“Build me straight, O worthy Master! Stanch and strong, a goodly vessel, That shall laugh at all disaster, And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!”
From “The Building of the Ship”
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Literary Magazine
Longfellow Middle School
2000 Westmoreland Street Falls Church, VA 22043 June 2026
Sponsors: Malina Nelson
Faculty Advisor: Nathan Beard
Principal: Chris Butzer
District: Fairfax County Public Schools
Contact: menelson@fcps.edu
Cover Art: “Mystical World” by Savannah T. Whirlwind is
Endless Beginnings
I can never finish
I can never complete
Even as I begin I can never end
Everything stays suspended Stuck in place
Waiting for a finale that never comes.
~Cara D.
Dawn
As the time melts by We are met with longing For the pretty, pale sky.
~Grace W.
The Light of Spring
The dawn of new light
The earth recreates itself Born with a new grace
~Eva B.
Hidden Behind the Clouds
~Cara D.
Thoughts by Eleanor R.
The sun will rise tomorrow–
A constant reminder of the changing seasons
A promise of the future, cupped in shaking, trembling hands
The light dims and as it sets, rises, the tension between fingertips reaching towards cold touch, soft skin, velvet breaths
A string of stars loose on our wrists, twinkling, winking at a wrinkled face, working hands
The sun will rise tomorrow–There’s a chance of brightness in the next days
A glimmer of shine between your toes, curling them in the sand
One, singular beam of darkness, the dusk falling through the weaves of insects in the dirt
A flame ablaze in our stomachs, walls deteriorating while we sit and smile
The aroma of flowers tucked in jean pockets, maxi skirts flowing in the windy atmosphere
The sun will rise tomorrow–
A meteor in the sky, passing us by silently, as if it were never there
Greasy napkins folded neatly in trash bins, grocery carts drying after morning dew, sitting patiently under metal bars Windows curving to our backs, eagerly opening every 7 am
Sounds of water moving, pressing on rocks and slabs of stone, edges of fish scales, tiny bubbles passing through our lives, hoping that we get another second to breathe
We will live as if there is tomorrow
The sun will rise, yet it may set forever
The sun will rise, yet children starve and mothers hold their bloody headed infants
The sun will rise, yet our fathers shake the hands of mossy headstones
The sun will rise, yet hospital beds connect to life supports and the hands of your loved ones
The sun will rise, yet fires set in stalls, playgrounds, bars, stores, towns, deserts, classrooms, closets, cities–Fields of poppies
Our sun has risen for a long time, setting itself, staying for a while, barrelling down a gravel path laid for travelers and veterans
Neat clothes pressed for a morning never arriving Hands
caressing baby skin while waiting for day
Gunshots
pounding against glass, engraving itself into roads, infrastructure, the golden, shining luster never coming.
Exploration in the Depths
I am I am an ocean breeze spritzing in the air, forever free.
~Leanna
S.
The
Ocean’s Depth
Sun shines down on a bright blue surface, tiny waves twinkle like jewels. But those brave enough to dive have the power to let deep beauties take center stage.
~Grace W.
At Blackwater Pond
At Blackwater Pond the tossed waters have settled after a night of rain. I dip my cupped hands. I drink a long time. It tastes like stone, leaves, fire. It falls cold into my body, waking the bones. I hear them deep inside me, whispering: oh what is that beautiful thing that just happened?
~Lucie L.
~Michael D.
Moon in the Sky
~Cara D.
lemons
“when life gives you lemons, make lemonade,” they say.
when you’re six it’s easy, there’s so much sweetness in life. at ten you have a cut on your hand
and it takes a little longer to get rid of the bitterness. then there’s twelve and that’s when your hands start to sting, and the lemonade is a mere trickle
compared to the pitchers you could make at six. suddenly you reach fourteen and it feels as though you’re running out of sugar and maybe the saying isn’t real and lemon juice is not pretty and
making lemonade is tiring and not fun like it was when you sold it on the street in the summer.
it’s sour and you can’t put lipstick on a pig and you can’t make lemons sweet no matter how much sugar you think you have.
~Nadia S.
A Friend By Your Side
~Angelina A.
Whirlwind
I Talk in Color
A place I feel most alive is not on earth at all. It’s unanchored, except by the boundaries of your imagination.It’s beautiful to me, though chaotic, and it may not appeal to others. It cannot be seen- pictures cannot be taken- and you’ll never find one solid description of it. For it is fictional, and only exists in my mind. A world unique to me. I spend my time up in this world so much, I’m Scorned and ridiculed by others because I’m dreamy-eyed, not realistic Enough. But why should I if everything looks better through rose colored glasses? What’s the fun in that? Not being bound to reality, to earth means I can dream to shoot Past the stars, and no one can stop me ever. And it may be completely senseless optimism, I may tune everyone out while I’m sitting in the white room in my mind, but that’s what makes me tick, and don’t we all have something like that?
My Soul
My soul is A sage starlet gliding on a turquoise breeze.
~Claire
Floating up high, way past our sights, A round orb, light as a cloud. A bright glob counts its days, In clouds and winds, it slowly sways.
No cord to hold it down, Far from my small town. A bold maroon ball will fly, Across a vast and sunny sky.
~Andi M.
My Hand
~Rushil A.
~Nell M.
~Swara C.
C.
Lost Balloon
~Zafyr R.
Summer Day
A warm summer day, waiting in my room
Vines wrap around the trellis on the balcony And me, in my gown of green. Could I easily blend with The leaves of green and flowers of purple?
~Norah M.
Morning Walk
A red umbrella
Shines in the dark morning light
Like a ruby beacon
I am
I’m the result
a billowing marvelous wreath interwoven within me.
~Mari Z.
The ladybug flies to you
And perches on your shoulder
~Layla A.
Reflection ~Ayveanah D.
A Thousand Years
The classical tradition: From Bach and Monteverdi, to Handel and Lully Vivaldi, and Mozart, and Haydn and Gluck-Beethoven, and Schubert and Chopin, Rossini Berlioz, and Weber, and Liszt, Paganini Mendelssohn, Brahms, Verdi and Wagner Tchaikovsky, Rachmaninoff, Mahler and Bruckner-The Five in Russia Les Six in France, Dvořák and Elgar and Delius Debussy, Ravel and Schoenberg, Stravinsky, Berg and Webern, Bartók, Mussorgsky
Shostakovich, Copland, Glass and Cage... Classical music-in this day and age? Symphonies, sonatas quartets and trios, opera and lieder and oratorios-joy and sorrow, love and heartache harmony and melody and rules to break, a thousand years-- don’t let it die. let classical music come alive!
~Rose L.
Whirlwind
The Faded Yellow Box
I am the faded yellow box full of dreams in an inconspicuous door that needs a special key. I am an owl gliding in the darkness seeing people as small dots, like marbles glowing the path that leads to the river of justice. Sadly the hammer of problems has arrived. Some people are like trucks that aren’t fearful of life saying “Why not take the try?” Seeking into the darkness of humanity. Playing with puzzles that could reveal the open sky. Some people are like ghosts, soulless, living deadly shoving themselves into the hell of pills. Living in a shell covering up themselves. Using eyes filled with envy, looking up to the rich living in the castle of emptiness on the quiet noon calling out “HELP!”. What is the future that you’re looking for?
~Juniper H.K.
Stains That Never Fade
~Sofia C.
Backrooms Man ~Lena D.
Whirlwind
Cages We Make
To be free is to be the bird With wings outstretched and singing heard Yet freedom is the thing I seek With grasping claws and black eyes bleak Here behind the bars I’ve made My vibrant plumage starts to fade Alone I stand, my feathers clipped Talons tied and sharp beak chipped Once a day I am released To prance and sway before the beast The monster of my darkest thoughts Who I now entertain while it squats I dance and chirp to its delight It guides me with a stick that bites Until at last the game gets old And it opens up my cage of gold I step inside, a willing thing Lock it up with a silver ring Then I stand, devoid of hope No longer noticing the rugged rope That windes its way around my neck
Leaving behind blood-red specks Forgetting who had put it there Who had caught me in this snare For no one is ever more confined Than they, the bird, who made the binds
~Hannah G.T.
Evergreen
The pine trees bristled In the wind, the leaves
As sharp as a knife
Cut through the air They smell like fresh evergreen. I touch the leaves, my skin tears, Blood trickles down my hand
Metallic and sharp.
~Weylin B.
Watcher by Mari Z.
I took a step backwards when I saw it. A covered lump in the shape of a human. It was off of the path, in an abandoned gazebo overgrown with weeds. I concluded that I hated this place. Something about it made me feel like I was being watched. Was someone watching me? Judging my movements? Copying my behavior?
I ignored this thought and turned my attention back to the covered lump. I thought it looked heavy because it was so still Something about it made me...want to understand it.
The more I watched its stillness, the quieter my surroundings became; as if it were enticing me to move closer. No. Begging me to uncover it and free it from the suffocating jacket.
Hesitantly, I stepped off the path and into the forest, slowly moving towards the gazebo as if I were not in control of my own legs. Wandering through the overgrown deciduous bramble, the feeling of being watched strengthened. And the feeling grew stronger and stronger until I found myself a few feet shy of the gazebo.
My fixation broke in an instant, and my body shook from the coldness shooting up my spine.
There is something behind me. It’s empty space but I can feel it watching. I know it. I can feel its presence. And its
presence is cold.
In the midst of my fear something starts to rise in my throat. I believe it to be a scream but instead I start to laugh. I am laughing but I can’t believe it’s my own. How could I laugh right now? I look around trying to find whoever is laughing but can’t.
I convince myself that the laugh is not my own, but the watcher’s. I cover myself with my arms attempting to shield myself from the watcher’s vision, and turn to the pathway. Instead I see him waiting there.
Up on the path is a shadowy figure of a man; The Watcher. But something about the way he stands is wrong. His eyes track me. When I meet his long gaze, he opens his mouth widely as if trying to say something, but no words come out. It was as if he had no idea how to speak. His teeth stuck out like jagged shells on a shore and came in at odd angles and in all sizes protruding from his jaw.
By the time he had ripped me open and emptied my insides out I knew he tricked me. As his jagged mouth forms a bloody smile, I can see the remains of my intestines hanging off his tooth. He is not human. And he has been watching us for a long time. He has been judging our movements for centuries. He will replace me after he crawls into my skin. And he will come for you, too.
The
d They put me in a room. A square room. Windowless. It was white. Not a simple white like a piece of paper, but whiter, blanker, sadder. A single black chair sat in the middle of the room. My legs were tired. I had walked a long way to get here. Here. Where was here? The journey had been so long, feeling longer with the tight blindfold on my face. My hand instinctively moved across my face, my skin still held the memory of the blindfold. My eyes fell back to the chair. The chair seemed inviting. Not really though. Without anything else in the room the chair ached of loneliness. I mean what’s a chair without a table? So, I sat on the floor. I knew they were watching from somewhere. This was my first protest. I would not use the chair. I knew I would be here for a while. There will be more protests to come. It reminded me of a prison. What was I thinking? It is a prison. I was a prisoner. No, prison is too dark, I’ll call it “the room”. My first thought was to track my days in the room. Without a pen or way of writing I could not draw marks on the walls of the room. I don’t think I would anyway. As much as I hated the walls it would feel like treachery to destroy their perfectness. So I would track my days in my head. It would keep my brain sharp. This is day 1.
The
Room by John B.
don’t know who I really am. I don’t know what I did to deserve this. I don’t think anybody should deserve this. This is the end of day 3.
Today is day 13. More thoughts came to me, and details too. Weird things. I realized I had not had to use the bathroom in my 7 days in the room or felt the need to eat or drink. My clothes were weird too. They were white, not surprising, and in the shape of a jumpsuit. No surprise there either. I had decided that I had definitely done something to be here, and this was my prison uniform. I was papery and light, but on some days it felt too tight or loose. It was like most things here, far but close, boring but interesting, the end but at the same time just the beginning. I had no shoes. I didn’t sleep tonight. That made it hard to tell when the new day started. Day 14 was definitely one to remember. That was when they took me out of the room.
Today is day 3. I slept through the rest of day 1 and 2 I think. It still could by day 2. I didn’t care. It was day 3 for me. Today I thought more like a normal person. Maybe I didn’t. I don’t really know what a normal person is anymore. I thought of my life previously and what I had done to deserve this. I didn’t know what I did to deserve this. I thought of my life before this. I had memories. A wife. A son. A job. A best friend. That made me feel normal. But not really .I saw those memories in the body I knew was mine. But they didn’t feel like my memories. I felt like I was watching a movie that I had never seen before, except that movie was about me. I
The wall opening woke me up. The room was flat and there was no obvious door. Yet it opened. A door shaped piece of wall slid down into the ground with a scream. A large man in a black robe appeared in the doorway. He had a mask. Not a simple mask but more like a black bucket placed carelessly on his head. He stood there for a minute. You would think my patience would be amazing after spending two weeks in the room but for some reason I couldn’t wait. I wanted to scream out “Well what are you waiting for!” but my mouth wouldn’t open. He must have seen the look in my eyes because he moved out the door to pick me up. My muscles ached as I was lifted up. I had not moved from that spot since the first day. The man looked at me. At least I think he did. I could not see his eyes through the opaque mask which made everything seem more ominous. He was really big. Did I mention that?. At least 7 feet tall. My heart was beating fast. I closed my eyes, forcing myself to calm down. I heard the door close behind me with a thump.
When I opened my eyes I was in another room. It was lighted well but in a different color than the room, and so it hurt my eyes. I squinted waiting for my eyes to adjust. But they didn’t. It’s amazing what 14 days does to your senses. From what I could see the walls were black. It was an odd choice with the yellow lights. There were two chairs in the middle, identical to the ones in the room. The chairs were separated by a table. I stared at the empty chair in front of me. My heart was beating fast again. Again? Maybe it was always beating fast. Either way I could not wait for someone else to enter the room. I thought maybe this was my new home for the next 14 days but dismissed the thought.Maybe it was wishful thinking but I could feel something different about this room. I was about to give up hope, when another door opened. A man in a black suit walked in and sat in the chair. He had darker skin, and was bald. His expression was neutral.
“Hi,” he said. The voice shook me, I hadn’t heard voices in a long time. It was a deep voice, but very smooth. “I’m gonna to ask you some questions. I nodded. “What is your name?” The question felt simple, but my memories were so jumbled it was hard to pick out. My heart beat faster still. This man felt commanding and every part of my body wanted to obey him. I dug deep into my broken brain searching for something so simple it was impossible. I shook my head, ashamed. “Can you talk?” simpler even. I went to open up my mouth, but I failed. I looked at him with pleading eyes, defeated. Maybe he could help me get me out of this place. I feel comfortable across from him yet something inside of me wanted to repel him. I shook my head again. He frowned. “Where are you from?”
“Impossible!” I haven’t done the simplest ones and he expects me to do this. My pleading ached through my whole body boiling up to my mouth. I opened it, “Please” I heard myself croak out. The man’s frown deepened before completely
evaporating.
“I would like to ask you some more questions but with your results so far I won’t waste my time.”. He left. The thump of the door closing felt equal to the thump of my heart. The masked man came again. He stared at me. I could feel pity radiated from him, but his common sense took over and he picked me up again. Holding me with one arm he tapped the wall behind me. A third door opened. I gave him one last look, one last ask for mercy. His mind was made up though, and he threw me into the room. It was pitch black, and humid. Not hot humid but the humidity of bodies. I heard whispers. A small skylight was above me. I looked through it up into the night sky. Ah the sky. I remember the sky. The tiny little stars shone into the night. The moon’s gentle light shone on my face. I looked down into the room. It was black and square. I wasn’t expecting much. I thought I saw something in the corner of my eye. It was dark, probably nothing.Curiousity got the best of me, after all I had nothing to do. To my surprise I saw the outline of many hunched figures. Dead? I thought. No, impossible, there were so many. One of the figures’ heads lifted up.“Welcome…” a raspy voice called out. “To the room of failures.” he chuckled. “Right, guys?” One of the bodies emitted a small
“What?” I replied
“Oh, we’re just some rich guy’s science experiment,” he said nonchalantly.
“What?” I said again
“Oh shut up” he said “You’ll get hungry soon enough and then you’ll join ‘em” he said pointing to the bodies. What?! How!? NO, NO, NO, NO, NO. My thoughts raced. All the stories, they all have happy endings! Why not mine, why not mine! I ran to the door and banged on it.I banged on it for a long time. My brain eventually evened out. Slowly accepted my fate. I laid on the cold floor defeated and dejected. I looked up at the sky. At least a pretty view.
City Sky ~Cara D.
d Home will be found (excerpt)
Home, so quiet and calm; My mother said “He won’t be long” In the meantimeStay strong
Day after day, night after night, Through dawn’s light He still has strayed
Home is loud, Through all the crowds
My family says we may have to run; For all we know is falling
I say goodbye to home, The only home I’ve ever known We board the boat and depart; Sailing freely from the dark
South Vietnam is no more, I suddenly feel very sore Still aboard the waves, We keep our ways
Soon we’ll arrive there, Everyone is scared, Until we find someoneWho really cares
It’s different here, But we’ve found a home With some help, We’ve found a home.
Whirlwind
Dusk
The sunny day melts Into vivid red and pink. The twilight descends Covering the narrow land Giving me the biggest hug
~Emilia G.
I am I am a fraying wire, dynamic, free, until... I give way.
~Kayla K.
An Invitation
The high mountain tops
Overlook the far city, As it takes away
The last nights of the spring sky, Inviting summer
~Shivum G.
~Aidan R.
Sunset Over Arches
~Cara D.
~Addie C.
“To be, or not to be?”
~Juniper H.K.
I Stay Three Steps Behind (Death’s Message)
I stay three steps behind. You fear what you do not understand, And there is nothing less understood than I. Death, at your command.
Except many would tell you I’m ruthless, That no one can run and hide. But while all things end, You can think me a friend, For I will never leave and take flight. I stay three steps behind . I am the quiet, After the storm, I am the husk left from the corn I stay three steps behind. Change is scary, that much is true. Especially when it means that someone’ s life is through, But embrace it, dear reader, For the seasons shift, You can go with them, or aimlessly drift. You could stay three steps behind. Some believe that Death is an end, Some believe it a new beginning, My purpose does not choose right from wrong, I follow the rhythm and reason. I stay three steps behind.
~Juniper H.K.
Last Breath
During his hour of need, even the trees
turned their back on the once famed,
Emperor in blue.
“What now?” he wondered, while in a nearby pond a young duckling is abandoned by its mother.
~Aiden N.
d Fireflies
When I met you there were shadows in your Eyes; darker Than any night
You must have skipped Those nights you spent Wandering; screaming Into an empty void, Darkness strewn across the Path; Thorns
Cutting into your ankles When you stumbled. Those nights
I wanted to be your moon, Your stars, Your lantern, maybe even your Dawn
I wanted to guide you, somehow, wanted to Help; but
I could only ever be The firefly
Flickering in and out, in and out yet Always there, Offering some Light; until You could find other fireflies In your life. destiny/
~Rose L.
They Are All Watching
Eyes
Thousand watching eyes searching for the end of time frozen, trapped in ice.
~Hannah G.T.
Darkness
I feel like the valiant knight’s horse galloping through dark matter.
~Seina A.
Slowing Down
The cool rush of wind
Passing by the swaying trees Who live painfully Hearts are torn up and broken My heart slows down with the wind
~Siddhant S.
~Alessandra V.L.
The Door to the Soul
~Alessandra V.L.
Jungle ~Emilia G., Grace W.
8/infinite
when you are eight, the woods behind your house shrouded with leaves and branches will feel like the most magical place in the world. the burbling stream splashing with your footsteps, rocks jingling underwater, and the water may not be clear but the sky is. you’ll get out and the gray gravel of the path will crunch as you walk past blistered stumps and fallen logs. for a summer your world is infinite
~Nadia S.
Used to Ache
One step after the other walking slowly to oasis to oasis, they said with the herds of horses the dust clouds rising into the thin, sunny air no true destination, I thought just desert stretching for miles then I realize that between the shrubs between the sand, the dirt there’s still life tiny, little bugs and a bright sun leading the way I realize, I realize that even, even during continuous labor despite the hot air or my legs aching or the sweat forming on my body dripping down my forehead, my calves there’s always an end, there’s life surrounding us engulfing us and I realize that just a few more years couldn’t hurt any less or any more than right now
~Eleanor R.
I am I am a tree, spreading its branches out over the galaxy.
~Isabella T.
I am I am the lone tree in a world filled with stumps.
~Zafyr R.
I am I am the hard casing around a seed steeped in rot.
~Ava A.
I am I am a dandelion grounded in soil, wishing to fly away.
~Grace W.
I am
I am a great blue bird soaring into the endless horizon.
~Drew F.
~Layla A.
cold past frost paints windows two small songs murmuring this story talking with a vast sky of birds aflight pushing away from your sharp, rocky mountains allow this pumping organ of my own to stay without you you without a scrunching brow, a curling fist my hand holds yours far, far away blurs of us watching from a distant galaxy this glass shard of pain stabs, twists a wound that is full of you
~Eleanor R.
I am I am the things we made up, gnomes, goblins, and love.
~Emilia M.
Acceptance
My heart aches from everything, yet I’m still moving. I tried to blame the world and hide under the moon, but I have to move on.
I tried holding onto memories, but that won’t work. The only way to stop the pain is to move on.
Healing will take a long time, and I will always remember you, but I will move on.
I will move on.
~Rosalie M.
Ending
In a wild chase of wrong or right, I always see you at the end of the line.
~Grace W.
~Henry S.
Portrait ~Ria W.
d On my 6th birthday, my father gave me a skateboard: my first one, colored blue with dark purple stripes. I remember him taking me out to the driveway, lifting me up by the shoulders and placing me steadily on the board. I remember crying out as the board slipped underneath my feet and I plummeted to the ground, shrieking as my mouth hit the pavement, blood flowing out of my mouth. I remember the sharp pain that accompanied it, and for a good amount of years I thought it was the worst pain I had ever been in.
Hindsight is a strange thing.
Memories by Emilia G.
same Spanish class and she sat next to me. Elizabeth was staring at the teacher, her hands jotting down notes. I struck up a conversation, and we got along. During that Spanis class, we chatted in the back of the classroom, giggling. In December, we officially started dating.
I wasn’t surprised when she called it off, though. It was January of sophomore year when she came over to my house. I was at home, not feeling well enough to come to school. She came up to my room and glanced at the pills on my nightstand as she said, “Marie, I can’t do this anymore.”
I never thought that this would happen to me. That I would be sitting at a keyboard writing down my old memories as I lay in a hospital bed, the sheets pulled around me. I don’t even like writing very much, but my parents insisted. I guess they wanted a time capsule, a piece of paper to jump back in time, once I’m gone.
I supposed I could look back at my hobbies and indulge in the memories of them. Fun.
I didn’t think that I would like acting, but my chorus teacher convinced me to sign up for Cinderella in seventh grade. When I auditioned, I thought I wouldn’t get a part. I knew my singing was great, but my acting skills? So I was surprised to find out that I was cast as the understudy for the Fairy Godmother. And when I got on stage, it felt like the place where I belonged.
Last year, when I was a sophomore, the stage felt less like a home and more like a safety net. I did theatre more out of routine than out of passion, and I could feel the flame extinguishing, like I did with most things that year. I was out of the play a lot due to frequent appointments and whatnot. Honestly, the only thing that was keeping me there was Elizabeth, who was playing the part of Catherine Earnshaw in our high school’s production of Wuthering Heights.
I think my theatre teacher, Ms. Nightingale, realized how hard of a time it was for me and took me aside. “Marie, I know it’s been a hard year for you... if you would like to quit, then that’s always okay. I’m sure the understudy wouldn’t mind.”
But I had to stay. I needed a refuge, and I wasn’t going to give that up no matter how tired I felt or how much my stomach ached.
You’re probably wondering about Elizabeth, right? I met her my freshman year. We were in the
And I remember staring at her as tears came to her eyes and she looked down at her feet and said, “I’m sorry... but you know how I am with things like this-”
“Things like this?” I rasp softly, a lump in my throat. “Liza? I need you... I can’t bear to be without you. Please. You know I’ve been going through a tough time.” I sat on my bed slowly, leaning on my trembling arms.
Elizabeth shook her head, full-on sobbing now, and ran out of my room. I never saw her again.
A few weeks ago, we visited our cousins, who live on the edge of the Chesapeake Bay. I remember stumbling out of the house, desperate for some fresh air and alone-time.
I walked to the edge of the shore, my stiff limbs sinking into the muddy sand. I watched the fish swim around in the salty water, envious of their infinite energy. I sighed and stared at the breaking waves and the setting sun behind me. I felt dizzy for a second, so I sat down on the damp sand and stared at the cypress trees. It must be so nice to be a tree, to stand tall and healthy for years, even centuries Suddenly, all I could think about was acting and Elizabeth and skateboarding. I could feel the tears springing to my eyes, and I buried my head in my hands and started sobbing. All of this was so beautiful, so perfect. I didn’t want to leave it.
I could hear someone approach through my sobs, and I turned around to find my brother Jonas. He breathed in deeply and sat beside me, his arm wrapped around my shoulders. He was quiet for a moment, and I looked up and spotted tears forming in the corners of his eyes. He took a deep breath.
“The world is cruel sometimes, Marielena.”
And he stood up and walked away.
Whirlwind
Free Verse During a Storm
Listening to the sound of thunder in my eardrums
Echoing off of the walls my mother created The soft chatter of a call, a peaceful song Lull me to sleep, I whisper to the wind caressing foggy windows swirling into rainbow lollipops of a youth I kissed with dry lips.
We all see the tiny flickers of warm light bulbs against a concrete sky.
We all hear how the rain presses on roofs while aching on the asphalt skipping from wilting leaves to artificial stones. Caskets filled with cardstock paper and pencils adorned with cartoon characters line the walls my parents created.
Instruments I never learned to play sit untouched in the corner catching dust.
Lines of sheet music taught to bleed into my amygdala showing me the blurry breaths of a passion never acquired. Snapshots in an invisible camera capture green sunglasses in the sand a chubby hand in a wrinkling one two sets of small, cheap sandals at the pools edge four black-brown eyes watching the sun blend with the hues of sunset–slamming the vacation door foot on a pedal, speeding down the highway, tires screeching against my skin.
These lenses of the past sit on our front porch threatening to be thrown into the trash bin outside— blown out, into our storm
