Lauren Attwell

(80 entries)

Marking Period 1

My name is Gordie Blythe and I was born to Charles Blythe and Anne Nye on the 31st of December in 1764, which makes me 11 years of age. The story I am about to tell you begins in the horrifying, yet the absolutely brilliant year of 1775, and it may sicken you, or interest you, but, either way, it should, and will intrigue you. My story begins one blissful and carefree morning in early December when my mother was just getting home from the bakery with my sister, Jane, in her arms. Jane is two years old, with light - almost pink- red hair, and emerald eyes that sparkle when the light catches them. My mother came home by announcing to the entire house, that was really just me at the moment,
"I have got a new occupation at the house across the lane. I am now the gardener and will be starting tomorrow. Gordie, that leaves you to take care of Jane. Can you?" She looked at me with the pleading eyes of a lost puppy. Although I wanted, truly wanted to decline and play dueling with my friend, Adam, her enormous brown eyes begged me to say yes. Finally, I gave in.
"Yes ma'am," I said, trying to hide my disappointment. My mother put down Jane and disappeared into the front room. The front room is beautifully decorated, with maroon flowers stenciled on the wall and beautiful oaken furniture. My folks can afford these luxuries because of my father's rank, inGeneral Washington's army. He is currently a general, but we rarely get the pleasure of seeing him. After my mother walked away, I took Jane in my arms to take her to her ornately carved crib that my father made out of a cherry tree. When I was finished one of my many chores, it was time for bed.The bedroom was small, considering that my parents and myself all had to share it with the squawling baby. My bed is a trundle, that can be hidden away under my parents' bed. As I drifted asleep, I remembered my mother's new job. This little thing could not have changed my life more.
I woke to a gorgeous crimson sunrise, but I could not stay at the window and savor the luxuriant view any longer. I had to go and feed my baby sister. I stumbled down the stairs to find Jane crying and banging her little fists on the highchair tray. I realized that my mother had already gone to the Charleston house to prune.
"Well, it's just you and me now, Janie." I cooed. As if she understood me, Jane banged her diminutive hands on the wooden highchair and cried
"Mama! Mama!" I smiled and gave her the jar of mashed apple, her favorite. I went outside to start the daily wood-chopping but was distracted by the maid, Sarah, starting her housework. I watched her elegant fingers on the grungy cloth, wiping the filth away. Suddenly, at the door, appeared a woman with springy hair, the color of a wildfire. Behind her, a girl I knew as Cornelia. Cornelia was beautiful, with her large, brown, cow eyes, that were both kind and gentle. Her cinnamon hair cascaded down her back. Since I was outside, I walked up behind them and invited them inside. I smiled my greatest smile and said,
"Hello Cornelia, Mrs..."
"Charleston. Mrs. Charleston." the woman replied. Both girls looked quite bleak, so I was naturally uneasy.
"What is the problem, ma'am?"
"Unfortunately, British soldiers have taken a liking to barging into people's houses and stealing whatever they please. And their guns are always with them. They were rummaging through the china cabinet, and your mother came to protect it. They well, shot her. Through the chest." I blinked, stunned at what just happened. My mother, she couldn't be dead! She was my mother! She's not supposed to be gone so soon! What about little Jane and me? The realism struck me all at once. I would never see her again, and Jane will not grow up with a mother. I lumbered back into the house, thanking Mrs. Charleston and closing the door behind Cornelia. After I knew they had gone, I grabbed Jane from her highchair, with so much force that she cried out in surprise. My little sister's green dress wrinkled beneath my touch. As I ran up the stairs to the bedrooms, I saw Sarah putting away my mother's blouses into the cherry wood dresser.
"Don't touch those!" I screamed at her. I grabbed them out of her bronzed arms. I didn't want Mother's lemony scent to disappear. I ran into my room, sister and shirts in my arms, and slammed down on my bed. Jane had just enough time to get out from under my awkward frame. Dry sobs lullabied me until I was asleep.

My dreams made a trail of restless sleep for me that night. I saw a clouded image of my father and mother laying down and gripping each other's hands as if a single whisper of wind would tear them apart. I saw myself, black hair as always, reaching out to them. A girl my age, with light red hair and emerald eyes, stood next to me. She whispered,
"Mama, mama." Is this Jane, the four-year-old that still had not learned to walk? No, it couldn't be. And this white-wigged man in front of me, coaxing my father from sleep, that couldn't be General Washington! And my father, asleep? Why is George Washington trying to wake him up? Jane, why is she here, and so much older than she is now? My head swirls with uncertainty and questions. A dark light, and I wake up. A feeling runs through my stomach, and not a good one. It was the feeling that something was awry. I realized that no one had put Jane in her crib last night. Had she fallen down the stairs, or gotten too cold? Maybe she got stuck in a closet or cupboard. I started to stampede around the three-storied house, panicked at the possibilities of danger.
"Jane! Jane! Jane, where are you?" I ran into the maid's quarters. Sarah is at her bedside, kneeling on the oak floor, with a moist cloth in her hand. I dreaded what I would see on the bed.
"Jane?" I whispered, my voice as soft as a cotton sheet. I leaned over the bed, that was really just a mat stuffed with straw on the floor. My eyes filled with tears when I saw little Jane covered in scabs and rashes. The only thing it could be was smallpox. Jane started whimpering. I could feel her breath, hot as fire, on my forearm. As I kneeled next to Sarah, I saw Janie's emerald eyes glisten with pain and confusion. I could see why; one moment quivering with cold, the next wheezing with fever. Sarah looked as if she didn't sleep at all either. Her sunken hazel eyes showed years of endless work and desperation of tranquillity.
"Gordie, she's so young." Sarah sighed. I knew what she meant, but I didn't want to believe it.
"What do you mean, pray tell?" I murmured half-heartedly.
"Gordie, she's not strong enough to fight this ailment. She won't make it. My baby sister, Adeline, had it and she passed on." Sarah stuttered. My mind spun and my arms, along with my legs turned numb. First my mother, then my baby sister? Who's next? My father? Sarah? Me? In my head, I scream at the world, the stupid, stupid world. Why did this have to happen to me?
"Go-die? Mama?" I looked to Jane in surprise.
"Janie! Janie." I buried the bundle of heat and cloth in my arms. "I love you little girl."
"Gordie! She's contagious!" Sarah half screamed, half whispered. I gently put her down, not disturbing a single straw. As Jane's eyes closed, I looked away, hoping it would no be the last time. My stomach rumbled, reminding me that I have not eaten for two days, in the confusion. While I wanted to stay with my sister, my legs listened to my insides and moved me down into the kitchen, just below the maid's quarters. I looked ravenously through the cupboards for at least a loaf of bread. At this point of hunger, I didn't care if it was stale. Ah, yes! I flung open a cupboard and saw a piece of cornbread, which I grabbed and wolfed down. The crumbly bread rolled down the front of my shirt. Trying not to be so greedy, I put down the food. I jumped when I heard Sarah let out a high pitched shout! I burst into the maid's quarters like General Washington on his horse.
"Sarah! What happened to Jane?" I howled with tears in my eyes. I could feel death lurking in the room, with his ominous black cloak and his scythe. Sarah walked slowly over to me. I could feel anger building up my throat, threatening to whip out at anyone who dared to talk to me, let alone look at me. Just as a brown arm reached out to hold me back, I exploded. Exploded. Pots and kettles were strewn about the small room. My wiry arms lashed around me, aiming toward my stupid, stupid maid.
"How could you let this happen?" I screamed at that thick-witted slave. I thought I was at my worst until I saw a limp, pale arm peeking out from under a rough sheet. At this point, my heart completely collapsed. I crumpled down into a ball, wishing I could disappear with the rest of my family. Sarah reached out tentatively, in case I was still raging at death. When I accepted her touch, though, she pulled me into a hug. I broke down into a sniveling heap.
"Gordie, I'm so sorry about them. All three loved you so much." I looked up.
"What do you mean, three? Where is my father?" I blubbered. When Sarah looked away, I knew I was an orphan. I stormed down into the kitchen and out the door. I intended to kill whoever did the same my last family member. I live in Kennett Square; the Army couldn't be too far away. I started out slowly, contemplating my life. Father must be alive, why else would have all of this happened? I hiked on for around two hours, with no sense of direction at all. I was going by the faithful heart. Suddenly, I heard a ferocious growl! I whirled around, hoping that a coyote hadn't followed me. Nothing was there. I realized with a laugh, that it was my forever-hungry stomach. I ambled around for about ten minutes more until I found a berry bush, bearing midnight purple berries that I recognized as blackberries. It wasn't much, but at this time, I didn't care; for the hungry, it was a feast fit for kings. When I had finished eating and staining my fingers purple, my legs refused to carry me any farther. I sat on the ground, as cold as the ground below me. The hemlock trees looking over the earth veiled the ground in jade foliage, making a soft carpet for me to sit on. The snug luster from the setting sun reminded me of just how tired I was, and how much I missed my luxuriant bed. The little white stars shimmered in the sky, without a care in the world. I envied these wee spheres of light, no family to mourn, no diseases to avoid, no wars to win, these insignificant things have it all. My eyes blanketed themselves in their eyelids, and my conscience drifted away in the presence of sleep.

The next morning, when the golden sunrise shone through the hemlock forest, I didn't think about the beauty of it. I had only one thought: I'm hungry. I need food. Now. Since my stomach just would be unrelenting in its famine, I set out to find my breakfast. As I meandered along a thickly overgrown path, a dense smell hit me. It was absolutely putrid, almost like burning rubber, but not. A mass of black and white fur waddled out from a cluster of bushes, tail up. A skunk, perfect. Now I'll smell like rotten tomatoes for weeks, maybe more. The stench choked me, grabbing at my nostrils, demanding attention. My belly rumbled reminding me to complete my quest for a bite of food. Oh, I could taste now, even through the vile scent. Fresh bread, salted pork and beef. Wait a moment, I can smell these! There must be a cabin nearby! My heart surged and my mouth watered. I looked around me for any source of light or the house itself. I toddled around until I exited the forest of coniferous trees. A bright light blinded me since I was not yet accustomed to the sheen. The gravel road gaped at me, along with the houses on either side of it. The promising aroma of meat drove me down to a small brick house that was aged and weathered. It was simple- even more so than an American soldier's tent. The grass around it, at least where there was grass, was either yellow or brown despite the crisp temperature. My mind screamed at me telling me to run away, that this house was one of a witch's. Although, my curiosity was just like a fox's. I walked up the stony path, feeling something that could only mean something was out of line. The door was ajar, so I cautiously walked inside the hut. I was greeted by an array of jars containing herbs, spices, and things that were indescribable. The smell of the place was putrid and the wooden tables were disheveled and chaotic, covered in suspicious ancient books and papers. I wandered over to a small cot in the corner of the brick house. A black quilt was draped over it. Questionable stains peppered the pine plank floor. There were no windows, but there was a large cauldron in the middle of the room, under it a purple fire. A shadow loomed over me, and I dreaded what would be the source of it. I wrenched my body around bit by bit to see what exactly it was overshadowing me. First, I saw the waist-length raven black hair, the gray gown, and the protruding features. Her eyes, the color of smoke and smog, her face, the color of snow. The woman's lips were the palest pink, a thin line across her face. She looked evil, yet the most welcoming person alive. This welcoming feeling dissipated when a pinched grin spread across her face, looking like a snake.
"Hello, child. And who might you be?" I coughed loudly.
"I am pleased to meet you, ma'am. My name is Gordie Blythe." I said, caught up in a trance of the woman's beauty, or maybe something else.
"Wonderful. I am Fiorella Holyoke. I am glad to see someone has come, I have been subject to many witch hunts, you see. I am quite lonely here." Fiorella's voice was monotone and flat. I whisper of worry wobbled up my spine. Witch hunts are serious. People only probe the idea of witchcraft when something terrible had happened. Fiorella must have noticed my concerned glare because she quickly added,
"I'm not a witch, despite what you think. This caldron, it's only for boiling my herb remedies! Even if I was a witch, wouldn't I, at least, have a toad, owl, or cat? I would be killing you if I was a real witch! Grown people never believe me since my husband and daughter both died of smallpox, but I survived. I thought a child, like you, would understand, though." The young woman's eyes widened and suddenly she looked like an innocent child. My endearment engulfed this poor woman, who was so frail and depressed that people mistook her for a malevolent witch. Fiorella's hair shimmered like a night snowed upon.
"I'll be your friend if you would be mine," I whispered, barely audible. The gray-eyed lady tilted her head to the side, confused. I repeated myself,
"I would like to be your friend, witch or not. I don't have many anymore, either." The final section of my speech was not intended, for I did not this ill-fated woman to pity me. Witch or no witch, the circumstances were dire for the both of us and needed somebody to talk to. Suddenly Fiorella's eyes lit up like sparks.
"They're coming! Hide Gordie, hide!" I scrambled under a messy table and watched my new friend push furniture up against the frail door. A tumultuous knocking resounded throughout the hut.
"We know yerr in there, and eating that lad you lured in, too, you foul beast!" a man with a slight slur bellowed. The clearly terrified woman scanned the room, with the eyes of a rabid fox. I choked on the dust and sediment obstreperously, then glanced around hoping that nobody heard my hacking. A pair of wild eyes turned on me, seeking out the imbecile that almost got her caught. The chilly air hanging around the house seized me and a flutter flew up my back in an attempt to keep me warm. More and more thumping reverberated through the small space Fiorella Holyoke called home. After precisely two minutes and fifty-seven seconds of the raven-haired lady straining against her pursuers, she finally gave in and stumbled to the floor. Large, burly men surged in carrying stakes, pitchforks, and torches, jabbing the weapons into the air like it was the devil himself. A crowd of malicious women and children stood behind them, but only carrying swearing and shouts. The men stampeded in with Fiorella laying helpless on the floor. The terrible villagers veraciously kicked her vertebrae. Silent tears glissaded down the bridge of the woman's nose and the men's leather boots that were weathered with age, shoved her across the floor that was charged with Fiorella's own memories. I have only known this young woman for a few hours, and I already have seen the most violent and mentally damaging moment in her life. Fiorella reminded me so much of my mother, and she was the only decent person I have met. Tears sprung to the edges of my eyes and time went in slow motion as I watched my only friend cough up blood and the monstrous men scoffing at her, half dead on the floor. I had to do something. I materialized from under the board summoning every ounce of strength I had before my courage dwindled out. My stringy arms latched around the closest man's legs, causing him to fall over and crash into the next man, and that man to the next and so on. It would have been as humorous as a dog wearing a top hat, but the situation was too dire for laughter of any kind. Before the bumbling buffoons got their balanced minds and bodies back, I hurdled over to where my only friend was lying unconscious and began to schlep out of the once humble home and out onto the cobbled road. A crowd of bewildered folks saw us as the most unlikely pair of beings; a dilapidated young boy dragging the bloodied convicted witch down the street of a perfectly normal town. They shook their heads and blinked their eyes, and we were gone into the dense forest. Fiorella was surprisingly light, considering her size. I could easily sling her over my shoulder, but I decided not to, as her unstable condition frightened me. We continued down the path until I stopped at a clearing. Quick as a fox, I ripped a strip of cotton from my shirt and scrambled down to the nearby clear water creek. The sound of rushing water reminded me of my parchment-like throat, and I elected to take a sip, but somehow take some to Fiorella. Dancing and darting down my throat went the cool crisp water. A cup-shaped leaf served as Fiorella's goblet. I soaked a piece of cloth in the icy stream with tingling fingers. My feet surged over to where my friend was lying on the dirt. The leaf-cup tipped into her mouth, but I was cautious of the factor of choking. The woman sputtered, but that was the only sign of life from her. My cool cloth soothed the cuts and scratches that were covering the whole of her torso and legs. Fiorella's eyelids twitched, either in pain or just a bad dream, I don't know, but that was a good sign. I rested the cool cloth on her forehead and lay down on the grassy ground. When sleep became present, I let it take over my weak body.

Bleary vision entered my eyes as I woke up. My yawn was as loud as cannon shots. Coriaceous hands reached for the treetops above. I rubbed my eyes and looked over to where Fiorella was unconscious the night before. The only thing resting there was a bloodstained earth. My mind spun. Where could an injured woman have gone? Why did she leave? I desperately wanted to follow the muddy footprints leading to the condensed forest, but my stomach refused and forced me to set out and find some food. I meandered on a nearby artery for some time. Every exhale I took unfurled into the diaphanous wings of angels. My heavy, muddy boots trudged through the mud, making my energy dwindle. A boreal wind caught my nose so I held my shirt up to it, trying to keep the warmth there. Throughout the barren gray world, there were no living things but I and the tiny green sprout of grass behind an oak tree. A single bird ruffled its feathers and starting to sing a melancholy melody that only a person as I could understand. My talisman of hope had flickered out long ago; I did not have any belief that Fiorella was safe or was coming back anytime soon. Pine needles were scattered on the ground, poking my lower calves. Picking one up was painful, not because of the feeling, but my intention. Slowly, I raised it to mouth, willing myself to eat it. Most pine needles are safe. Please, please don't let this be from yew! The sharp bit of the leaf poked my tongue and the roof of my mouth. I chewed and then chewed again. It was decent! I had expected it to be ghastly tasting! I ate another and another and another until I was filled to the brim. The splashing stream served as my drink and bathing water. Strips from my old jacket dried my hair so the black strands didn't freeze. Suddenly, a burst of energy came down through my hair to the tips of my toes. For no reason whatsoever, I ran between the trees. I whooped and screamed like no one could hear me! Laughter bubbled up me throat until I could no longer contain it! Rolling on the ground in a hysterical heap of hilarity, a single crow flew across the opening in the pine trees above me. Its austere presence seemed to make everything below it gray. Gray and lifeless. Gray, lifeless, and somber. I looked up to the sky as clouds engulfed the sun. Leaves seemed to crawl back into their branches and the giggling creek seemed to stop. A midnight black stallion came into view, with a man wearing an empyreal blue uniform with cream colored trim and frill. His leggings were the same sandy hue as his jacket. Tufts of black hair that was streaked with snowy white fell on the man's shoulders. He looked very important and was obviously incorporated with George Washington. "Young man, what are you doing so far in these woods? You'll surely catch a cold. Now go home to your mother," the man said. I looked mournfully away, with empty eyes.
"Who are you, boy? Answer me." The man looked gentle but talked sternly.
"My name is Gordie Blythe sir." The soldier seemed taken aback and the horse below him jumped from the sudden movement. The man then whispered, with a mouse's voice,
"Gordie...My son? Oh, Gordie! I missed you so!" Dismounting his horse, the man stumbled over to me and attempted to put an awkward arm around me. I squirmed away, uncomfortable with this sudden emotion of love. My heart lurched, but my brain held it back. No, it said.Last time you got hurt. The great longing for sympathy overwhelmed me, and not knowing
exactly what to do, I yelled, "You are not my father! My father loved my mother, sister, and I! My father is dead!" Hot tears blurred my vision for a split second, but I wiped them away before the imposter could tell. Surprised, the man took a step back from me.
"My- my boy? I love your mother and Jane. Why must you yell like this? Come with me; we can fight for America together." Turning my mind over and over, I realized that I wanted revenge for the people that were killed in cold blood.
"But, Gordie, you will have to lie about your age, for you are only- what nine, ten?"
"I am eleven, sir."
"My, my, my son. Has it really been that long?"
"Yes it has, sir," I said exasperatedly.
"Oh, my, boy. That has been too long indeed! Now tell me, how is the family and Sarah?"
"Dead. All of them. Except for Sarah. But she has nothing to do now; she most likely quit." My father looked at me in disbelief, knowledge flowing through his veins.
"No, they're not, son. It's just your imagination. It's just your imagination. It's just your imagination. No! You're a liar!" He sat with his head in his hands, and his shoulders shaking violently. I was alarmed and had no coherent idea of how to comfort a grown man, much less a soldier in the Continental Army. I reluctantly patted him on the arm, hoping he wouldn't look up and see me biting my quivering lip. I'm a grown boy, and I shall not cry in the presence of my father, the soldier. Heavy sobs escaped the man's burly frame.
"My Anne! My beautiful Anne! And my perfect Jane! They're gone," he sputtered between sobs.
"I'm sorry, father," I whispered as quietly as the wind winding around the yellow grasses of the prairie. As my father looked up with bloodshot eyes and puffy lids, he says,
"I'm sorry, too, Gordie. That I was never there for you. Or Jane. That I could never see the foul, disgusting, miserable beasts that killed them, whether it be the disease of the body or the disease of blood-bathing British, I will end every last one of them!" He shot up like a bolt of lightning and nearly spooked his gallant horse.
"Come now, son, we will fight the fools!"
"Together?" I squeaked.
"Yes, son. Together." A moment of silence was whispered, and neither of us felt the least bit awkward. Finding family was extremely alleviating when all of the others are dead. At this thought, my father mounted his magnificent horse and held his hand out to me. I grabbed it and the throttling grip nearly squeezed my hand off, until I was pulled onto the back of the obsidian stallion. The elegant animal's flank was hard and muscular, but I was sure that my brave father would never let me fall off.

Threading between the trees, we were the needle and the horse's tail was the thread, sewing the trees together to the horizon until I couldn't see anything but the trees taking their place. The thumpity-thumpity-thump of the horse's hooves resounded throughout the forest so loudly, that the barbarians in England could hear it.
"Well, Gordie, how did you get all the way out here, in the middle of the wilderness?" My father was nearly yelling against the wind.
"It is a very long story. Perchance the Army would like to hear it on the battlefront?" I did not want to tell him the tale of all of his loved ones dying to his face. I had no comprehensible idea of how exactly he would respond.
"Alright then, but I don't know just how much time we will have between attacks. A certain drummer boy would love to hear a good yarn; he is the worse kind of lonely." The man's sparkling eyes conspired against his statement, though. The gaping mouth of the end of the forest waved at us as wegaily rode through. Squirrels skittered up nearby trees and the grass retreated from under the horse's hooves.
"How far away is the army, father?" I yelled into the wind.
"Up in Quebec, ready to attack and reclaim what is rightfully theirs! About an eight day's journey, I suppose," my father replied.
Eight days? I thought the army was merely in Valley Forge! Then, a single silver butterfly drifted from the sky and landed on my nose. It melted, wet and cold on the spot, and I realized that it wasn't an elegant butterfly, but the starting of a snowstorm. Soon, the gallant horse's mane was speckled with little white flakes as well as my father's hair. Dazzling crystals floated all around us until the horse refused to any further.
"Oy, Major! Whoa there! We'll stop here son; I need something to eat anyway." It was true, I hadn't eaten since I had found those pine needles on the ground, and I was on the brink of starving. Then my stomach gave up the hype and let out a voracious growl.
"Well, father, it seems that I need a bit as well," I laughed. We dismounted the horse but jumped in shock when our leaky boots hit the ground. Once we were accustomed to the freeze, the general pulled a stale piece of bread from a satchel that I hadn't seen before. He took a bite, then handed it over to me. I sunk my teeth into it in hope only to be greeted by the nasty surprise of the burnt crumb. I quickly spit it out and regretted it just as promptly. I picked it up and stared forlornly at my snow-covered food. The soldier was tying the horse's reins around an old oak tree, so he didn't see my mishap. I popped the soaked bread back into my mouth as if nothing ever happened. A giggle wormed into my mouth. Who would have ever thought that after just 3 days from my luxuriant home, I would be eating burnt bread with my father, a general in the army, going to Canada to fight Great Britain? The mere caterpillar could not even start to dream of what I have done! The laughter evaporated when my father started to shout and yell as loud as he could. Major, the midnight black stallion, galloped straight past me with a wild look in his eyes. His darting was as wild as a bullet straight out of the gun. Composed yet chaotic. Mud and muck flew from his hooves leaving dents behind his matted tail. I snapped out of my mesmerization as my father yelled,
"That danged horse! Gordie run after him!" then under his breath, with a voice he thought was inaudible, "Stupid horse costs more than it's worth." For a flicker of time, I was sure that Father was talking about me. Of course, I was so exhausted that my head was spinning and out of control so I later discarded that thought. My father crunched through the snow in pursuit of the escapee, but he stopped about three meters from the ebony stallion in distinct bewilderment. The hand came into view first, then an arm of the same coloration as the horse, who was currently stupefied in the crisp white snow, then a wide brawny torso covered with a smokey blue colored farmer's denim shirt. As his face peeked out, a broad flat nose and large lips could be seen, as well as wildly curly dark hair. Ebony caterpillars squirmed above large brown eyes. The brawny man's mouth opened in shock when he saw my father and me, but it closed just as quickly. The to my surprise, Father spoke.
"Boy, what is your name," he said dryly.
"I-I am Abanu. D-d-don't t-tell my master that I'm h-here," he stuttered, as we realized that he was without shoes in the floury snow.

**diaphanous**Choose an EndingMarking Period 1
Marking Period 4

My father grimaced and backed away from the man in the snow while I smiled and walked towardAbanu, eager to help. Even with Father's strong grip, I surged onward. I turned to my father,
"Sir, please let me help him. Look he's shivering from the cursed winter!" Upon hearing that, the black man quake as if in an earth tremor. then to my incredulity, my father trembled as well, with a terrorized visage. While the two men trembled, my feet started to shake, with my legs and arms in unorganized succession. Suddenly the vibrations were so strong that I could barely stand; nor could anyone else. Even Major the horse stopped bucking and fell in the powder.
"Cover your heads!" screamed I, across the wickedly whipping walnuts surrounding us. In a split second, hands flew over scalps and heads proceeded by burying themselves in powder. A sharp cracking noise reverberated throughout the small area. I warily looked up just in time to see a huge tree toppling over, leaving its stump in splinters. The asperous lumber fell slowly as if it was descending through a river of molasses. A sound like one of a creaking door echoed as the tree was barely an in away from my legs. My mind is shrouded in displays of crepuscules.

Quiet

For after the battle comes Quiet,
when all of the rampages are won.The clashing swords don't sound at alland the whinny of horses is none,For after the battle comes Quiet.
For after the battle comes Quiet,the lethal words are gone.Deadly stares have shatteredto nothing but lone pawns.For after the battle comes Quiet.
For after the battle comes Quiet,after the White Flag did rise.The whispering winds reside,and not one speaks a veiled lie.For after the battle comes Quiet.
For after the battle comes Quiet,nothing nestled in one's soul.Boiling beneath one's skin dissipates without a doubt.Sticks and stones build back bones,
but destroy them on their own,For after Quiet comes the battle.
For after Quiet comes the battle,through generations carried,hatred for other beings,just o so varied.Quiet never lasts in this grueling world,since battles rage on while humans' eyes are blurred.For after Quiet comes the battle.
And there is no other way,for after the battle comes Quiet,And after Quiet come the battle.
SEE
SEE, don't feel,the world has doubts.SEE, don't look,there's no amountof hate and beauty the Earth puts out.SEE, don't cry,or you will flyaway from the philosophyof thoughts.SEE, don't hate,most people are lateto the notionof good and evil.SEE, don't linger,humanity is lethalwhen they have youbetween two fingers.SEE, don't trustor they mustdestroy it with one touch.SEE, don't blame,or they will be shamedthat they don'tunderstand.
SEE, FEEL,LOOK, CRY,HATE, LINGER,TRUST, BLAME,
SEE
OPEN
Being Open from heart to soul
isbeing aware of when you are gone,being loving to people who are not,and having light while surrounded by shadows.It isbeing the wind under friends' wings,not battling while the option is ripe,being able to listen if your thoughts opposeand thinking in silence while a drama unfolds.A door isan opening between life and death,a fissure amidst friendship and alone,tearing away air and waterand the space between two ears.You must beopen, and don't close,aware, don't back down,loving, to people without,light, while left in the dark.You must bethe door.Open,open,open,don't close.They needears tohearthem.Open.
SPINSpin, twist, twirl, whip,flying through the sky.Singing melodiesnobody knows,is this what joy feels like?Do people ever just twist and flywhen others abound?Is spinning an art?Does anyone just dartacross the fields ofnothing?Spin, twist, twirl, whip,soaring oh so high,for flying is amazingas long as you don'tfall.Slow.Falling.Falling.Thud.Land.Land and seaaren't far apartas long as you don'tlook.Look.See.Feel the windunderneath, as youspin, twist, twirl, whip,fly through the sky.SpinSpin.Spinning through life.
Why?

Why do birds sing at day?Why do shadows have their way?Why do people obsess over how much they weigh?Why didn't King Tut ever get to play?
Why isn't war kept in a jar?Why are feelings always marred?Why have people ruled so far?Why do people inflict so many scars?
Why do people keep the truth?Why do we care so much about youth?Why can't idiots grow brains like a tooth?Why do others hunt sorrow like a sleuth?
Why do people dream?Why is a smile a beam?Why are narrow waters called streams?Why does a story have a theme?
Why am I writing this?Why do friendships end in an abyss?Why does time exist?Why does humanity think that there is real bliss?Why are all poems one rhyme amiss?
Why does the Earth spin 'round?None of these answers will ever be found.
Blink
In the time of a blink,
a housefly flapped its wingsone hundred and thirty three point three times.In the time of a blink,a hummingbird fluttered its featherseighty times.In the time of a blink,a camera has flashedfifty times.In the time of a blink,light has traveled around the equatorthree times.In the time of a blink,you recognize an emotion a someone's facetwice.In the time of a blink,zero point zero zero zero one six eightpeople have been bornandzero point zero zero zero seven twopeople have died.And you have only blinked once.

I am From
I am from sand grains,
Between our toes,
From folding fans
And CD players
lulling me to sleep every night.
From basement carnivals
And the mulch in the front yard.
I am from smeared cake,
Smothering faces,
And the drooping Japanese maple
Barely hiding our feet.

I am from awed looks
After my dad reveals his British accent,
Dunkin’ Donuts every Saturday
But never ever getting donuts.
Just bagels.
I am from paint covered fingers,
Covering the walls,
And my mother’s shaming after.
From playing ***THE EVIL VETERINARIAN***
With my least favorite babysitter,
And brittle blades of grass brushing up under our feet.

I am from the first day of school,
Trying to befriend the new kids.
From coming home glowing after I’ve made a new friend.
I am from my kindergarten room
That I visited every day.
The pick-up room frescoed with
Old 5th grader’s painted hands.
From reading every book in the room
And helping in the library during recess.

I am from Hood’s just down the street,
And my brother’s repeated order of
“Chicken nuggets, french fries, honey mustard”
From “What’s up, chicken butt?”
And twins with a birthday right after mine.
I am from chasing fireflies and crushing them by accident.
From dreaming big for one night
Then forgetting the next day.
I am from the farm,
Playing in the mud driven garden
And with the big black labrador,
Chester, Sam, and now Lily.

I am from watching Cupcake Wars,
And trying to be contestants.
Baking cupcakes and them coming out raw.
From remembering old cartoons
That we used to watch as kids
And falling in love with them again and again.
I am from singing beloved songs,
And dancing on video
Trying not to fall over
Laughing.

I am from water-thin pages
Bound with leather,
Some nights with Laura Ingalls
And some with Jack and Annie,
And their adventures in the Magic Treehouse.
I am from Harry Potter,
And my mother reading to me.
Not all of the books,
Just one.
And never remembering a bit of his exploits
When the alarm clock rings.

I am from the puppies,
Every single one,
From Erin, or Dog-Dog,
And Percy, the foster
(I still have the scar),
Goldilocks, the black one,
It still doesn’t make sense,
And Yumyum the poodle in quick procession
Once seven pounds, now 14.
From Izie, the velcro dog,
Who licks fingers and toes every time they’re near enough.

I am from dreaded trips to grocery store,
Forty minutes of torture,
And treks to the barn
(not much better).
From Pennsylvania winter,
Scantily surviving the last.
Boreal snow piled up at the door,
Wishing it could get us out of school
Just one more day.
I am from the thawing Earth,
Floundering through brand new mud,
And dismally watching the last flurry become too thin
To even make a snow angel.

I am from the pool,
The great towering lanes.
Never looking at the summer pool the same way after a hard practice.
From swimming the day’s hard set,
And hitting hands on lane lines
Then cursing under your breath
(but you're under the water, that doesn’t make sense),
I am from Lauren Attgoodly’s
And squawked “YEEHAW”s
From A.J.
The one I saw on the plane.
I am from swim meets,
Dreaming of winning the gold,
But hardly even winning your heat.

I am from futbol,
never football,
Sitting on the couch
And praying that Liverpool
Will score that last goal.
And disappointed cries when Manchester United wins.
From the flat space in the yard
Where my dad and I play soccer
Passing and passing and messing up,
Then making it hard just for kicks
(Puns are the tenth ring in Inferno).
I am from Dad trying to inveigle me
Into playing soccer once more.
The answer is always no.

I am from The Rolling Stones, Barenaked Ladies, and The Beach Boys,
The songs that made my mother’s childhood complete,
But rupture mine.
(just kidding)
From Elton John and David Bowie,
Some of the only ones I like,
And Dave Matthews, which astonishingly made my life much more interesting.
I am from Mom’s screaming in the car
When we’re listening to 1st Wave
And Prince comes on.
Or Psychedelic Furs
Or Thompson Twins
Or Blondie
Or Sting
Or The Police.
I am from the moaning when she starts to sing.

I am from beach days,
In Ocean City, New Jersey,
With a house just by the ocean.
From two hour drives from PA
But feeling like it’s been an eon
Alone in the back with my little brother.
I am from beach picnics,
Watching warily for seagulls
But getting sand in the food anyway.
I am from grandparents spoiling us
With chips that we’re never allowed to eat elsewhere,
And ice cream from Treats ‘n Treasures almost every night.
From Hoy’s, the five and dime shop
Just around the corner,
Where we beg to go
Even though Hugh and I had already outgrown it.
We don’t buy anything,
Just admire the glistening memories on the shelves.

I am from crazy nights of truth or dare
And flipping over couches
(with or without people aboard),
With four people that I can almost call family
Even though two of them are “dating”.
I am from gossiping at midnight
And bubbly little crushes revealed
From teases and puns and filthy jokes
That are never made by me.
(I’m apparently the innocent one)
I’m from watching corny traffic safety videos in the basement
But not paying attention
Since those nerds keep making their jokes and bizarre faces.
From awkward but heartfelt hugs when leaving
At 10, my brother’s latest bedtime.

I am from a home that is perfect
In its own strange way.
Hugh and I fighting about not wanting to go to other events,
Like swim practice and swim meets
And having Hugh’s rude little friend over.
I am from the heart of the home,
Just part of the glue that holds this mismatched home together.

Places
When do things stop being words
And become places?
Is it when the words are uttered
Or once eyelids have fluttered?
When you have done everything but heard
This word
Once spoken,
Now seen?
When voices say
Tree,
What do you see?
A piece of wood burning
Or hundreds of branches adjourning?
When do places stop being things
And become words?
Is it when you forget
Or you get upset
From seeing?
If someone says
Space,
Is it a picture
From imagination?
Or maybe it’s a real place.
When you take a picture,
Does it remain with you
Or disappear into camera memory?