Sunday, December 16, 2012


Nick Silverpen:

The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely”

A man thinks as he goes under the balcony.
In his servant’s suit, showing off the house’s prizes,
A silver spoon, a silver platter,
What they care, he thinks, of what these represent,
Does it even matter?
There’ll always be a watcher, checking his back,
As he alone serves that insolent brat.
His gaze away, yet wrath constantly overhanging,
Click of those uncomfortable shoes always under his feet,
In the neglected halls the only thing clanging.
He felt distant, as the house was always empty,
Apathetic face, however, suggesting otherwise.
And under the gaze,
of that playful prick he felt alone
Though he was supposed to be wise and old grown.

Money he could care less about,
to keep busy was his will,
But that being busy had to be meaningful,
and not caring for handfuls of vile pills.

It was all so strict, like that collar upon his neck,
Just like that feel in his stomach,
that sick regret
of choosing the easy way out
and not getting a real job,
instead submitting to the ridiculous calls
of someone else’s wants.
That was that would haunt,
As he constantly walked under the oppressor’s eye,
The respect for his juvenile activities,
the butler did deny.

Alex Humva:

"We'll get through here. We WILL get through here."

Those words rang out in the dingy sewers, echoing throughout the expansive stone channels. Two figures were walking through the darkness and muck, led only by the small light of a candle. They were a man and a woman, both dressed in what appeared to be lightweight but insulating clothing. The sort of thing you'd see someone throw on if they were in a hurry out of their home. The woman was coughing, obviously ill with something. The man had long bloody gashes down his body, bruises lining his arms and face. They had seen better days.

"I can't." The woman heaved out, stopping and leaning herself against the wall. "It's too hard, can't breath."

"We have to, there's help at the end. Stay with me." The man's voice became more frantic as the woman began to slide down, her eyes rolling. He slapped her, bringing her back to some state of consciousness. Looping one hand around her he pulled her up, and then in a feat that had to be admired began to carry her in a bridal fashion while still holding a candle in one hand. They trudged like this for a while more, turning here and there. Occasionally they'd pass writing on the wall, a sign of those who had come before. It rarely was all that pretty.

"We're almost there," he whispered to her. She had been mumbling this whole time, and he had tried to keep up with her, tried to keep her talking. He knew that it was just as much for her as it was for him; he felt weak himself, a stomach empty for the better part of two days now crying out for something, anything. But he couldn't give up, not with their destination so close in sight. So they continued onward, the weak and the sick sharing each others suffering.

When they came to an iron gilded exist, the man gently put down the woman, who had at this point drifted off. Time was of the essence more than ever now. He retrieved a crowbar from his pack and broke the lock with a single, focused blow. It had to be rusty. Tossing the crowbar down in a moment of exhaustion, he picked up his companion once more and begun running out into the sunlight. Black clouds loomed overhead but it was still brighter than the sewers. In front of him rested a grand hospital, deserted except for a few in the front, warming by a fire.

The effort had paid off. Days traveling under the city, and now... she was saved. She would live. She would survive.

And so, he ran. Ran harder than he ever had before.

She would survive. 


Cold. A complete and utter chill spread through his bones. Panicking, the boy struggled to rise up, but kept finding himself pulled down deeper and deeper. As he was pulled down the boy felt the temperature continuing to drop, it was as if the very heat in his body was being sucked out by some magical force.

Of course the only real magic was science, and the boy knew this. That was what scared more, he knew his body would not hold out for much longer. The temperatures just were not fit for a human body, the infinite cold, dreadfully painful, numbed him and caused his thoughts to deteriorate into more simple things.

Dark. That was the next feeling, a feeling that instilled a primal fear within boy, for it was instinctual to fear the darkness. For the darkness hid the unknown, and in the unknown danger often lurked. However the boy was a skeptic and tried to keep this fear buried, for he knew it was merely a primal instinct.

The darkness however was not inclined to the same line of thought, it struggled and grasped for his fear. The pitch black void seemed to howl. As if it was trying, in agony, to cause the boy to listen, and fear it. For darkness had plagued mind kind for generations, it did not want to fail now.

However the boy was still a skeptic and he believed that this howling was caused merely by a delirious that was losing it’s ability to contemplate reality. As he was pulled deeper and deeper the boy realized that his mind was dying, oxygen no longer flowing freely to it. The boy knew he had but mere minutes left. Thus he was left to feel only from the most basic senses.

Wet. The water had soaked him, his clothes infinitely heavier. The water longed for him, pulling him deeper and deeper, for it had long since had any prey. It lusted to devour him whole, until he was but another carcass at the bottom of the lake. He would join so many others down there, others who had fallen pray.

However the boy could not accept this, reasoning that he must be delirious, for how could water feel emotion. It was merely another liquid, it let life live, but it did not. It could not eat flesh, it could not devour him, he was merely drowning, that was all.

Pity. An unshakable pity then gripped him, a pity ripened by the sour taste of despair. For the boy now realized that in his final hours, he believed in nothing. He was not like his friends who had god they could put their faith in. Nor was he like his parents who had a steadfast faith in divinity. The boy felt that he was now about to die for nothing, and would meet nothing. For all things eventually die, that was what Science taught him.

The boy found it odd, the very thing he had always staked his life on, would now cause his life to leave this world without meaning. He was dying and because he had no faith the boy felt he was dying for nothing. Tears flowed freely, mixing with the lake as he realized that his last minutes were at head.

Then they all swarmed. Cold. Dark. Wet. Pity. Joined by others, such as memories. Memories of joy and memories of sorrow. They all came, the boy remember his aunt’s funeral and wondered if his own would be similar. The boy remember when his pet cat was first born, and wondered what he would do now. Memories family and friends all flowed, dissolving together until one thing remained.




Thirteen-year-old Luke Richards had the kind of pitching arm you’d expect from a softballer. Not only was his fastball a little lacking — not only were his large hands better suited to grasp a grapefruit than a baseball — he threw underhand. His mom had taught him that way, he said. Well, Jamie was going to teach him differently.

Luke was out in the middle school’s field pitching to an imaginary catcher when James Thomas Cherokee greeted him for the first time.



Thwap went the baseball against the chain-link fence behind home plate. Jamie stuffed his hands into his pockets and licked his braces. “You planning to join the girls’ team?” he asked, deciding to go straight to the point.

Luke’s face was heavily freckled; when he was annoyed, his mouth would extend into a thin line and the dots on his cheeks would scrunch together. He was taller than Jamie by a few inches, too, so his response, “Har har,” was directed downward and seemed more condescending than it actually was.

Leaving the conversation at that, Luke slung his second baseball underhand. It sailed straight and true, splitting home plate into two and embedding itself in one of the fence’s loops.

“’Scuse me,” said Luke, and jogged to retrieve the baseballs. Jamie extricated his hands from his pockets long enough to follow him.

“Seriously, man, don’t you know softball pitchers throw like that?”

“My mom taught me all I know ‘bout baseball,” said Luke, adjusting the cap laid atop his disheveled sandy-colored hair. “She said s’fine to throw like that.”

“But it isn’t.”

“Yeah it is.”


Luke stuck out his tongue, pulled the baseball from the chain-link loop, and scooped the other from the ground. “S’none of your business how I throw or how I don’t. I betcha I can throw more strikes than you can, anyway.”

“I don’t even pitch,” complained Jamie, tailing Luke on his return to the pitcher’s mound.

“Well, what are you?”

“I’m shortstop and right field,” said Jamie, barely refraining from puffing out his chest and turning his blue eyes heavenward.

“That’s nice. I guess. I play center field sometimes.”

“Center field’s boring.”

“Nah, s’fun.”

“Says the guy who throws like a girl.”

Luke’s face scrunched up in annoyance again. He fiddled with his cap again and tossed the baseball up and down.

“’Sides, it’s against the rules.”

“Says who?”

“Says me — and the school.”

Luke considered. “The school?”

Jamie nodded vigorously. “Yuh-huh. They don’t want anyone pitching underhand like that. That’s for softball.” Luke hesitated, looking at the ground and scuffing his cleats in the dirt, and Jamie seized the opportunity. “If you wanna play baseball for the school, you can’t pitch underhand. Baseball ain’t for girls.”

Luke looked up again. “Then maybe it isn’t for me.”

Jamie didn’t know what to say. Thwap went a baseball against the chain link fence.

“My mom’s probably waiting to drive me home,” Jamie said finally. Luke said nothing. “See ya.”


As Jamie walked off the field, he wondered how there could exist a boy who wanted to pitch like a girl. The world was a weird place sometimes.

Tekulo/Lin the Duck(ie):

                The house was abandoned.  While it was abandoned, that certainly didn’t mean it was lifeless.  No, the cobwebs, droppings and moths scattered in the dust made that clear.  There wasn’t any natural light in the home.  The curtains on the windows had been drawn for, one could assume was, eternity.   In this main room furniture was knocked around and broken.  Portraits of the previous owners had been knocked down, torn and faded.  None of their faces seemed to hold a smile.

                It seemed like it was once such a large, lively manor.  A chandelier oversaw the ballroom which had now been littered with broken glass and dark stains on the marble.   It was wonderful to imagine what once was.  It was just so easy to picture a crowded room filled with women in flowing gowns and men in starched suits enjoying their lives at a wondrous social event.  Unfortunately, the surroundings told a different tale; of what was probably the last time the room saw any delight.

               Just outside, there was a large oak tree.  It had branched out higher than the house itself, which was quite a feat.  Although it was dark out now, one could still see its healthy leaves which now looked black at this hour.  The crickets and cicadas were silent around these parts, it seemed.  But most curious of all was a tombstone, faded and forgotten, which rested in front of the tree.

               Yes, it was under here where it was discovered.  A casket, weathered and moldy, had been unearthed.  Beneath its lid there was nothing but a cushioned interior and an empty, open silver locket.  A blood curdling scream pierced the darkness of night.

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