Judgement of the Lake and The Girl Behind the Glass

Judgement of the Lake

It’s insensately, violently, monstrously cold.  Icy wind shrieks across the lake’s surface, ripping the trailing drops of whitecaps into the air and freezing them into hailstones, which splash like buckshot in every direction.  My rowboat shudders in the water, creaking nervously.  Overhead, sky is gray and striated with dark clouds, revealing only the brightest stars: Sirius, Canopus, and Rigil.  The waves churn noisily, slapping against the hull; they are uneasy witnesses, but excellent accomplices.

A dark silhouette sways below, his hands drifting akimbo like kelp in the languid current as the rocks tow him down.  I can barely see him now; in a few minutes, his form will be completely indistinguishable from the vague fronds of seaweed.  As I look down, pale fish gaze glassily up at me, their bulbous eyes reflecting the underside of my boat like a seer’s crystal ball.  As the wind renews in fervor, I curse myself for neglecting to bring gloves.  My hands shake violently, and my knife struggles free from my grasp into the lake.  It plunges into the crest of a wave and scintillates crazily under the water, flashing like a wounded sardine.  I watch as it finds its way to the bottom, disturbing the ghostly vigil of the drifting fish.  This mistake shakes me from my cold-induced stupor, reminding me of the rest of my duties.  I dump my fouled suit into the water as well, the last evidence of my day’s work.  A bloody slick slides down each successive wave.

The lake is angry: it will not allow this obscenity to go unnoticed.  Slender fingers of water grasp at my oar, freezing it to the oar-locks with a thin veneer of ice.  A sharp, frozen knuckle forms around the hinge.  With a groan, two planks of the hull split under the stress.  I try vainly to plug the gap with my numb hands, but my efforts are in vain.  As my rowboat slowly takes on water, I resign myself to the final judgement of the lake.

The Girl Behind the Glass by Alexis Buzzato

Inspiration, Lucy, The Scientist, and Reinier Model Sketch

Inspiration

In the style of Sherman Alexie’s “Alphabet”

By Gabrielle Young

The Scientist by Madeline Doerr

Z

Shattered hourglass,

you are as useless

as an hourglass.

Y

It doesn’t matter if it’s

shaken or stirred

when the alcohol disappears

after a passing glance.

X

If D is the midpoint

of lines AB and CE,

what are the lines’ lengths?

W

This poor inchworm

seems to have developed

a kink

in its back.

V

Elderly number five.

Lucy by Sophie Rodosky

U

It looked ripe enough

to pop, doctor.

T

We spent all Sunday

sipping exotic coffee

and talking about the value

of human communication.

S

Be brave little duckling.

One day you’ll see you weren’t a duck,

Reinier Model Sketch by Mary Clare O'Connor

but a masterpiece.

R

Snips and snaps lift up her curtain

and signals the show to start.

Q

Somersault.

I’ve landed in the essence of life.

P

Everyone stares at the boy

whose mucus balloons

more and more as he exhales.

O

The author’s lips widen

and she stretches out her tongue,

letting out a slow roar.

It is time for her to sleep

and to put her work to rest

until morning provides

renewed inspiration.

On B[re]aking Bread and A Window Through Time

On B[re]aking Bread
by Julia Lynch

Instead of morning coffee,

add the buzzing of the

4 am alarm clock.

The one whose zero

is missing the top and left flashing lines.

Instead of the blue walled kitchen,

bake in the crevice of the slanted cellar.

The one underneath the creaking steps littered with

unopened cans of whole tomatoes

and Christmas decorations long out of style.

Instead of the countertop as your workplace,

use the underside of the flowered tablecloth.

The one riddled with

white strings of fuzz

and left behind ingredients.

A Window Through Time by Allison Gould

Instead of flour,

add all of aisle 7 in Giant Eagle.

The one containing

Klondike Bars

and Hershey Kisses.

Instead of a wooden spoon,

use the tips of the straw broom.

The one in the far corner of the

green carpeted front porch.

Instead of ringing the dinner bell for supper,

bang the top of the white double oven.

The one with the Bosco Chocolate Syrup

and your engagement picture on top.

Instead of sitting down at the kitchen table,

eat on the back porch.

The one with the maroon painted high chair

and twisted iron handrails.

Instead of baking bread,

break it together on Sundays.

The ones when everyone is gathered

around the table

heads bowed

hands held.

Tipping Point and The Childhood Tree

Tipping Point by Hannah Mueller

It was a muggy August day, the kind of day that sucks the life right out of you.  The birds, refusing to stir from their nests, chirped lackadaisically.  Big bumblebees buzzed by, unconcerned with the humans below.  Children lolled in the shade, enjoying their last peaceful days before school started in September.  Even the wind was reluctant to disturb the sluggishness of the afternoon leaving the air to hang like a dense cloud around the town.  One hand on the brim of a floppy sunhat and the other holding an iced tea, I observed all of this from the comfort of a wicker rocking chair on my back porch.  

I reached for a pen and notebook and was searching for inspiration when out of the corner of my eye, I spotted something swinging back and forth high above the ground.  I turned to stare at the rapid movement that defied the stagnant atmosphere.  Perched on a tire swing in the trees was a young girl.  While any exertion on a day like today seemed impossible, climbing to a swing high in the trees seemed downright absurd. 

The Childhood Tree by Hansen Bursic

I continued to watch the girl as she soared higher and higher.  At first, her head was tilted downward as she watched the ground moving beneath her, now rushing up to meet the swing, now retreating again.  She grew more confident with each passing swing.  She took one hand off the rope that tied the tire to the tree branch.  She placed both feet on the top of the tire and stood up, her hair whipping around her head like Medusa’s.  Finally, she held both hands straight out from her sides to feel the wind between her fingers.  The only thing connecting her to the tire was the rope pressed taut against her chest and her toes curled around the rubber rims.  It belatedly dawned on me that she was swinging to escape the oppressive stillness of the day.  

By this point, any fool with eyes could see she was destined to fall.  Standing on a swing without holding on is all well and good as long as you are moving forward, but when the swing changes direction you are bound to tumble right off of it.  

No sooner had this thought crossed my mind than she reached the peak of her momentum and the tire swing was suspended in midair.  Time froze for an instant, and I thought it was just possible that this child could somehow resist gravity and remain frozen there forever.  After all, nothing else was moving today.  Would it be so strange if the swing were to give in to the overwhelming feeling of the day and simply stop?

But then the swing began to move backward and her body kept on moving forward.  I saw the panic in her eyes as she realized her mistake but it was too late; the swing had left her behind.  Off balance, she pitched forward and fell head first.  The eight foot drop took an eternity, as if the very air dreaded her descent as much as I did.  Her forehead hit the ground first, followed closely by her right wrist and shoulder.  Finally, almost comically, her back curved and her legs slammed into the ground.

Naturally, I sprang out of my chair, iced tea flying everywhere.  I distantly heard the glass shatter, but I ran so fast I was halfway to the girl at that point.  When I reached her she was face down, motionless, on the ground.  I bent down and tapped her shoulder lightly.  She didn’t stir. I didn’t want to shake her or move her - what if she were paralyzed?  What if she were dead?  I am not a doctor; I didn’t know what to do.  I stood over her for a moment, fearing the worst, when to my great relief she rolled over and opened her eyes.  

I let out a breath that I hadn’t realized I had been holding and glanced around at the surrounding environment.  Nothing had changed: the birds barely fluttered their wings, the bees hadn’t even stopped to observe the spectacle.  I had no way of knowing whether five seconds or five minutes had passed.  The atmosphere may have been the same, but for this girl—and for me—the serenity of the day was irrevocably shattered.

What am I? and Frozen

What am I? by Katherine Teele

Open.

I fill your scorching months with serenity

I am the highlight to your all American Summer

On grounds made of crystals, I tug at your feet breathlessly

Alluring you respectively

Whimsical, wise, wholesome.

Captivating.

Bodies are sung asleep cooly to my rhythm

I will greet you with open arms in the unbordered mornings

The peace found in my own collision

White clouds of matter fill your vision

Evocative.

Azure, ambient, alluring.

The moon dances with me

Dragging me in exaggerated, extraterrestrial patterns

Impermanence is fact, but I will never leave

Find me active from noon to midsummer’s eve

Animated.

Vital, velvety, vast.

Blue like sky because the sky is in me

Green like grass because the grass is in me

White like the moon because the moon is in me

Some try to paint me with a price, but I’ll always be free

Natural.

Ethereal, earnest, enchanting

Nature can make me powerful many miles ahead

I am as dangerous or as safe as one dares me to be

Some decide not to risk it instead

I am breathtakingly dead

Scary, sacred, safe.

Frozen by Sophie Rodosky

You and I and Indelible Winter

Indelible Winter by Elizabeth Kauma

You and I

by Jordyn Koontz

You are like the Moon

Pure and Glowing

Nothing can snuff out your light

Not even the clouds can hold back your shimmer.

You say I am like the Sun

Fierce and Brave

You say no one can out shine me

That I have a powerful yet beautiful presence.

I see things differently than you.

You are too innocent for me,

Just like the Moon is for the Sun.

I destroy everything I touch,

Just like the Sun is for the Moon.

No matter how dark everything is,

You illuminate the good.

No matter how bright everything seems,

I cast shadows everywhere I go.

If you are the Moon and I the Sun,

How can we ever see eye to eye?

We can’t.

You and I aren’t fated to be together,

Just like the Sun and the Moon are always destined

To be apart

The Target, Tiger on Film, and Flustered

The Target

by Margot Savin

I ventured into the wilderness, one goal on my mind,

My target: the fox, I needed to find.

As I clutched my gun tightly, the frozen air was still,

This sly, cunning creature, I was out to kill.

Tiger on Film by Nina Stumpf

My focus was locked in a mad concentration,

as I set foot through the icicles, no hesitation.

To battle this tundra, I’m told I’m insane,

But I was set on my mission, my motive deranged.

The November air was sharp on my skin,

My veins felt icy, my blood running thin.

The thick winter wasteland hindered my sight,

The woods that engulfed me, a blizzard of white.

An eerie howl echoed through the amber sky,

As I glimpsed the creature, its head nobly held high

There my target lurked amongst the dead winter trees,

The conniving fox standing proud, taunting me.

My soul filled with rage upon seeing the creature,

Its stature was intimidating in every feature.

I saw my reflection in its beady black eyes,

Before it swiftly darted toward the hazy skyline.

Fire streaked across the powdery snow,

Defying everything that science knows.

In its menacing trot, I beheld its demise,

But it disappeared into the yellow pines.

I felt my body overwhelm with unease,

As I crept through the somber, winter breeze.

Then, I spotted its pawprints in the snow covered floor,

The villainous, shrewd fox could outsmart me no more.

My gun was pointed as I followed the path,

My hand on the trigger, my mind filled with wrath.

I was destined to rid the world of such evil,

The deceitful pest that filled my soul with upheaval.

Chills surged through my body as once again I spot

The root of my wretchedness, the mischievous fox.

Its blazing red fur in a fiery rage,

My inner beast was let uncaged.

Its fluffy tail swayed in an arrogant trail,

As I pounced toward the creature, but to no avail.

It was quick and clever, thus easily escaped,

From my arms of frustration, my body of hate.

So I raised my gun for a deadly blow,

As my target prowled through the pure, milky snow.

With a vibrant explosion, a bullet was shot,

Toward the artful creature, the despicable fox.

Flustered by Anna Paviglianiti

I found myself on the cold, wooded ground,

And as I scanned all around me, no fox could be found.

The sparkling snow turned a bright scarlet red,

As I noticed the blood pouring from my own head.

A pillow of Earth held me in my last breath,

In this unforgiving wilderness, I found my own death.

The fox I sought after, the creature I despised,

Remained a mystery, to no surprise.

The bleak winter evening turned electrically bright

My mission was complete, a demented plight.

For no tangible fox was the pursuit of my gun,

I was my own target, and it seems I have won.