Colors of Family He was purple with the depth and wisdom of old age. Purple, a color full of manners and old-world class, He left purple residue on all he met, leaving with them a memory Taking his own treasured memories, appreciating all the colors left on him. He was yellow with his childlikeness and contagious joy. His warm, mischievous eyes crinkled and glowed warmth when he smiled; He laughed the orange sun when his grandkids ate ice cream, Even when she said don’t eat before dinner She was red, she was his rose, and he loved her for her thorns. She had stolen his heart a long time ago, and gently held his hand as it aged. Green were the nurses in scrubs and latex gloves as they bustled to and fro And put cold silver instruments up against his warm pulsing heart.
Ninth Grade, collage
“They’re all right,” the man replies, trying to sound nonchalant. He feels that this little girl has undermined his professionalism, and frankly, he feels embarrassed. “Let’s try to find your mother,” he says, before the girl can get in another snide remark about how her pictures are better than his. The man takes the girl to the mall office and has them make an announcement. He stands, impatiently tapping his feet against the marble of the floor, and looking around the mall for a figure that could possibly be the girl’s mother. After what seems like an hour, but is actually a mere five minutes, the mother arrives, hassled, and out of breath. She slowly wipes away a tear from the corner of her eye. “I thought I would never find you,” she says to the girl. Then, looking over at the man, she thanks him. “Is there anything I can do for you?” she asks him? She smiles down at her daughter and gives her a reassuring hug. “Sure thing,” the man says. “Buy the girl a camera; she’s a natural.” The man smiles to himself, and walks off into the frenzy of the mall. Adiel Schmidt
Pages 72 – 73
The sky was a dark grey on that sunny day in crisp autumn. The grey air outside turned the clear tubes foggy, Which snaked around his sickly grey-purple face instead of his red-rimmed glasses, It was pace-made heart that quietly and gently beat its last beat. She still holds fast to his colorful residue. Charlotte Marx-Arpadi Alix Gollomp, photograph