"Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead."
-Benjamin Franklin
Truth
|
|
WOrds of wisdom from the stalls
|
the ants have secretly been plotting:
kelsey nowlan
We, the ants, have had enough. You have smacked us with your last newspaper, destroyed your last ant hill, laid your last trap. For years now, we have secretly been plotting to unite as one. Every time you heard your name being called, and thought it was the wind, that was us. The sensation of tiny legs crawling up the length of your arm was not your mind playing tricks on you. It was us. We are everywhere and it is no use trying to hide.
This should not surprise you. Did you really think you could get away with treating us poorly for so long? Were you under the assumption that we were fine with you teasing us with your delicious picnic snacks only to flick us away? Are you aware that we have a queen to feed? Surely you would not like it if we came in and swiped your turkey right from under your noses at thanksgiving.
Any attempts at reconciliation will be futile. The ant revolution is officially underway. You should consider yourselves warned. We will take over your grocery stores, your farmer’s markets, your bakeries. Bid farewell to the Dorito crumbs you eat when you are desperate. They are now ours. Every crumb. Every morsel of food. It is ours from now on.
We will no longer be seen as a joke. The ants will at last be seen for what we truly are, a force to be reckoned with.
This should not surprise you. Did you really think you could get away with treating us poorly for so long? Were you under the assumption that we were fine with you teasing us with your delicious picnic snacks only to flick us away? Are you aware that we have a queen to feed? Surely you would not like it if we came in and swiped your turkey right from under your noses at thanksgiving.
Any attempts at reconciliation will be futile. The ant revolution is officially underway. You should consider yourselves warned. We will take over your grocery stores, your farmer’s markets, your bakeries. Bid farewell to the Dorito crumbs you eat when you are desperate. They are now ours. Every crumb. Every morsel of food. It is ours from now on.
We will no longer be seen as a joke. The ants will at last be seen for what we truly are, a force to be reckoned with.
The secret keeper
|
keeping you
|
Every night I pack my shiny red suitcase. I make sure that my jar of coins and my toothbrush are inside and then I walk up the stairs. I try to not drop my shiny red suitcase as I go up the beige carpeted stairs. I put on my too-big boots and open the door and take a few steps before he grabs me and pulls me back in. Every night he says, “Why do you try to run away? I love you, sweetie.” Then he takes me back down to my room with the shiny red suitcase thumping down the beige carpeted steps behind him.
|
rumour has it
|
There are no secrets
|
He told me the truth.
A truth I understood, a truth I might have known a long time and just not realized it. A truth that hurt all the same. |
|
Indigo
|
winked
|
mommy and daddy
|
buried alive
|
chains
|
The Man Who Died in Antigua
Tyrin Kelly
He kept himself in his villa in Antigua. He would send invitations for visits to see his polished floors, oiled gates and in-house-garden by the living room. Thick bellied men of wealth who chuckle deeply, drunken lovers who clink glasses before a drink, dancers who trample barefoot in the garden, and musicians who play the lute and viola for amusement in the courtyard would make their way through his doors.
The staircase to the rooftop view of heaven was made of rock, and once at the summit there was an outlook onto the cheerful neighbourhood where the streets were paved with cobblestone. The upper floor was dirty, strewn with imperfection. And whilst seated at the dinner table over brunch, he had a conversation with a fellow comrade in a foreign language of his hallucinogenic wayfaring after digesting ayahuasca. He spoke of his spiritual intimacy with the brewed plant infusion; descriptions of him hunched over under the shelter of a cool cove where the walls sweat as he boiled the mixture in the company of a shaman.
In the backyard, he kept a greenhouse of exotic plants picked from Eden. As he entered, the humidity cascaded over him. His breath grew heavy as if imprisoned in a blanket fort in the midst of the Sahara, propped up by tree limbs. There, he nurtured his greenery with gifts of
fruition and spoken kindness. Cacti that had been growing for close to a decade, carnivorous plants, and bloomed flowers that danced in the breeze grew beneath the shelter of the greenhouse. Many of them kept secrets of the man. His planted greenery knew things no man should ever want to be known. They soon whispered his secrets into the heated breeze of the distant night, giving the man the gift of shame and sadness. The next day, he locked his doors and sought a shaman, seeking to purge his sins. And during his ayahuasca travels, the man died in the glimpse of a morose dream, shedding lustrous tears, and was laid to rest among his potted plants on the roof of his villa.
The staircase to the rooftop view of heaven was made of rock, and once at the summit there was an outlook onto the cheerful neighbourhood where the streets were paved with cobblestone. The upper floor was dirty, strewn with imperfection. And whilst seated at the dinner table over brunch, he had a conversation with a fellow comrade in a foreign language of his hallucinogenic wayfaring after digesting ayahuasca. He spoke of his spiritual intimacy with the brewed plant infusion; descriptions of him hunched over under the shelter of a cool cove where the walls sweat as he boiled the mixture in the company of a shaman.
In the backyard, he kept a greenhouse of exotic plants picked from Eden. As he entered, the humidity cascaded over him. His breath grew heavy as if imprisoned in a blanket fort in the midst of the Sahara, propped up by tree limbs. There, he nurtured his greenery with gifts of
fruition and spoken kindness. Cacti that had been growing for close to a decade, carnivorous plants, and bloomed flowers that danced in the breeze grew beneath the shelter of the greenhouse. Many of them kept secrets of the man. His planted greenery knew things no man should ever want to be known. They soon whispered his secrets into the heated breeze of the distant night, giving the man the gift of shame and sadness. The next day, he locked his doors and sought a shaman, seeking to purge his sins. And during his ayahuasca travels, the man died in the glimpse of a morose dream, shedding lustrous tears, and was laid to rest among his potted plants on the roof of his villa.
TRAPEZE artists
|
Once
|
sad bed track
|
honestly
|
Untitled
|
Skeletons in the closet
|
the secret to happiness
natasha laycock
Happiness is not hidden, nor protected. Happiness is small. Happiness is simple. Happiness is the top part of muffins, and the chocolate found at the bottom of Drumsticks. Happiness is coming home after a hard day to find that mom made cookies, or waking up to the aroma of cinnamon buns. It’s that feeling you get when a stoplight turns green as you approach it, and a neighbour waving when you pass. A compliment on a project you put hours of work into, and the euphoria of receiving a 97.
Happiness comes from soft ducklings, Saturday nights curled up in bed with a good book and a thundershower, or when your favourite song plays on the radio (and you know the lyrics), when the teachers announces that quiz you bombed won’t count, and when you bathe with as many salts and candles as you damn well please.
Happiness is when you go home homework free. Happiness is when you slip into your pajamas at six o’clock. Happiness is when you favourite fictional couple finally kiss.
Happiness is on the house. It’s relief. Guilty pleasures. Comfort. Pride.
Indulge, appreciate, and take part in these. After all, the only secret to happiness is that there is no secret.
Happiness comes from soft ducklings, Saturday nights curled up in bed with a good book and a thundershower, or when your favourite song plays on the radio (and you know the lyrics), when the teachers announces that quiz you bombed won’t count, and when you bathe with as many salts and candles as you damn well please.
Happiness is when you go home homework free. Happiness is when you slip into your pajamas at six o’clock. Happiness is when you favourite fictional couple finally kiss.
Happiness is on the house. It’s relief. Guilty pleasures. Comfort. Pride.
Indulge, appreciate, and take part in these. After all, the only secret to happiness is that there is no secret.
|
secrets
|
cricket songs
|
the secret life of the thing under your bed
|
Oh, hello there. You caught us by surprise. Let us introduce ourselves.
We are the Secret Spotlight Society. We may not be the Skulls & Bones or the Illuminati, however we do claim such notable alumni as Nicholas Cage's dog and three of the four Beatles (we cannot disclose which members were part of the Society). The Heads of our Society (or "editors" as you young ones might call them) are Claire Hendrickson-JaJaJones, Kelsey Rightnowlan, Sonia Guillotine, Emma Rektoraus and Rowan Bro'Broen.
We would like to thank everyone who donated their souls - ahem, I mean pieces - to our Spotlight, as well as Mr. Blauer for all of his help and support.
On that note, we encourage you to have a wonderful day and continue to be splendiferous!
We are the Secret Spotlight Society. We may not be the Skulls & Bones or the Illuminati, however we do claim such notable alumni as Nicholas Cage's dog and three of the four Beatles (we cannot disclose which members were part of the Society). The Heads of our Society (or "editors" as you young ones might call them) are Claire Hendrickson-JaJaJones, Kelsey Rightnowlan, Sonia Guillotine, Emma Rektoraus and Rowan Bro'Broen.
We would like to thank everyone who donated their souls - ahem, I mean pieces - to our Spotlight, as well as Mr. Blauer for all of his help and support.
On that note, we encourage you to have a wonderful day and continue to be splendiferous!