As the sun sets, night falls upon our city. For some, this may provoke a sombre time of self-reflection, when your worst thoughts seep in and in the solitude of night, lack distractions to overcome them. For others, the sunset acts as a commencement ceremony to long nights at pubs, drinking till the early morning.
Through our odes to night and hymns to the stars, our loathing stories of the drugs so many numb themselves with, our deepest confessions, and greatest fears, it all comes out during night. You need not be afraid of the dark, only afraid of the feeling that comes with it.
This issue of Spotlight contains our stories of the night. Our theme: Nightlife.
Through our odes to night and hymns to the stars, our loathing stories of the drugs so many numb themselves with, our deepest confessions, and greatest fears, it all comes out during night. You need not be afraid of the dark, only afraid of the feeling that comes with it.
This issue of Spotlight contains our stories of the night. Our theme: Nightlife.
The Last Night
We’re sitting on the carpeted floor in the corner. The music is loud and it's making the room shake. Neither of us knows the name of the song or its singer, but we both somehow know all the lyrics anyway. She's next to me, dressed in a light blue dress and scrolling through her phone. The screen’s light is reflecting on her face, bathing it in blue, glowing, and a couple strands of hair have fallen out of her careful done up braid.
I'm watching the other kids dance in their hand-me-down suits and gowns. They're dancing in a circle, holding hands and belting out in song like it’s the last time they'll ever see each other again because tomorrow we'll all be back where we came from. We had tried to join in, but neither of us were really the dancing type.
I take a sip of Sprite and look over her shoulder at her phone. She's texting someone from back home. She rubs her eyes. Both of ours are red from crying, but we haven't mentioned it to each other.
I open a packet of sour worms, the ripping of the packaging drawing her attention. She sets her phone down and leans back against the wall. She wipes a hand on her dress because the carpet is sticky with spilt pop and takes a yellow one from the bag. I take a red one.
“What are we going to do after this?” she asks. It's past midnight now; the party’s ending soon.
“I don't know. Sleep?” I say. That makes her laugh and for the first time tonight I realise I'm going to miss it.
“Yeah, probably. I'm tired.”
“Me too.”
We lapse back into silence and stare at the flashing lights, the half-deflated balloons taped to the walls. She scoots a little closer and rests her head on my shoulder.
It's a shame we only became friends on the last night.
Scarlett TODD (10)
I'm watching the other kids dance in their hand-me-down suits and gowns. They're dancing in a circle, holding hands and belting out in song like it’s the last time they'll ever see each other again because tomorrow we'll all be back where we came from. We had tried to join in, but neither of us were really the dancing type.
I take a sip of Sprite and look over her shoulder at her phone. She's texting someone from back home. She rubs her eyes. Both of ours are red from crying, but we haven't mentioned it to each other.
I open a packet of sour worms, the ripping of the packaging drawing her attention. She sets her phone down and leans back against the wall. She wipes a hand on her dress because the carpet is sticky with spilt pop and takes a yellow one from the bag. I take a red one.
“What are we going to do after this?” she asks. It's past midnight now; the party’s ending soon.
“I don't know. Sleep?” I say. That makes her laugh and for the first time tonight I realise I'm going to miss it.
“Yeah, probably. I'm tired.”
“Me too.”
We lapse back into silence and stare at the flashing lights, the half-deflated balloons taped to the walls. She scoots a little closer and rests her head on my shoulder.
It's a shame we only became friends on the last night.
Scarlett TODD (10)
Shadows
Art by: Gwendolynn MacEWENSI’m exhausted But sleep continues to run from me Hiding in dark corners Because it knows I’m too tired to see My vision blurs But my eyes won’t stay shut I’m afraid of the demons In the back of my mind It’s always late at night When the whole house is asleep That’s when my demons strike When I am consumed By the devil inside The angel on my shoulders Follows every rule So when it’s time to rest She gently disappears Leaving me behind To dance with the devil Or allow her to destroy me It starts with whispers Quiet taunting As the walls close in I am suffocated She rips through my mind Finding every insecurity Every memory I refuse to relive She brings back my demons To tell me I’m awful Undeserving of love She pulls in the shadows And covers the light Throws punches Until not a patch of skin Is left unbruised I bleed, I bleed, But I do not cry I refuse to be broken By the shadows of the night Gwendolynn MACEWENS (9) |
Sounds in the Night
Crack, smack,
My body goes on high alert, Feeling the imminent threat of danger, Fight or flight never felt so real, Clack, whoosh, If these noises get to me, Will they take control, Or will I hide here forever, In fear of the thing causing these sounds, Whack, creak, Paralyzed by fear, Thoughts presenting possibilities for the commotion, Each more frightening than the last, Makes me wonder how much worse this could get, Cough, snap, The noises I think I hear, Even if they were never there. Sofie KAHARA (9) Let the Night Sing
I fear the night only when it’s quiet.
My thoughts, the only sound heard. The only thing I want to ignore seems to be louder than anything. I fear the night quiet, so I love the nights it rains. I find comfort in the noise bouncing off every little thing. Off the roof tiles, The pavement, The child's umbrella. Little sparks of life all around. Mona MOHAMED (9) The Woods are Sleeping
mushrooms.
fungi. moss that crawls up lines in the trees. dusty feathered owls. mice. the trickling of a stream. the muddy shores of a pond. clay. red soil. dark skies. I sit in the forest at nighttime. listening to the nightlife creep. I wish I could live the rest of my life under the stars. (I weep) Millie FARLEY (10) |
Untitled
I hear the flapping wings of an owl. It glides across the yard out front and perches in the tree to the left. It’s completely silent. The owl, that is. The nighttime cacophony graces my ears, thanks to a plethora of various noises from insects and the occasional bark from a dog. The owl blends in with the dark foliage, the only thing identifiable on it being its wide yellow eyes. It screeches, startling me. The night makes me uneasy. It must be half past one. Why I stayed up this late, I don’t know. I remember seeing an owl for the first time as a child. It had simply stared at me, its gaze unwavering. This one is similar from what I can tell. It has the same eyes.
The floorboards of the porch creak as I stand up. The house is old; its paint is chipping off, and I feel like it’s getting less stable daily.The owl's wings rustle as it flies up to the porch. I turn to see it perched on the railing. The owl’s talons scratch through the splintering wood. Thanks to the yellow light from an old lightbulb hanging from the porch ceiling, I can see the owl. Its wings are enveloped in shades of brown, a deep umber fading to a light beige. Its feathers look almost charred on its wings. The tufts atop his head are gray with clumps of black covering the front.
I turn slowly to go inside and close the screened-in door behind me. The owl glares at me. I stare at it for a moment too, before closing the door and turning off the porch light. I wonder if I’ll see it again. I think I’ll come out again tomorrow night.
Joseph CURTIN (10)
The floorboards of the porch creak as I stand up. The house is old; its paint is chipping off, and I feel like it’s getting less stable daily.The owl's wings rustle as it flies up to the porch. I turn to see it perched on the railing. The owl’s talons scratch through the splintering wood. Thanks to the yellow light from an old lightbulb hanging from the porch ceiling, I can see the owl. Its wings are enveloped in shades of brown, a deep umber fading to a light beige. Its feathers look almost charred on its wings. The tufts atop his head are gray with clumps of black covering the front.
I turn slowly to go inside and close the screened-in door behind me. The owl glares at me. I stare at it for a moment too, before closing the door and turning off the porch light. I wonder if I’ll see it again. I think I’ll come out again tomorrow night.
Joseph CURTIN (10)
Claw
A fog has lifted off the Atlantic; I can't see my hands in front of me. A small lobster trawling boat sits to my left, its white paint is peeling in flakes, revealing a galvanised steel base underneath. Raindrops puddle in the low lying stern of the vessel. It slowly bobs up and down with each rolling wave. The motion is nauseating.
On the worn out, water-logged lobster traps, a singular torn off lobster claw sits. Its bright red hue indicates it's been cooked already, odd considering this small dingy doesn't have a bathroom, let alone kitchen. I wonder how it got here and so I think… I realise I do not care. I snatch it and eat it before my second mate sees it.
A large bead of salt water finds its way in between my clothes and skin. It slowly trickles from the nape of my neck, all the way down my spine, right to my clenched ass cheeks. Its path seems pre-meditated, as if it knows exactly how to piss me off. This is my last straw. I take my second mate by his cold clammy hand. I launch him into the night's water, which this time of year, is sitting at a comfortable four degrees. His morbidly underweight body lands gracefully. The splash is comical, it reminds me of the cartoons I used to watch.
Nicholas FOWER (10)
The Moon’s Love
The moon spills secrets for only I hear,
its languid voice, always ringing in my ear.
So tell me, moon?
If I send up my heart to you,
would you let it shine,
until mid june?
Through the nights endless brocade
you’re crafted like a hole of light,
in the sheet of solum darkness that you call night.
I hope one day I can be a star,
that you keep safe in your endless escape.
Saychia MOORE (10)
its languid voice, always ringing in my ear.
So tell me, moon?
If I send up my heart to you,
would you let it shine,
until mid june?
Through the nights endless brocade
you’re crafted like a hole of light,
in the sheet of solum darkness that you call night.
I hope one day I can be a star,
that you keep safe in your endless escape.
Saychia MOORE (10)
Ache
He dreamt of sleep, of an endless rest that made him feel alive again. Pain returns as he wakes, a hum no one can hear bringing him to his knees as he wails. His body aches.
He’s outside, water lapping at his feelings quietly, the doctors told him he’s fine. Is this fine? Maybe he should stay inside, maybe he should call out sick. His body aches.
The day goes on like normal, eyes on him but not seeing the blood pulsing under his skin. He feels every movement, every twitch, every little pulse, He wonders how long until he drops dead. His body aches.
He’s waiting outside, the air biting his skin, hungry for his warmth. The doctors did more tests, they didn’t go well, maybe they’ll find something this time. A siren wails as an ambulance pulls up beside him, wheeling in another aching soul. Only this soul hurts on the outside, and the doctors can see what’s wrong with them. His body aches.
A year later, the doctors called. His heart is broken, all twisted up and connected in the wrong places. They say it’s why he aches, why his body wants only to fail and rest, why his mind grows weary as his heart grows too big for him to handle. The doctors say they can fix it in time, but what will it cost? Is it worth it? His body aches.
The night is young, and his body is as well. There’s still time, and his body aches, but it’s not too late…not yet.
Mack LAMY (10)
He’s outside, water lapping at his feelings quietly, the doctors told him he’s fine. Is this fine? Maybe he should stay inside, maybe he should call out sick. His body aches.
The day goes on like normal, eyes on him but not seeing the blood pulsing under his skin. He feels every movement, every twitch, every little pulse, He wonders how long until he drops dead. His body aches.
He’s waiting outside, the air biting his skin, hungry for his warmth. The doctors did more tests, they didn’t go well, maybe they’ll find something this time. A siren wails as an ambulance pulls up beside him, wheeling in another aching soul. Only this soul hurts on the outside, and the doctors can see what’s wrong with them. His body aches.
A year later, the doctors called. His heart is broken, all twisted up and connected in the wrong places. They say it’s why he aches, why his body wants only to fail and rest, why his mind grows weary as his heart grows too big for him to handle. The doctors say they can fix it in time, but what will it cost? Is it worth it? His body aches.
The night is young, and his body is as well. There’s still time, and his body aches, but it’s not too late…not yet.
Mack LAMY (10)
FTX
I miss the days we shook in the cabin from the freezing temperatures, the days we sweated and broke into tears and cried for being in pain. It wasn’t actually painful because we laughed the whole time. The MREs were horrible but manageable, and the seniors would scold us for trading our dinners. The adults would tell us to be more mature, and we knew we never were.
It was the nights that were incredible. The sky was a screen of grains of bright, yellow stars and we gaped and stared at them. The trees were unusually green, they seemed brighter outside of the city. Everything seems brighter over there. When I think of night, I think of the three fever-dream days of running, playing, working, and learning there in the forest, tripping over rocks and scuffing our boots from the gravel. I permanently scuffed my boots because of you.
Alexander GAUDET (10)
It was the nights that were incredible. The sky was a screen of grains of bright, yellow stars and we gaped and stared at them. The trees were unusually green, they seemed brighter outside of the city. Everything seems brighter over there. When I think of night, I think of the three fever-dream days of running, playing, working, and learning there in the forest, tripping over rocks and scuffing our boots from the gravel. I permanently scuffed my boots because of you.
Alexander GAUDET (10)
The Drunk
The drunk stumbles into his third club of the night, not sparing anyone his toothy grin as he glides over to the bar.
The drunk orders a drink, forgetting what he had said a moment later. His memory isn’t very sharp tonight.
The drunk downs his fifth drink, sloppily draining the glass. Alcohol drips down his chin and he wipes it off with his sleeve, now moist with liquor.
The lights flicker and everyone slows down and the drunk thinks the party has died down. His perception isn’t very sharp tonight.
The drunk asks for another drink and the bartender says something to him, but he can’t hear. The drunk asks again. The bartender shakes his head. The drunk, suddenly fueled by anger, snatches a bottle away from the man and storms away, leaning against the outside wall of the club.
He chugs the full bottle, not caring what he’s ingesting, as long as this buzz can last forever. His mind isn’t very sharp tonight.
The streetlights blur and cars honk loudly as the drunk walks down the road. Another club’s bright lights flash in his vision and he slams the doors open, sharing his signature grin, laughing at nothing.
The drunk has 3 more drinks before being turned down yet again. As he slams the glass down, the responsibility that worried him earlier in the evening drains away and he feels nothing.
So insecure of himself, the drunk smashes the glass against the ground and a million pieces fly across the floor.
Everything around him disappears and he sighs, feeling dazed and beautiful. The drunk’s blurry vision brings him to the street corner and he smiles at the heavens. The sky shrinks back and hides behind its blue sheet, which rises with the sun. The drunk continues his mindless trek down the roads at dawn, and his mind is still blank. And as the night fades away, he decides he might need a nap on the pavement.
The drunk isn’t all that sharp this morning.
Abella VASQUEZ (9)
The drunk orders a drink, forgetting what he had said a moment later. His memory isn’t very sharp tonight.
The drunk downs his fifth drink, sloppily draining the glass. Alcohol drips down his chin and he wipes it off with his sleeve, now moist with liquor.
The lights flicker and everyone slows down and the drunk thinks the party has died down. His perception isn’t very sharp tonight.
The drunk asks for another drink and the bartender says something to him, but he can’t hear. The drunk asks again. The bartender shakes his head. The drunk, suddenly fueled by anger, snatches a bottle away from the man and storms away, leaning against the outside wall of the club.
He chugs the full bottle, not caring what he’s ingesting, as long as this buzz can last forever. His mind isn’t very sharp tonight.
The streetlights blur and cars honk loudly as the drunk walks down the road. Another club’s bright lights flash in his vision and he slams the doors open, sharing his signature grin, laughing at nothing.
The drunk has 3 more drinks before being turned down yet again. As he slams the glass down, the responsibility that worried him earlier in the evening drains away and he feels nothing.
So insecure of himself, the drunk smashes the glass against the ground and a million pieces fly across the floor.
Everything around him disappears and he sighs, feeling dazed and beautiful. The drunk’s blurry vision brings him to the street corner and he smiles at the heavens. The sky shrinks back and hides behind its blue sheet, which rises with the sun. The drunk continues his mindless trek down the roads at dawn, and his mind is still blank. And as the night fades away, he decides he might need a nap on the pavement.
The drunk isn’t all that sharp this morning.
Abella VASQUEZ (9)
A Nocturnal Creature |
Insomnis |
Day after day
the sun will set and will rise again And in its warm rays of light It’s creatures will prance and peck and prowl And when the sun hides away at last Leaving behind a world of shadows The creatures too will rest Burrowing down and fluttering off Only when all is silent When all is still and dark Is when finally I will poke out my head To scan the forest now mine alone A nocturnal creature, free to roam Hidden under the cover of night Scuffling through the undergrowth Slinking quietly between trees This is where I belong I praise with each step through the wood Whatever god chooses to bless creatures such as I For eyes lovingly crafted To gather every detail of the night’s tranquil beauty To see what only the darkness reveals The same trees tower and flowers bloom When the sun shines as when it takes its rest Yet never will those who live in the daylight Feel how it is to be alone with the stars To know as you weave through the night Each rustle of movement in the dark Each breath drawn and every beat of a heart Is of your doing alone It is a kind of peace all its own A euphoric type of loneliness That creatures of the day could never fathom The bustle and shine of their lives Quick to snuff any serenity found I used to pity the creatures of the day To think they must envy me Wishing to wander under the vast midnight sky That they’d crave its solitude as I do Yet for the darkness and it’s dwellers They seem only to feel fear Fear that we may be lurking in the shadows Eyes narrowed into malicious slits Teeth bared and claws unsheathed They fear what they don’t know Me and my silent forest Me and my peace unbearably beautiful Well, let them fear Let them fall into their restless sleep As I roam the world they left over Let them stay in their ignorance As I claim all the colours of night as my own Ivy Janes (11) |
Look up at the ceiling. It is 1:00 AM a Monday. The sheets sit wrinkled uncomfortably under your back, clothes cling, seems digging into your waist. The clock ticks incessantly, two minutes out of time, earrings pierce the side of your neck. The ceiling is cracked, painted over too many times to count. A car drives by outside your window, a siren in the distance. Sit up glance to your right. 1:59 AM. Walk down the hallway, ignore the light switch. Unlatch the lock.
It's dark, damp, the grass dew covered. The air is thick and warm, it's hard to breathe. Deep breaths, it's painful. Oxygen deprived, sleep deprived. A green hue, coated the mist. Rotten air, muddy footprints. Move. Steam engine, methodical ticks along tracks keep the time. A hiss reminds you you are moving. Sleeper cars, bunk beds, someone snores over head. The doors are thin, the announcements loud, “ Next stop—-,” the announcement cuts off. Close your eyes, no use. Last stop, find your way back. 3:00 AM, a Monday. Long grass nips at your ankles, cicadas sing, full moon. Push forward trudge through. Corrugated plastic. Junk yard, barbed wire fence, try not to set off the alarm. Bend the fence over your head, duck. Discarded candle, unscented. Match strikes against a damp cardboard box it sparkes doesn't light. Throw it away. Sit in arm chairs damp with rain, arm chipped, leg missing, look at the stars. Eyelids flutter closed. Stand up, go home. Rummage through pockets keys jingle, the metallic smell raidettes off your finger tips. Rattle the door handle and pull back to push open. Step past the threshold floorboards creak underfoot. Empty house, the window slightly agar from where you left it. Lay back on a pillow six years too old. Blank walls once white, stained yellow with smoke. Incandescent light filtered through lamp shades. Pull the cord. Click, it's 5:AM, the sun is coming up. Close your eyes, clear your mind. An alarm goes off, shrill and piercing. Jolt awake, one hour of sleep. 6:30 AM, a Monday. Time to get up. Alexandra ISMAIL (10) The Comfort of the Night
Alone but never alone,
Feelings set in stone, What once was so bright, Is now the night, The joy of the day, Is no longer here to stay, What once was real, I never get to feel, But there is solace, In the night’s darkness, A certain feeling, So very freeing, My mind takes the backseat, And I feel complete, Soon I will see, The moon in all its glee Vincent CARDINAL (10) |
Toxic Masculine Rage
And you laughed. I was broken and in pain and you laughed. My skin was torn, my eyes stung, my arms were raw and you laughed.
I stared at the ceiling in the dark and thought about punching you until you bled and pled and begged for me to stop. And I wouldn’t.
I only cried at night, because God forbid you would see me cry. Even though I comforted you and catered you and treated you like the best friend I could ever have you laughed. And I was angry. But I can’t be angry.
No, when a girl is angry she has a right to be angry at her male friend. But, when the male friend is angry at her he is a toxic friend, I am in the wrong.
Maybe it’s stupid I’m angry you laughed.
Alexander GAUDET (10)
I stared at the ceiling in the dark and thought about punching you until you bled and pled and begged for me to stop. And I wouldn’t.
I only cried at night, because God forbid you would see me cry. Even though I comforted you and catered you and treated you like the best friend I could ever have you laughed. And I was angry. But I can’t be angry.
No, when a girl is angry she has a right to be angry at her male friend. But, when the male friend is angry at her he is a toxic friend, I am in the wrong.
Maybe it’s stupid I’m angry you laughed.
Alexander GAUDET (10)
Feed
The gramophone sings as his hands wrap around the man's shoulders, sinking his teeth into the soft, raw flesh of his neck. The man whines as the creature indulges in the sweet metallic taste of his blood, the sensation like a dream as he consumes for the first time in weeks.
The man is rich, the taste fresh and clean. He knew he made the right decision in choosing this one, the righteousness and reverence deliciously untainted. The man doesn't move as the venom courses coldly through his body, numbing his senses.
The creature releases the man and gently lowers him to the floor, wiping away the blood spilling from his neck with a handkerchief. The man wants to feel disgusted, he wants to scream and yell and kick and cry but all he can do is stare into the eyes of a monster as it plays with its food.
“I think I'll keep you.” He speaks, but the voice isn't human. No this creature is something else entirely, he'd heard stories of bloodthirsty monsters deep in the heart of the sinful city, but never in a small town church. But what's a creature of such destruction and despair to do when it starves? The man supposes he knows the answer, Feed.
Mack LAMY (10)
The man is rich, the taste fresh and clean. He knew he made the right decision in choosing this one, the righteousness and reverence deliciously untainted. The man doesn't move as the venom courses coldly through his body, numbing his senses.
The creature releases the man and gently lowers him to the floor, wiping away the blood spilling from his neck with a handkerchief. The man wants to feel disgusted, he wants to scream and yell and kick and cry but all he can do is stare into the eyes of a monster as it plays with its food.
“I think I'll keep you.” He speaks, but the voice isn't human. No this creature is something else entirely, he'd heard stories of bloodthirsty monsters deep in the heart of the sinful city, but never in a small town church. But what's a creature of such destruction and despair to do when it starves? The man supposes he knows the answer, Feed.
Mack LAMY (10)
11:47I pretended I was asleep So I wouldn't be a burden I hid under the blankets To cover the shaking fear I blinked in the darkness But nobody saw The chaos around me blurred When I decided not to look The urgency dulled When I shut the bedroom door I'm sorry I stayed in my room Waiting for the late nights to catch up to me I'm sorry I didn't answer Trying to cut the panic out of my voice I'm sorry I stayed away Because closeness felt too tight I'm sorry I didn't sleep through it Even though I said I did Kathryn BURNS (10) |
Mousseron
They shroud the lawn in death, The life source feeds off of it. They thrive on decay, the life of something that once was. There growth is spontaneous But when the death source in cultivated, They grow to new heights, in new shapes, in new patterns. A protective circle around the lawn chair in the back garden, Casting protection to their master, she fed them death strait out of her palm. She's gone now. Her half decaying limbs merge with the soil below, Skeletal structure showing through skin The moon shines overhead. The mushrooms weep below. Alexandra ISMAIL (10) |
Blood Moon
I look at the soil beneath your nails and wonder where you've been. Your hands are calloused, rough from work, and you still have that scar from when you were a child. They’re chilled and shaking, imperfections visible in the moonlight. Your eyes dart from mine, then to something only you can see, and I let you. I lead you inside and let you sit down. You don't say anything, but I don't expect you to, so I pad to the kitchen to get you a mug with something to drink.
When I return you’re right where I left you, though you have more colour in your cheeks and the shaking has subsided. You've turned on a light. I frown, noticing the blood for the first time. It's seeping into your jeans from where you've rested your hands on your knees. You open your mouth as if to say something, maybe to apologise, then don't. I pull a cloth from my pocket and hold it out.
Your eyes go glassy, gone somewhere only you know, and you don't take it from me. I set the mug down next to you and take one of your hands. I begin wiping it down, movements quick and methodical. I've done this before. You've sat here before.
Tomorrow we'll pretend this didn't happen.
Scarlett TODD (10)
When I return you’re right where I left you, though you have more colour in your cheeks and the shaking has subsided. You've turned on a light. I frown, noticing the blood for the first time. It's seeping into your jeans from where you've rested your hands on your knees. You open your mouth as if to say something, maybe to apologise, then don't. I pull a cloth from my pocket and hold it out.
Your eyes go glassy, gone somewhere only you know, and you don't take it from me. I set the mug down next to you and take one of your hands. I begin wiping it down, movements quick and methodical. I've done this before. You've sat here before.
Tomorrow we'll pretend this didn't happen.
Scarlett TODD (10)
Nightly Habit
A warm smoke fills his lungs in a haze.
His fingertips frost-bound in the crisp December air. Fumbling with his lighter in the wind leaves a blister on his thumb. His cold cigarette barely lights . His eyes meander their way through the winter stars. He gazes deeper into the depths of the night sky. Icy crystals formed on his eyelashes. In the frigid, bone chilling cold his relaxation kicks in. Just a few weeks past he had promised himself not to touch smokes. A few weeks ago he had big goals and big things to live for. Now he feels ready to let it all go. Now he's sitting outside, numbing his lungs in a warm haze. Nicholas FOWER (10) |
A Winter’s Night
The blue haze of a winter's night,
comforts me, the trees now bared, but within burrows lay their life, the soft buzz of animals free the night, within the darkness, it holds them tight, branches form moving shapes shone by the moon, they will never escape until the morning, when I will awake. Saychia MOORE (10) |
Forever Awake
Forever awake,
Lying conscious,
A restless mind,
Doing everything it can,
Except rest,
Rest itself from its stresses,
Its anxieties,
Its delusions,
Could this be,
Another sleepless night?
Could I be,
Forever Awake.
Vincent CARDINAL (10)
Lying conscious,
A restless mind,
Doing everything it can,
Except rest,
Rest itself from its stresses,
Its anxieties,
Its delusions,
Could this be,
Another sleepless night?
Could I be,
Forever Awake.
Vincent CARDINAL (10)
December 23rd
The cold window presses against my cheek as I lean against it. I check my phone. It’s quarter to three in the morning. I tilt my head back onto the headrest of the car. I’ve only slept about three or four hours. We pulled off into a random parking lot half an hour ago after driving six hundred odd kilometres. We still won’t reach our destination for 7 hours or so. I let out a deep breath as the streetlights shine through my window and light up my glasses. Now I won’t get back to sleep.
My socks and boots do little to warm my feet from the cold winter air that eked its way into the Chevy. My heavy flannel sweater is pulling its weight, but I can’t help but shiver. My coat’s in the trunk. A miscalculation on my part.
I’m bored out of my mind. There’s not much I can do. I look out the window again. The headlights from cars passing by on the Trans-Canada blur into a sea of red and yellow. I look the other way. I see a farmer’s field. It’s carpeted by inches of snow. It will be several months until the grass is seen again.
The dark night sky is reflected onto the snow, making it a shade of blue and purple. The groves of trees that surround the field are blanketed with a thick coat of snow as well. My dog raises his head, blocking my sight. His tufts of hair have hints of purple in the dark, just like the snow. It makes a silhouette that I’ll remember. He lowers his head again and goes to sleep, but I turn my line of sight back to the highway. The lights continue to distract me.
I don’t bother closing my eyes again; I’ve slept about all I can at the moment. The sun won’t come up for a few hours and I’m anxious to see it rise. I’ve had enough of the night.
Joseph CURTIN (10)
My socks and boots do little to warm my feet from the cold winter air that eked its way into the Chevy. My heavy flannel sweater is pulling its weight, but I can’t help but shiver. My coat’s in the trunk. A miscalculation on my part.
I’m bored out of my mind. There’s not much I can do. I look out the window again. The headlights from cars passing by on the Trans-Canada blur into a sea of red and yellow. I look the other way. I see a farmer’s field. It’s carpeted by inches of snow. It will be several months until the grass is seen again.
The dark night sky is reflected onto the snow, making it a shade of blue and purple. The groves of trees that surround the field are blanketed with a thick coat of snow as well. My dog raises his head, blocking my sight. His tufts of hair have hints of purple in the dark, just like the snow. It makes a silhouette that I’ll remember. He lowers his head again and goes to sleep, but I turn my line of sight back to the highway. The lights continue to distract me.
I don’t bother closing my eyes again; I’ve slept about all I can at the moment. The sun won’t come up for a few hours and I’m anxious to see it rise. I’ve had enough of the night.
Joseph CURTIN (10)