The Cathedral by James Ellis

Costya laid prostrate on the Cathedral's floor; his ear pressed against the cold, stone slab. For hours he laid in silence, undisturbed. No one entered the beautiful building which housed a belief that had been dead in his country for decades. He was the only one; beside the vicar, who would occasionaly adjust a candle or dust the pulpit. The vicar was curious of Costya's motive initially, but soon decided that being concerned with others is not his job. Costya's motive was simple; he wanted to hear the Voice of God. The reason he sought the Voice of God in the Cathedral was not because of the Cathedral's holy reputation, but because it provided him with a solitary refuge.
However, just as Costya felt as if his goal was about to be attained, the boys choir entered with thunderous footsteps and crude jokes galore. Before being noticed by these creatures of malevolence, Costya slipped behind the pews and made a swift exit out of the Cathedral. Patiently waiting outside on the Cathedral steps was Perez. Costya walked straight past Perez with out speaking or looking at him. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, Costya finally called out "Come Perez!" and the dog ran towards him with tongue out and tail wagging.
As Costya walked home, he past by a book store. On display in the window was a copy of "Diary of Anne Frank." Costya walked by, but he could sense Anne's haunted stare penetrating the back of his skull. He remembered that her diary was the first book read to him by his sister. He was only about six then, but he remembers Anne vividly. She was was so intelligent and pretty; he wanted to see her, to hear her talk. But as his sister concluded the book, she explained that Anne Frank lived a long time ago and was killed by the Nazis. Costya cried when he heard that, but he did not cry now. Costya tried to remember what stemmed his tears seven years ago; how could he have possibly stopped crying? He remembered how he wanted to build a time machine to go back in time and save her. He spent hours laying beneath the wet garden wall, drawing his time machine but never knowing what his first step must be. It was his dream and her hope. For months he could hear Anne's voice calling to him in his dreams, "Help me Constantine!" But he couldn't. He realized such a thing was impossible. Costya remembered all this and ran home. Perez ran after him.

Teal by Emily Lewis

Teal is the sunrise
ablaze every dawn,
the smell of the mountains,
and a freshly cut lawn.
Teal is a swimsuit
on a hot summer’s day.
It feels like soft foam
and it sounds like the waves.
Teal tastes like gumdrops
and fruit smoothies too.
Teal is exciting—
a new pair of shoes.
Polka dots, cookies, and
an old rocking chair.
Teal is the color
of Santa Cruz hair.

Innocent destruction by Maggie Nunez

He loves me

He loves me not

The gentle flower is

Stripped of her

Precious petals

Naked

In a world of beauty

Ugliness stands where

There was once

Perfection

A playful child

Wasted

On Vietnam by Tom Langland

Nation under foreign rule, long oppressed
Appeals for freedom ringing on deaf ears
They turn from the free to help of the Russians.
When under foreign rule once more, they fought.
The land of the rising sun was forced out,
And France came back to claim the land of old.
Guerilla and free forces fought till the
Money from the land of the eagle did
Not help any more. Free men defeated they
Left. The eagle fearing for the freedom
Of the world sent men—or boys—to fight.
Same prelude to war as before, again
The same precautions taken to stem the tide.
Forces ordered from Camelot and the
Young king who led the nation by the heart.

High School Sweethearts by Kellie Rodden

They had nothing to say to each other, these two high school sweethearts. They had gone to separate colleges and went their separate ways. Now, fifteen years after graduation they were at the reunion and were seeing each other for the first time. The girl, Nicole, had gone to school on the East Coast, making her the one to move away from their blooming relationship. Tyler, holding onto the immortal words of “if you love something, let it go, and if it returns to you it was meant to be.”

They stared at each other from across the dance floor for a full hour before either one of them got up the courage to cross that ever-growing distance. At the exact same moment, the stars re-aligned and Nicole and Tyler moved to meet each other. The distance between them quickly disappeared. Each saw only love in the other’s eyes. They had nothing to say to each other. They were too busy with other things to be worried about a little thing called talking.

Adage of Fall by Emily Morelli

Oh Fall! In thy depressèd ways
Linger less in the days,
Whispering is thy word:
An adage, desolation stirred.
Dancing lights of Summer fade,
Rows of corn in golden braid,
Cling to a companion solid—
For Fall, a season rot and squalid.

Oh Fall! Thy menace, thy malice;
Spring and Summer but a callous.
Beckon on Wind and Ice,
Tantalize, Winter entice.
Reap the moan of Summer’s sow;
Glean the breeze sweet and low.
Hide the brew of months passed,
Scorn the wine, the vineyards vast,
Now whimpering, cowering ‘neath thy mast.

Spools of Yellowed Yarn by Candace Miser

Yellowed yarn
‘Twined round a wrinkled finger,
‘Twined to darn
Her husband’s threadbare socks.
In the barn
Frost bites at gnarled fingers,
On and on like Spools of
Yellowed Yarn.

Grandma: The Alchemist by Candace Miser

A phrase that to this day strikes fear into the hearts of my brothers, sisters, and I: “Grandma is cooking dinner.” Now, don’t jump to the conclusion that the stories I am about to tell are fabricated, over-exaggerated accounts. I present you with the accurate descriptions of the nauseating, utterly atrocious meals that my family and I have forced down our gullets year after year. These are the kinds of stories you hear about but are rarely true; like that one time my Grandma was making a soup that called for “five whole tomatoes” and five lucky dinner guests were each ladled a huge floating tomato in their bowl. Another time, a recipe for lemon chicken didn’t specify how to prepare the lemons, and so my grandma stuffed the chicken with more than six whole, unpeeled, un-sliced lemons. If you doubt the validity of these stories, I will have no other choice than to call my grandma and tell her I am sending a friend over for dinner; then you can see, or taste (if you can call it tasting), for yourself. But if you’re smart you should just content yourself with listening. There is no need to subject your intestines to such alchemy.
One of the first dinners I remember at Grandma’s was the Christmas Eve dinner she prepared for my family and all my cousins. I like to refer to that dinner as “the race for the saltines.” You see my Grandma had constructed this heterogeneous swamp of a stew. I think it was primarily lentils, but then again you can never be quite sure. I remember the pride that radiated from my Grandma’s face as she set the big pot of black stinky mush in the middle of the table. And we all met her with equal enthusiasm….for the three lonely packets of saltines that were meant to be dunked in the stew. My cousins, sisters, and I looked around to assess our competition in the mad dash, and then all at once leaped for the precious crackers. I will never forget how my Grandma rebuked my Grandpa, because he had been the ring-leader in the ferocious dash.
My Grandma, in spite of all the complaints my Grandpa has regarding her concoctions, is positive that he simply doesn’t have a taste for gourmet, and that, in fact, she has every potential to be an accomplished chef. As such, she is assured that she possesses an uncanny ability to look at an already prepared dish and, without following a recipe, duplicate the meal flawlessly. So if you ever stumble across an old woman who is standing in line in a grocery store simply staring at a picture of some exotic dish, she could very well be my Grandma. One of the most disastrous outcomes of this habit of her’s was what I like to call the “bagged corpse.” She had seen a title on the front of some cooking magazine that guaranteed a moist chicken. The visual provided on the cover indicated that you must cook the bird in a paper bag. Although it may be a fine way to cook chicken, anything my Grandma uses her culinary skill to perfect results in catastrophe. I was watching TV in the living room, and I heard my mom politely listening as my Grandma went on and on about how cooking a chicken in a bag is the “only way to do it right,” and how she had “been cooking this chicken for three days in a bag.” We all assumed that she had never attempted this before and, of course, we were right. By the time she took the chicken out of the oven and placed it on the table, all that was left of that poor measly bird were its bones with charcoal remnants hanging in bunches where its flesh had been. But Grandma didn’t seem to notice, and she put it on the table in front of wide, afraid eyes. If I ever get stomach cancer, I will attribute it to the amount of carbon I gagged down during that meal.
There are other meals that hold a place in my memory, such as the cold, under- cooked salmon with cat hairs through and through, or the ever famous “Newberg stew,” consisting of chicken, sherry, sausage, clams, scallops, tomato sauce, prunes, and apricots. But the one that holds the most prominent place in my memory is the “prime rib torpedo.” My Grandma had read in one of her magazine articles that if you pour a cup of brandy over your prime rib and light it, the flavor of the gravy will be enhanced by the flames. By applying this knowledge logically, my Grandma came to the conclusion that if a little brandy brings out a little flavor, then naturally a lot of brandy would bring out that much more flavor. But, as usual, she was mistaken. My Grandpa, dad, and I were all watching TV in the living room. My mom was helping my Grandma in the kitchen when my Grandma lit the four cups of brandy she had poured over the prime rib. From the living room, we heard a big BOOM! and my mom’s agitated voice attending to my Grandma. Very startled, I turned to my Grandpa in horror. I was astonished to see that the expression on his face was utterly complacent, and he barely glanced twice when my Grandma burst through the living room to get a cold compress for her singed, still smoking eyebrows. Of course, this is what my grandpa lives with everyday, so why after all these years would he be fazed by any of it? He has learned how to steer clear of the kitchen, or “Grandma’s chemistry lab,” and I for one have chosen to follow in his footsteps and advise you to do the same.

A Riddle by Devony Lynn Smith

The Fruit of the Artist's Labor is
The disgust of the onlooker's glare.

Days entwined with silk streamers interposed.

Momentous mornings and an evening to mend
The creator strokes
Up and down
An ovals
All in swoops together

attached
connected
labor
scrutiny

Completed in glory
A work with heaven's blessing.

Crushed at the whoosh of a palm.


Answer:
a spider's web

Dreams or Reality? by WHOM???

“Good night, Mom! Good night, Dad!” Lyria called as she opened the door to her bedroom. A faint reply came from the kitchen, where her adoptive parents were preparing the food for her sixteenth birthday party the next day.
As she entered her room, she immediately walked over to her window and drew heavy curtains across it, hiding the bleak and dismal city lights from her sight. Tossing on a pair of loose pajama pants and a matching tank top, she walked over to her bed and sat down on the edge, digging her toes into the soft carpet, lost in the memories of past birthdays.
The dreams had begun the night before her tenth birthday, and as each new birthday came around, so did they. Lyria had a feeling that tonight would be no different, but she eagerly anticipated the next morning, for it would either bring an end to the dreams, or an end to life as she currently knew it.
Sighing, Lyria roused herself from her thoughts and reached over to turn her bedside lamp off. Plunged into blackness, she slipped into bed and quickly fell asleep, letting herself fall into the world of dreams.
Lyria was walking along a stone hallway. All was quiet until she heard, “I’m glad you’re here.” Whirling around to face the owner of the voice, Lyria felt the wind rush by in a strange way across her back. Peering over her shoulder, she perceived vibrant wings opening and closing in a slow, methodic rhythm. Gasping, she turned back around and looked down at her attire. She was adorned in a beautiful ball gown, with colors and designs so intricate, that she felt as though she could spend hours admiring it, without ever fully understanding it. Bare feet peeped out from beneath the folds of her dress, and she stuck a foot out, wondering at her lack of shoes.
Looking back up to the person standing in front of her, she saw a kind, elderly lady, who also had wings fluttering behind her. Blushing, Lyria looked down at her feet and mumbled, “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand.”
“Don’t worry child, you are not yet expected to.” She reached out a hand and gently touched Lyria’s shoulder. “They call me Flora. Follow me, and I will show you around. Then everything will become clear. Although,” she glanced back at Lyria with a cynical look, “your feet might become cold, we do not have carpet in the castle. It is unnecessary as our feet rarely touch the ground.”
Nodding that she understood this statement, Lyria watched in amazement as Flora leapt into the air, and then flew off down the hallway, turning left into the first door. Mistrusting her own newly discovered wings, as Flora had known she would, Lyria followed on foot, jogging in order to keep up.
As Lyria also turned into the door, she was brought to an abrupt halt by Flora’s out held hand. “That’s your mother,” Flora whispered in her ear, allowing her a brief glance of the regal lady seated on a throne, before she dragged her back out of the room.
“Wait!” Lyria cried, struggling. “How can that be my mother? This is only a dream!”
“If that is what you choose to believe, then I will not stop you, but when you turn sixteen, you will realize that I am not lying to you.”
“Why sixteen?” Lyria asked, but she received only Flora’s back and a beckoning hand. Following Flora as she yet again took off, Lyria was led up multiple flights of stairs, finally stopping when they reached a solid wooden door.
“This is the top of the castle,” Flora stated as she turned around to face Lyria. “It will be windy when we venture out, but if you remain near the wall, then you should be fine.” So saying, Flora opened the door and stepped out, Lyria close behind her.
“All of this is yours,” Flora swept out a hand to encompass the castle, the grounds, and the surrounding forest, “Well,” she corrected herself, ‘it is your family’s.”
When Lyria threw her a questioning look, Flora proceeded to explain further. “The land did not always look this way. When you were younger, a babe hardly out of the cradle, neighboring kingdoms attacked, and your mother, the queen, was the only one strong enough to defend this place. However, she did have one weakness.” Flora glanced at Lyria with a meaningful look.
“You mean me?” Lyria asked.
“Yes, I do. Your mother knew that if anything happened to you, she would lose her will to fight, so when you were two, she put a spell on you and sent you to live in the mortal realm for fourteen years. Once the spell wears off, you will be brought back here to claim your rightful place as our princess and future queen.”
Lyria opened her mouth to say something, but Flora cut her off. “Our time together runs short. When you return here for good, you need not worry about those you knew in the mortal realm, they will forget of your existence. You will be reunited with your mother when you turn sixteen. Goodbye for now.”
Lyria suddenly sat up in bed. Today was the day. She was finally sixteen. Due to the darkness in her room, she was unable to see her surroundings, to know if she was indeed in the land of the faeries. Throwing back her covers, she leapt out of bed and ran across the cold floor to the window, wrenching back the curtains.

Orange by Megan Saunders

Orange

Orange is the sun
Setting over the beach
On a warm summer night
Orange paints the walls
Which surround my bed

Orange is the tang
Of bell peppers in my stir fry
Orange is the sweetness
Of marmalade on toast

Orange is the soft velvet
Which covers the couch
Orange is the slimy gel
With which I wash my hands

Orange is the scent of roses
Freshly cut in a vase
Orange is the aroma
Which fills the air
Of my tropical summer home

Orange is my best friend’s voice
Singing our song
Orange is the wind whistling
Across the sandy earth

Tractor by Andrew Koike

The blades circle

cutting ground away

eating land

sending up dust

The driver sits,

wipes away sweat, dirt

not knowing

He makes way

for new life

The Black Widow's Lair by Warren Richardson

The black widow is perilously near.

Craning my goose-bumped neck in growing fear

I sense the cobwebs tingling on my skin

Ceaseless throbbing in my head causes din.

The bloody clots on its middle bring pain

That cursed spider won’t tolerate the rain

Like a coward I yell for my brother

He inherited the dint of my mother.

He raises his arm, and smack! Down

The garage wall the crumpled bundle slides

Relieved I leave the mess and head to town.

The Fellowship Comes to Rohan by Warren Richardson

The breeze ruffles the grass on the plain,

The sun’s rays reflect off the flowing stream,

Horse and rider approach swiftly.

They pass on toward the city gate,

Past the barrows of ancient kings,

Nearing the Golden Hall.

The townspeople are as silent as stone

They shoot unfriendly stares at strangers

No welcome is evident here.

A beautiful woman gazes down from the hill,

Pale and cold, as spring on the steps

Her golden hair flutters in the wind.

The rule of her uncle is failing-

A pernicious wizard enslaves his mind

He will not defend his country from foes.

The lady dwells in desolate solitude

Engulfed by darkness in her bower

She faintly hopes to experience light again.

She spots four figures in the distance:

One on a white steed, bearing a white staff;

Two figures disparate in size,

A tall, weather-beaten man wearing a long sword.

Could they possibly offer hope?

Help is oft unlooked for, redemption

Found in the most unseemly places.

The travelers’ appearances are not appealing,

Haggard green cloaks stained with wear.

Yet such disguises conceal hidden royalty:

A wisdom-imparting wizard, courageous dwarf,

Angelic elf, majestic king.

Reviviscent Soul by Winnie Ho

How can I believe true love is still here?
When roses I received had faded away.
Wind let the petals wander in the air,
only sorrowful thorns on the stems stay.

Tears came down daily to rinse my blue face;
every delight became nothing but death.
Days like years that did not include vivace,
I was so depressed I struggled for breath.

Till the day I found your warm eyes on me,
you played silly hoping to see me laugh.
Please prove your expressed love for me is true,
as a sturdy and reliable trough.

Because of you my heart is lively now,
pumping fast and making my soul awake.

Essence by Diane Leininger

grapes
purple, sweet
picking crushing fermenting
a floral note with a crisp finish—
pouring swirling tasting
complex, full
wine

Won honorary mention in the grades 10-12 division in the National Agriculture Day Poetry Contest.

Fields of Innocence by R.L. Kirkendall II

Like Ants:
Steadily performing their task.
Cruising under iron-man power lines,
My eyes strain to see, but they can't.
Must I wear this mask?

Smog Deep:
Circles my mind, envelopes my senses.
Where are the Fields of Innocence?
- Over the hills they sweep -
Deep into the deep
Of time and space and all
- Away from love - races.

The Fall by R.L. Kirkendall II

O, simple leaf, residing on a branch:
How long till howling nights and wayward storms
And quaking limbs and pinching thorns
Fell your kingly form.
O, Lord, forestall that day
Speak not of its coming;
For I love that leaf
And could not bear the tumbling.

Light of Life by Jessica Hetrick

In life we find many rewards
Whether it be a victory of greatness
Or a gift that brings pure bliss
They are the light that opens the darkened doors

Some, however, find my gifts to lead one awry
From a world that praises such dark ways
However, my gifts of light have unfailing rays
And it brings one joy to dream and fly

Those who long for the light, travel far
Only the faithful, however, will reach the end
Always in mind is the ever-strong star

With the light of Christ, the mind makes amends
Here, eyes flutter, flying hearts race, like a fueled car
Feet dance, soul found, a fresh, fun, faithful friend.