people
pinned their hopes to you,
Lilac.
Who wouldn't?
But plenty also labeled you
as a weed.
They labeled both of us.

I.
Could.
Never.
Understand.
That.

But now, I think
I might not have to.
Do you need
to understand your enemy
to vanquish them?

You would say 'yes,
of course',
if you were still here.
You would tell me
to find the beauty,
to find the part that didn't
deserve to be vanquished.

But you aren't here.
You're gone.
Gone.
And you're
========never
================coming
========================back.


And it hurts,
Lilac.
It hurts
more than you
could ever know.

How
could
you
just
leave
me?

But right now,
I have more important things to worry about.
More important,
even,
than writing to you.

Writing.
Calling.
Shouting.
Crying.
They all seem the same now.

The anger,
all the anger you
helped me to hide,
consumes me.
It turns me
into something more.

If you could see
my eyes now,
Lilac,
you would be scared
of me.
But I don't let myself
think about the disappointment
I would see
in yours.

You don't need to understand
why your enemy does
what they do
in order to
vanquish them.

All you need
to understand
is how to
point
the
gun
and
shoot
.