How did it get so late so soon? It's night before it's afternoon. December is here before it's June. My goodness how the time has flewn. How did it get so late so soon?
Dr. Seuss

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PLAYLIST

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librity caps and cubensis
Tyrin Kelly

Don’t forget to stay hydrated

I met freckled boy a month before he tripped in his forested basement listening to gorgeous Italian opera through his cassette player

We talked about sex and psychedelics, dreams, religion, meditation, astral projection and sexual insecurity

Men are too pretentious

Cigarettes dehydrate him, ginger tea helps you keep hydrated, and he can’t stay up late through the night

Just don’t pass out before bedtime

He believes in Buddhism and equality, making sure to be in touch with his spirit guide and to pray before tampering with hallucinogens

I believe in many things, except the constant digestion of coffee at night to keep you awake

At least it doesn’t make your eyes burn

He conversed with the people inside the radio, and don’t forget the leafy palace where he’ll trip thinking of the girl who likes his freckles

I always forget to ask whether he is aware that he dreams at night

Of floral skirts and a sunless town where his old broken knee doesn’t look so pretty

We spoke on our love interests, passions, sexual experiences, natural frequencies, life after death and our friendship

He left halfway through the night and didn’t come back

We both obsessed over a girl, telling each other our infatuated thoughts, through weeks and months

And ended up tripping over them in our own forested basements

We have been through endless nights of making music together with the door closed and sharing silence on public transportation or spray painting walls by the waterfront

And I’ve seen the back of his neck when he looks downwards

His spine protrudes through his skin and 

If he was a girl I would never stop loving him

Untitled
Lia Codrington

Grey lavender skies of late summer evenings

fade to the blue-black of early fall nights

the colour of a velvet blindfold tied tight

'round the eyes of teenagers

dancing like arthritic puppets

to the beat of tolling bells.

But as the melody quickens,

the urge to light a match reaches a crescendo,

and they smell the strings burn.

Terrible ideas i've Had late at night
sacha k.w.

1. “I should start a gay kickball league.”

2. “Gonna name my kids after dog breeds. First one’s gonna be named Corgi. Second one’s gonna be named German Shepherd. Germy for short.”

3. “I can DEFINITELY jump over that.”

4. “It would feel really good if I took my shoes and socks off in this McDonald’s.”

5. “My ringtone should be the sound of a man uncontrollably crying.”

6. “Hey, it’s been a while since I’ve talked to _____. I should leave them a long, confessional voicemail.”

VIVIAN WALSH

The moonlight express
Sarah Collins

I lie in my bed,
but do not sleep
when the moon smiles down on me.
For the stars are too exciting,
the darkness, too inviting.
So I stand at my window
and with a sigh,
I say, "The moon stays up, so why can't I?"
Then in through my window a figure does fly,
a strange little man with a gleam in his eye.
He says, "The moon has a mission, a difficult quest,
And he must fulfill it before he can rest."
I stare at him,
from the pointy shoes on his feet
to the hat on his head.
When I ask what he means,
a toothy grin begins to spread,
as he replies with a chuckle and a quick, giddy leap,
"The moon puts millions of people to sleep."
"Not me" I say, looking down at my feet.
"For the nightmares shall find me, them I will meet,
The monsters, the demons and then my defeat!"
Slowly the man whispers,
"I am the conductor of a train that will send,
you away to a place where you won't need to pretend,
because adventure awaits around every bend,
now climb aboard my train,
you have only to gain,
don't worry about those monsters,
they'll be left out in the rain,
so time to hop into bed",
And with eyelids heavy as lead,
thoughts of the train and adventures,
swirl around in my head.
A quiet click,
the window closes,
a grin and a wave of delight,
the strange little man bids me goodnight.

CHARLOTTE JORY

Children of the night
hannah pinilla

The only way to coax Mrs. Ricotte into letting Allie take part in Bluefest was by lecturing her on the importance of cultural involvement and how this experience could be both educational and entertaining, and that she wouldn't arrive home with a tattoo of Billy Ray Cyrus forever imprinted on the end of her spine. Allie was rudely disrupted from her train of thought by a lukewarm liquid splashing the backs of her calves. She spun on her heels to see a woman with brown-streaked blonde hair, desperately in need of a re- dye. Her disturbingly large breasts bounced this way and that. Her beer was moving uncontrollably about her glass jug, foam spilling. Ah, the culprit. Allie looked down at her beer stained ankles and back up at the woman’s Mill St. She gave her a curt, apologetic nod and went back to bobbing around excitedly. Allie’s brow furrowed in irritation when the dim stage lights began to glow with a shocking brightness.

The band ascended from the stage floor.  The lead singer took three long strides from his pedestal and the crowd fell silent.  He slurred something unintelligent into the mic and stepped away before applause and high pitched hollers could cut him off. Finally, after hours of waiting, they began to play. The guitarist strummed the chords mechanically while his bandmates danced madly on stage. They shook their long, matted hair ferociously. Everyone began bouncing on the balls of their feet, Allie with them. They were attracted to the stage the way mosquitoes are drawn to lamplight. The singer’s voice was inaudible. Only the crowd was perceptible. They all sang the same lyrics at the same time in perfect unity. Allie sang along with them as she was initiated into the children of the night.

Rose Dice
Shalini Nanayakkara

The windshield breaks and you don’t feel anything but daggers on your fingers and light in your eyes and this tumble off a ridge you thought was the road in your toxic haze.  The screech of metal and the smell of rubber and a plastic dice cracking.  You rise off your seat and you think about God rising off His seat in His horror of seeing you vertical against His rocky grey cliff instead of trembling before her door at 10:28pm.  You see it was too early to drink and now it’s too soon to die because you just haven’t seen her face enough times to move on.  You can almost see Him opening his mouth to stop your fall. But He doesn’t.

CAMERON STANLEY

there is something
aeriana narbonne

There is something tranquil  
about late night driving.

There is something soothing
about late night driving.

The round turns and
bumpy pavement
that stretches onward.

There is something extraordinary
about late night driving.

Bright lights against the dark sky,
the whole world seems to
pause;
when the lights turn red.

MY BRAIN WON'T SHUT UP
E.C. MONTREUIL STRUB

I think about the monster I've always known was under my bed

I think about that book that I'm reading

I think about the super powers I know I'll have someday

I think about the song that's silly glued to my brain

I think about what I'll dress myself in tomorrow

I think about all the arguments I know I'll never have

I think about the universe in all its creepiness

I think about the burns I'd bestow upon my hands if I ever got close enough to touch a star

I think about those perfect comebacks that always come too late

I think about my life, its failures and glories

I think about the friends I know I'll never forget

I think about the certainty of not existing someday

I think about that story I've been trying to write

I can't come up with an ending

I think about how tired I'll be tomorrow if I don't get to sleep

KAI THORPE

Revenge
mahaila smith

The lamplight glowed dimly in the inky hue of night. Eyes peeped out from dark alleys, and if you weren’t careful, you would miss the glint of the knife blade at your throat, or the grubby hand hovering above your pocket.

You did not go out at night unless you had to -unless you were a pickpocket or a swindler or a hoodwinker. Unless you were unloved or forgotten or betrayed, just like me.

But I would get my revenge.

I made my way along the damp, reflective cobblestones to the site where our encounter would take place. I had gotten my directions from a friend of a friend. Someone who I had heard specialised in black market goods, or more precisely the stolen jewellery belonging to wealthy ladies who would not notice a missing diamond from their vast collection.

I emerged at our planned location. A dark city square with an ornate fountain at the centre of it. I was feeling uneasy as I saw him step out from behind the majestic clock tower. The clock’s filigreed hands said that it was quarter after twelve. It was a new day, but I still felt as though I was living in the grudges and memories of yesterday. He walked towards me.

I had made up my mind. I would tell him. Caroline had splintered my heart into a thousand pieces and I wanted her to feel the same pain that I had suffered. I needed revenge.

He was close now. His dark hair matched the sky perfectly as though a little piece of it that had been snipped out and then placed carefully on his head. There was a small white scar above his left eyebrow and I could smell the ale on his breath.

“Well,” he said in a low growl. I saw him fingering a silver coin. It was a bribe, and a substantial one too.  

“I know where your daughter is,” I replied, my legs shaking uncontrollably, “She is hiding in the Seymour Grand Opera House.” He threw me the coin which I stumbled to catch and I watched him run off in that direction without wasting a moment. His blade sparkled in the moonlight. I plunked my face in my hands and felt the cold of the coin caress my cheek. What had I done?     

JAKOB BARNES

---

Three Card Charlie's
zachary Gladstone

Drinking is like a hobby, whether it be brandy, scotch, Jack Daniels, vodka, schnapps, or whiskey. We drink in bars, pubs, jazz bars, and cabarets. It’s all good fun with a cigarette in our hands that hangs on a line of smoke crawling up through the air in what seems like a spiral. At this time of night there is no longer a full band playing, no screaming trumpet or bashing drum, just a lone man at the piano playing softly with a cigar in his mouth and a martini on top of the piano.  He plays a soft tune that lingers in the smoky air and comes next to you, slumps down in the opposite seat and listens to your daily woes. It doesn’t care if you’re a little sauced or if your breath smells like a cigarette factory. The tune is there for you and serves that sole purpose. It shuts you out from your problem like the drink you have in your hand.  

Most of the bar is empty now, only a few people left. They simply sit with their thoughts and their smoke. Some do the same only with their drinks. Large men in suit jackets and fedoras who lean on their elbows as well as thin tall women in slinky red dresses spinning the content of their drink with a tooth pick. One can easily see the lipstick stain on their glasses  and then there are those men who wear a tattered dress shirt and suit jacket, beside them, on the floor, there is a beaten up brief case and it looks as if they need a shave. The tune of the piano comforts them all but whether or not they know it is beside the point.

The toll of a small bell is heard as a man pushes the door open, walks over to the bar, and takes a seat. He wears a suit jacket and dress pants with a bowler hat clenched in his hand. The man slumps over the bar and orders his drink. When he speaks, his words seemed to leak out of his mouth and run down his shirt. He props an old carrying bag onto the table and lets the contents spill out. Some paper, old receipts, and some pocket change roll onto the table. Once his drink comes, the man just sits there stares. His thoughts swirl in his head like half a bottle of bourbon. Outside the bar he has left a grey accounting job and a shrewish wife. Inside this numbing sanctuary he is protected from his worries and troubles, as they stand out at the doorway and wait for their ride home. At first the man barely touches his drink, and yet less than five minutes later it is gone. He sits there waving his tooth pick with the olive stuck on the end around like a baton. Another twenty minutes pass and the man is surrounded by four empty glasses. They all stand like grave stones against a fluorescent buzzing moon lit ceiling.

The night outside stands at the door way and pokes its head in the window trying to remind everyone in the bar that they should be getting back soon and that they will be missed.  Its efforts are futile. A lone clarinet joins in with the piano. It slowly waltzes in and awkwardly follows the drifting melody but soon it sounds natural and it is just one more person to have a drink with. Some of the singers in the club are also having drinks, just the backup dancer’s though not the lead acts. They all sit in their regular clothing as opposed to their usual costumes. Their brown dresses look tattered and wasted beside the tights lined with pearls and giant peacock feathers in the rear. They wear frowns instead of bright smiles framed in thick red lipstick and makeup. The night has shed its skin and now sports a new darkness. After the shows, after the meets and greets, after the crowds have left, when the milkmen and paper boys have gone to bed, the jazz-slayers, booze-boys, and Broadway-babies still wander the night. 

Nocturne by the fireside
Katie Wilkins

Burning embers
sing their smoke soaked song.
Flames that fight to escape
to the stars they came from.
The sparks that dance
higher and higher into the night
until they fade into oblivion.
Like the memories
of nocturne by the fireside.

KADE DELINE

3 a.m.
emma Scruton

My brother and I

Watching cartoons

On Saturday mornings

Transformers

Ninja Turtles

Looney tunes

Wake up to the sound

Of footsteps on the stairs

Descending

Descend

Find him in the living room

Watching cartoons

On a black TV

Eyes closed

It is not Saturday

MARIE PAYNE

when i was six
kelsey nowland

     When I was six, I had a babysitter named Soup. One night, I dreamt that she was cloned into a hundred copies by a mad scientist.  The army of Soups chased me, carrying bowls of chicken noodle, minestrone and cream of mushroom. “Soup, soup, soup,” they chanted, insisting I try a spoonful. “But I’m not hungry!” I screamed as they continued to follow me.    
The next morning when I told Mom about my dream she laughed and said, “Sweetie, her name isn’t Soup. It’s Sue.”

ARCHANA RAGUPARAN

A non-nocturnal creature
feels a sort of rush at night
when they run around the streets
setting off motion detector lights.

Heart rate
amanda venturo

The night brings out
a jumble of melancholy thoughts
strung together like mismatched beads
on a tattered string.
Lit lightly by the artificial glow of street lamps,
dully accompanied by the shroud of long-darkened skies.
The night brings out
a rain streaked point of view
wish-washed by the day's steady pounding.
Judgement impaired by the blurry vision
heart rate controlled
by the emptiness of the streets at half past twelve.

The little things
kimiya a.

i am
monday nights filled with
candlelit journal entries
and sipping hot tea while
watching the rain bounce off
the roof and open windows
in autumn and messy hand-
written letters and white
tees and cuffed jeans and
pb&j with the crust cut
off and folded origami
cranes and watching the
sun rise while everyone
else is tucked in bed and
midnight car rides and
candid smiles and lists
written in blue ink and
wildflowers and mountains
and birds singing and books
and movies that make you
cry and nicknames and
flannels in the winter and
soft music and loud music
and moments only recorded
by memory and apple
pie and forever stamps.
i am all the little things
and if you don’t make an
effort to understand why
i love the things i love
you will never understand
me.

OLIVIA BELANDE

wake up
anonymous

I stare down at the scattered papers on my desk. They need to be gone by tomorrow, yet I still have mountains of work left. If I don't finish this on time, my boss promised he'd fire me. I know he keeps his promises. I decide that I will stay up till sunshine seeps through my window.  I glance at my watch - 3 o'clock. I grab my mug of coffee and take a long sip. It's cold and bitter, but helpful. Within an hour my eyelids start to close. They feel like a garage door shutting heavily, but something keeps getting in the way of the sensor, forcing them open and alert. I guess a quick sleep couldn't hurt. I raise myself off the cheap, plastic chair, and stumble to the couch. I drop myself down carelessly, my body melding with the cushions. I tell myself I'll only have a power nap, but I know once I shut my eyes, there's no getting up.  Before i know it, a bright light shatters my slumber. It was the kind of feeling you get when you were in fourth grade and the teacher turns on the lights after a full period of darkness. I fell asleep! Today is the day I get fired! A voice which I believe in the back of my head shouts "Wake up!" I'll confess to my boss that I couldn't complete my work. I open my eyes urgently, expecting bright sunbeams. Instead, I see an angry woman standing in front of me pointing at the pile of work on my desk. "Johnny, stop falling asleep in my class!"

Damn, I would much rather a job.

Sweet disposition
Macayla nesbitt-batten

Sweet Disposition, never too soon, oh reckless abandon, like no one’s watching you.
The Temper Trap


Reckless and bleeding, her nerves kiss the skyline,
begging to feel again.
For the poor unhappy girl, there was nothing at all.
The rain
Here
Cuts the touch
On your breasts,
And shoulders
Touch my hands
Trace my scars
With dripping honey,
And rock violets
Glass half empty.
The print of perspective, the slap of choice
Sticks and stones may break my bones
But names will never hurt me,
Cinderella,
The prince fell madly in love with you,
Cinderella
Clarify your recklessness
Saturate your euphoria
I would
Smash the bass so the beat can
Trickle off my eyelids into your hands
Never too soon
Never too late
Ride the dust
Fall for yourself
You’ll never know what warm is
if you don’t walk the grave
Its time
Hug the sun
Fingers stretched
Something amazing happened,
Suddenly
Sweet disposition
Burst of light,
Me - head back
Flick of magic
You - soul out
Could barely believe her eyes,
Swivels and sways
Smoke the honey
hold the perfume
Glass half full.
Search everywhere for the girl whose foot this slipper fits.

babydoll
Katie mcCulloch

She fell asleep with gum in her hair. I didn't want to wake her, not even just to take it out. She was too cute, nose twitching as she skipped down that snow-covered path to dreamland. Her golden spirals tumbled down her face, whispering across the gap-toothed grin she’d been wearing all day, a grin big enough to swallow the stars.  She’d have to grow up fast, especially with a face like that. I separated the gum-stuck curl from the rest, careful not to disturb those big sleepy eyes, and wandered back to my room.

Mares
Julia Pama

When I was little, I learned that a mare
was a kind of horse.
So I made my parents
search my closet
and check under my bed
not for monsters
or boogeymen,
but for mares.
I thought that
a horse in the night
would be worse
than any creature
of a child's imagination
because they gallop
with a sense of ownership
into your mind.
So I never concerned myself
with ghosts,
witches,
or werewolves,
I simply watched the horses,
the mares,
knowing that they
would need no full moon
to transform in the dark,
and turn
into nightmares.

KAI THORPE

Eighth grade friday nights
charlotte cockburn

"Hey! Come on in."
"Hey."
"We can go down to the basement, if you want. There's an Xbox down there." 
"Sure." 
"Thanks for coming. I'm surprised you didn't have other plans."
"My mom made me come." 
"Oh." 
...
"Want some chips?"
"Uh. That's okay. I think  I'll go home soon." 
"What about your mom?" 
"She won't be that mad." 
"Oh."
...
"Want me to put on some music?"
"Sure."
"Have you heard this song before?" 
"Nope." 
"It's really good." 
"It's alright." 
...
"What's this song called?" 
"Uh, I forget. It's good though, right?" 
"Yeah, it's pretty good." 
"I'm really glad you like it." 
"Okay."
...
"Are you gonna go home soon? My mom ordered pizza." 
"What kind of pizza?" 
"Hawaiian."
"Hawaiian's my favourite." 
"It'll be here in twenty minutes." 
"Okay. Do you have any more songs by this guy?" 
"Yeah, I do."  
"How many?" 
"Like... thirty nine? I have three of his albums." 
"That's cool. Can we listen to them?" 
"Yeah! Let me go find them." 
"Okay. I'm gonna go call my mom and tell her I'm staying later than I planned." 
"Oh. Sounds good."
"Yeah."

CAMERON STANLEY

untitled
emma rektor

Everything’s blurry.
And bright.
Too bright.
My eyes are hurting and my ears are hurting and they might be humming but I can’t tell.
My bones are shaking
in
time
with a huge heart beat.
There’s a dial.
It’s in front of me and I don’t think I’m supposed to touch it.
But it controls the heart beat that’s making the air in my lungs rattle.
There’s this thing and I’ve forgotten what it’s called.
It’s in front of me and it’s sliding up.
And the heart beat gets louder.
My knees are hurting and my back is hurting and I can’t make them stop hurting.
It’s too hot in here.
I’m sweating and I’m cold.
I put on a sweater.
I take the sweater off.
I cover my ears with the sweater.
I can hear the humming in my ears now.
I ask for a hug and hands rub my bare arms.
The skin on my arms has goosebumps.
The hands smooth the skin on my forehead.
They’re the same hands but too hot and too rough.
They feel cold and I want them back.
I’m supposed to turn the dials now.
But I just want to unplug everything.
Make it stop.
I’m so tired.
More parts of me are hurting.
I can’t make it stop.
Everything gets blurrier.
I open my eyes and it gets brighter.
I still see nothing.
I walk outside and it’s cold
The air is thin and stinging my face and the dark is heavy but better.
My ears are hurting and my legs are hurting and I look up at the stars.
I wait to go back to sleep.

Roses wither away
Emmie nicholson

Roses wither away with memory – Andrew Lloyd Webber

Humid Sunday mornings,

cold coffee hastily swallowed,

yanked on t-shirts and lingering smiles,

Last night’s drunken love

already forgotten.

Long walks to the nearest street

corner, past glances lit by night time

red lights: the smell of alcohol

still staining motel bed sheets.

Three hundred bucks blown on blow,

beer, and pregnancy tests.

Ripped pantyhose, crooked nose

cocked in your direction, sagging cheeks

pulled back in a stiff and yellowed smile.

Beds reek with the profession of her fingers;

she wants you—for a fifty dollar bill.

Here on the upper thigh, the crease

of her back, breasts and shoulders cut

by strangers.

 “I would like to spend one whole day

alone with her in pleasure,” sneer old men in

black tunics, white collar lined up

with whiskers  on their chins,  

stumbling into bars, “take to your bed

and tell your husband you’re sick,

I’ll make you moan and groan,

cuckold morals of the Lord.”

Shackled and smacked, lost consciousness,

found prayers, “Dear Father, have mercy,”

Like trash thrown out in an alleyway,

face in shapes that made your blood run cold,

smudged lipstick across her wrists.

Her features took their final mold that morning,

and wholly lost their former charm.

An unofficial burial, an unmarked grave,

“Oh, no, my sweet, she was my first,

best fuck I’ve had for the money I’ve paid,”

and the roses on her casket

 wither away with memory.

The man at the door
sonia gill

The sound of the doorbell wakes me from my slumber. My feet find the door, bumping painfully against the wood. The thump is not heard over my father’s loud footsteps flying down the stairs, opening the front door.

I open my bedroom door, and hunch down at the top of the stairs.

“You do realize that it’s ten o’clock at night,” my dad says to the man on the other side of the door.  I imagine that my father is rubbing his eyes with one hand, and holding the door open with the other.

“It’s never too late to talk about God,” the man replies, voice bright.

My father bangs the door shut, sending a gust of wind to my hiding place. I stand up when he walks up the stairs. “Who was it?

He scratches the back of his neck. “Jehovah’s Witness.”

“At 10 o’clock?”

“At 10 o’clock.”

“Again?”

“Again.” 

How i guess poetry comes to me
robbie crane

We made plans on Friday for Saturday evening,
we were under a bridge, a painted canvas around us
art being graffiti,
expression covered walls
while the water roared five feet from us.
And it was cold, those Autumn days you know,
so we built a fire to keep us warm, tended to it,
smoked and shit till we were trolls under a bridge putting eye drops in.
Six kids, a fire and the teenage lifestyle.
We decided to stay a while.

Saturday evening, after a morning passed,
excited for a reason.
We packed up those beers that we got at the Dep
and whatever cigarettes we had left,
into our Hershel bags.
We put our sweaters on because the air would frost our skin,
and our hair would stand up on it's toes
so it could peak over walls to get a good glimpse at our night,
and we would shiver whenever we mentioned the cold weather,
it was a trigger,
but my cat sweater would have to keep me warm as it should do.
And my shoes, they would never do much more walking,
and my eyes would never take in as much views and as much colour as they did Saturday night,
and only until next time.

So after dark we met at Billings,
trekked up Bank Street to save us a moment or two,
 a few breaths, a good view that could be awed at.
We crossed to the right of the street from the left
and played a good game of chicken with the bulls,
Followed a path,
and then jumped a fence.
To come to a new break through every other time.
And we met the others there on the opposite side,
outside in the cold night
with crowbars as initiative.
Driven by the chilled wind
we broke the lock on the Benson.
We chalked it up to discovery, but really it was spray paint,
and it covered the walls in our jokes and drawings.
I wrote poetry on the windows and misspelled some words
because I’m not the best speller when I’m drinking,
but I'm fun and quick with my words and that’s worth something,
that’s worth company.
So we lit our cigarettes on candles
and they flashed in our eyes like lightbulbs,
sitting on those benches we found on the top floor.
And then we toured
around plain and simple abandonment,
using the light on our phones
till it was nothing but familiar.

And if you went in there now,
opened the broken lock and
entered my newly, entirely abandoned house,
you could read the poetry on the windows and walls,
and breathe in the spray painted drawings like fumes
of goblins and ghouls.
Let your eyes wander along the walls
and look down at our cigarette buds and empty cups,
take it all in and let it out slowly like I do,
add to the dirty air we didn’t consider
and let your mind run like we did for the bus.
If you did it would be fun
but,
I would rather just write about it.

Dreaming
Kate yeadon

I’m in my grandparents’ house, surrounded by family, even distant aunts and uncles who I haven’t seen in years. I’m standing in the front entrance, but I can still hear voices and laughter drifting in from the kitchen and living room, like the buzz of a radio that someone forgot to turn off. A tsunami hits the house. Just like that. Water seeps under the front door and fills the room. Quickly. I run up the stairs and dash into an upstairs bedroom. I stack furniture and boxes in a corner, forming a pyramid. I climb to the top. The pile shakes dangerously, but anything’s better than the water below. I looked down, to see the water lapping at my feet. I back into the corner and suddenly a bright red crab jumps out of the water and pinches my big toe.

CLAIRE LAUZON

We'd like to give a big thank you to the students who submitted to November's Spotlight and to Mr.Blauer for helping and supporting us.  You guys rock!
Nocturnal
(Kate, Charlie, Cami, Sacha and Olivia)