Katy Turner

Green trees and grass and leaves and scenic everything, they all say, but I beg to differ. I take my feet and stroll down the road, crafted from dirt and rocks that cut into my shoes and toes. Above I study the spectrum of light shifting, fading, as the sun tinted with inky reds and golden-blues ripples and tucks its way around and in, then down, away. I cannot go far. A cage complete with bars and locks, only they forgot to add windows or doors, something, anything, to connect this little world with the outside. I can barely stretch my arms, let alone my mind. Isolated confinement- pictures and stories from the life beyond just taunt and frustrate me and further my disconcerted thoughts. A painting of Munich, a Polaroid or two stolen from the Alps and Tokyo; they coat my walls and my heart, eat away at me, and my eyes will shut with fatigue, condemned to capitulation. This is the future, the life and brilliance of the generation ready to dominate our lovely world.

I can hear more than words,
voice upon lips upon silence
and dark, velvety black
that could melt my soul-
along the coast and the
shore and that stream
where all four of us dipped
our feet; without the algae
it's crystal blue,
past the flaws;
it reminds me of you.

The storm was lifting and
the clouds were parting
and you were staring,
eyes up above to the colors that
were blended
into one another,
beauty that bends and
twists and it's
still beautiful.
You were fascinated.

Thunderstorms in
concrete garages- that was the place
to look. The sky at war
with the ground,
the space in between
only the battlefield.
You sat with
arms folded as the
electric bolts shattered
the grass and the trees;
utter chaos in
its truest form.

November's your month.
The ice and the wind
whipped into your face and
hair; you said you hated it but
I saw your eyes.
I saw them spark and
mouths can frown but
eyes will never lie.
You were secretly in love

She takes the leftover drops of rain
off the burnt orange leaf;
runs her finger through it
and then through
her princess hair.

She goes home to hibernate in
down blankets and wool coats,
coated in words she
inked into her skin
for the literate to read and so
her crystal-tone voice
would be spared.

He shows up without warning,
homeless and downcast and
quite underfed.
She should have said no.
Should have turned away, spun her
heel and her mind so that
he was gone.
Gone from her life and
gone from her stoop.

I just need a somewhere,
and a someone to be
there with me. To hold my hand
and hold my heart and tell me
where I'm supposed to be.

She sighs in response and
bows her head.
I'm not sure about much but
I'm sure about this: I can't tell you
anything you don't want to hear and
you didn't come for
advice. You came because
you're weak and you're tired,
and I have to say
there's no easy way out.

He backs out the door,

She spoke chaotically, her voice changing tones and pitches, which made it difficult to understand. "It's not like I had a choice," she yelped, waving her hands as if the intensity of the situation was not clear. "My whole life has been a joke, basically. I wake up, I go to school, I come home, I eat, I sleep. Repeat. I'm like a freaking robot. Something had to change."

She didn't expect a response from me. So I didn't say anything. She paced around the room, walking from wall to wall, there and back again. She would take a few steps, place the open palms of her hands on the yellow wallpaper, and breathe. I sat, twiddling my thumbs and glancing nervously at the floor.

Suddenly she spun around and locked her eyes on mine. "What would you have done?" I shifted my gaze, knowing perfectly well any answer I could give wouldn't help. She stood with her hands on her hips, waiting to soak up my words.

They took the little girl to a
therapist for her irrational
fear of rain.
She talked and cooed and
tried to explain the safety of
the water that
drips from the sky.
But the little girl wouldn't
be calmed or
convinced into thinking
that it was all fine
and perfect when she
had dreams of it
breaking in her ceiling
and drowning her without
any apology.
"Well what about
your tears?
They fall from
your eyes.
Isn't that just as
scary?"
The little girl
took duct tape and
never let another tear
slip through.

Careful and cautious,
she strolled through the hall,
her eyes lowered
down and her shoulders drooped
like roses in the
dead of fall.
Except her thorns were
sharper and her words
cut deeper and she was
never afraid to break
anyone at all to get
what she wanted.
She was a fighter,
a liar, a faker,
inhuman at best,
an enemy to herself and
everyone around her.
Her motto was,
"Do what you have to do,
and hurt whoever
gets in
your way."

It makes me cry
as I sit here
listening to the same song on
repeat,
trying to find inspiration
in something that
doesn't mean anything to me.
I feel anger as I
let my eyes see
these photographs,
blurred and only a memory;
they seem so fake compared to this
concrete world.
And I am only frustrated
how every day I let these old times
slip into my thoughts,
become apart of me.

She liked to play in the shadows
made from flashlights and
the setting sun,
curl her hands around the radio
and turn it louder, louder,
until it filled her with
nothing but sound
to drown out all her thoughts.
She would dance in rhythm with
the beat of her heart,
her feet barely touching the earth.
She feared it would
shatter
with the weight of the worries

I'm going to pick up a paintbrush
and carefully choose colors to
splatter
on these empty, white walls;
carve words into them
using only ink and my
overpowering thoughts.
I want to break them in half
and discover their secrets,
finding the
years of listening
and how they couldn't talk back.
I'll take this marker and
clothe them in stories,
for everyone's voice

Biting her fingernails to the core,
nervous spasms that shook her body
like a rattle toy;
except she didn't like
losing the game
anymore.
Despite the bitter cold,
beads of
anxious sweat
rolled down her face,
an obvious display of her
vulnerability.
Who would have thought that
what could be
would be so more frightening than
what really is.

Restless Sleep

By Katy Turner
Bellows Free Academy St. Albans, Grade 9

Her sixth sense was not as
prized
as it would seem.
In fact,
it scared her more than
real life.
The voices seemed truer than
those around her,
as she paid more attention to those
screaming in her head.
Why was it she could see
the future
in her sleep,
but had trouble comprehending reality
when awake?
Her dreams as vivid as the
vibrant colors of day,
they often told a story
that she tried to defy.
Her rebellious acts could only pay off
in the end.

Vengeance

By Katy Turner
Bellows Free Academy St. Albans, Grade 9

I've been here all day,
making up insults,
burning through my stubborn mind.
Instead visions play back like old movies,
except the characters are oh so familiar,
and the end too
predictable.
I've never been one for vengeance,
but now can't get enough.
Power-hungry, I struggle,
just to get the upper hand.

My greatest fear is, simply put, life. I am terrified of life, and normally become anxious about the future. This is not to be confused with a fear of living life. I often worry that I do not live life to its fullest, or that I will not get the chance to do so.

Blank pages and compelling thoughts, open minds and glowing lights.
This world is a complete mess of everything,
Composed of nothing more than chaos.
Among this clutter we find treasures,
Wrapped and isolated so only the brightest minds can seek them.
The streets are illuminated; graffiti is a fashion here.
The stoplights burn more intensely than a thousand forest fires,