- GET PUBLISHED
Frances C. Richmond Middle School
Too many scars to count.
Everyone has too many too count.
I have small ones,
From sharp edges,
Hot glue guns,
Various metalworking tools.
People don't ever notice them.
No one stops to ask.
Sometimes I don't even notice them.
But years later I will glance down and ask,
"Where did that come from?"
Knuckles are minefields of scars.
I'm not even sure some of them are scars.
But I count discolorations as scars.
It woke me, in the middle of the night
could've sworn that I heard- what was that?
faint, sweet music
but from where?
so I rubbed my sleepy eyes
and warding off thoughts of monsters
with huge dinner plate eyes and long legs and altogether too many teeth all waiting-
I stalked up the stairs of the attic, music getting ever closer.
And I peered around the corner
and there was my tough older brother
with a viola
and I was tempted to stay and listen to the slow, sad tune
His name was Tom.
The boy who loved John.
But people didn't know him as Tom.
They knew him as the boy who loved John.
Some were curious.
Others were cruel.
The rest ignored it.
People labeled him gay.
But John didn't care.
To whom this may concern (only keep reading if you feel it pertains to your life):
"For homework this evening, in conclusion of our ancient greek unit, we will be making collages of our greek alphabet flash cards!" I remembered the assignment completely. Still, I sat there in front of my supplies, somehow profoundly irritated. My eyes settled on the scissors. That was it. They were missing something. I picked them up, letting the garish pink plastic ease into my palm. I snipped the hair. I grinned maniacally.
"SNIPPETY-SNIP SNIP SNIP!" I screamed, overcome with hysteria.
Then I died.
I tossed the bottle out the window, watching it sparkle in the afternoon sunlight. It wasn’t a beautiful blue-glass bottle, and it didn’t have a cork.
"Dina? are you sure this is the best way to go about this?" Paulie hinted, nearly collapsing under the weight.
Dina smiled impishly. "The sooner you throw it, the sooner we can find out." she hefted the parcel. "3...2...1.."
The two packages, after first crashing into the mucky river, bobbed up to the surface.
Paulie leaped back in fear. His eyes widened. Dina laughed.
"I told you. A pound of feathers is equal to a pound of rocks. " she condescended.
The French town of Grelé is tucked up against Mont Glace like a young child to his or her mother. It is at a high elevation, and the farming is poor. Grelé is a town so small that the Gestapo don’t even bother occupying it. The town is relatively safe, so the children can run about the town square like nothing is amiss. The adults don’t bother explaining to them the war. They will learn soon enough. And children of the war grow too quickly.
The Rabbits thought we'd hear their cry
For justice, lest in vain they die,
They lived for us, the world, to see
But then they learned, when they were set free,
The world always lets us live and deny.
It would be wrong to say that Addie was alone. However, Philip was only an apple, and, however offended he might be at this, he did not count. It was just Addie and Philip in the tunnel. It was plastic, and cold, but it felt secret and safe, so they sat. Addie spoke to Philip of small things, like the other apples on the apple tree, and big things, like how to go about obtaining wings. This was a favorite of Philip's, who steadfastly claimed that if one could catch a bird, it would know and all would be well.