Our bravest contributors have shared with us some of their more earnest efforts from the misty past. Scary Bush should not be reviewed while in the process of drinking liquids, and the reader assumes all risk.
On Tucking You In
Katherine Fallon (November 2, 1999)
Ah you sleepy creature.
Last night as you drifted off,
I opened your window for you
And stood staring at the yellow leaves of trees,
The yellow glow of fireflies,
The yellow squares of windows
With so many stories inside their rooms.
Your arm was dangling
From the edge of your bed,
Fingers curled around an imaginary apple.
Sound ceased as you slipped into slumber,
As my fingertips traced
The contours of your chiseled face.
I thought, watching you sleep sharply,
Your hair a messy halo around you,
That I may have been a housecat
In a past life, but you,
My sleepy creature,
Were a lion.
Opening page from an untitled novel
Lauren du Plessis (about fifteen)
I let myself fall to the other side of the back seat as Mum turned swiftly onto the motorway. It was one of the games I liked to play. The gentle vibrations of the soft seat were a constant reminder to me that I was going somewhere exciting.
"I've wanted to go to a big theme park all my life!" I exclaimed in a heightened voice.
"I know! It's very exciting," replied Mum, "but remember to stick with me, okay? Don't go running off anywhere."
"I won't," I promised, turning my head to peer out at the world. There were dozens of fields out there, and I could hear the blades of grass rustling through the open window.
I turned back, and strained to look out of the front window. Mum laughed, and looked into the rear view mirror to see my smiling face.
And that's when it happened.
I'm not sure the other people saw us coming. But I saw them. I saw how the car suddenly braked to avoid an animal that had run out into the road. Mum's reflection barely had time to go pale before the impact. It was a deafening sound that had no words to describe it.
(note - this precedes a dramatic time jump to nine years later...)
More from the Spring 2021 edition
The violin is my Twin
When I listen to the brooding melodies of the violin,
I feel it yearning to reveal and unveil the chagrin within.
Sadness flows in its soulful tunes pulling me in like magnet,
like a spell, like a woman blinded by a glowing gem.
I get pulled in to its enchanted world,
like the sleeper's invisible melody in the dreamers abode.
And like a match's sudden spark, and demons in the dark,
Its voice enthralls before it dims.
My heart flutters like a bird's flapping wings,
When I hear the wailing sound of the wind in its strings.
The wind that wanders into the hollow barks of trees abandoned.
The winds of fate, the wind so feared, the wind within.
And again when the shy violin sings, when its melody strengthen after it begins,
I listen with my heart and see with my ears the chagrin within the violin
For it is my mirror
It is my twin.
Caffeine (or an overactive mind…)
Rhienna Renèe Guedry
A Stranger at the Grave
Catherine Bloomer, age 17
I am the broken bottle
worn smooth by the waves
I am the bunch of flowers
thrown down on our grave
I am the lone stranger
surrounded by our friends
I am the relentless shower
of rain that heralds the end
I am the one who follows
the ones who went before
I am the one who saw all
the harbinger of war
Kristen Baum DeBeasi
Bye and bye
Dale Stromberg, age 18 or so
As I betook me daily travel otherside the reservoir,
I did happen to unstart me near an old abandoned car,
For I heard me bladder calling, "¡No me gusta trabajar!"
So I did unzip and tinkle on the old abandoned car.
Then I heard me from behinded a great laughy-hardy-har:
"What do you there, oddfeller, to that old abandoned car?"
Then did I sing, "Bedong beding and a merry toora-loory,
Tis nun yer bizness what I do unto this auld Mer-cur-y."
Claire Leng, confidently attempting to master the stream-of-consciousness style in her second language
Haruki Murakami is a liar
He made marathons and falling in love sounds easier
Mom forgot to teach me not to trust a writer
Too late, I already paid my registration fees earlier
Is it one mile yet?
The gym smells salty and wet
I think I know that skinny brunette
Her name is Chelsea, Chellie, or Chelette
My shoes are uncomfortable
Two hundred bucks don’t seem so wonderful
Next time I will buy gears more affordable
My situation is miserable!
Sweat covered me from head to toe
TV is playing The Dr.Who Show
I am slow
Can I please travel back to thirty minutes ago?
I am hungry
Food waste is outrageous
Do people convert to Christian from rice missionaries?
I should stop running and write a new mystery
It has only been twenty minutes
Scientists need to invent a robot to move my legs
I don’t think I deserve a fitness
Six-packs are none of my business
Finally, they are playing my song
I can run with that beat all day long
This treadmill must read my calories wrong
Besides the drug part, I wish I could be Lance Armstrong
Every guy around me fit and grungy
The man next to me needs a sweat spongy
I should have done bungee
Rather than running here draining out of my energy
I praise God of the gym this hell route is almost complete
Only dubstep can match my heartbeat
Can’t forget to take a picture for the tweet
Let’s start with my swollen feet
More from the Fall 2020 edition
Jacqueline Doyle (preschool)
The little angel flew and flew.
Then she took off her wings and walked away.
Lisa Creech Bledsoe
He bounded over the brush
with ease. Animals watching with
respect, awe and fear. His great
antlers brush against the spring
leaves. He goes bounding, bounding
into the distance, pausing once
only for water at a stream,
his reflection shining in the
sun. A shot rang out,
and he jerked and slowed
his pace. Another shot. He
staggered and fell to the ground,
and quietly died.
W. David Hancock
Lisa Creech Bledsoe
His wings, gray and silver
propel him quickly
to the leaf. A great shadow
came over him. A tremendous
beak scooped him up and
carried him into dizzy
heights, then dropped him
fluttering, fluttering to the
ground. He fell on the leaf
and quietly died. The moth.
More from the Spring/Summer 2020 edition
Jenna B. Morgan
The River's Flow
More from the Winter 2020 edition