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Song of the Gull, A PoemIf you are the gull, I am the sea breeze,breathing through your feathers. I liftyou from a stray dog on the beach, and whenyou are hungry, I lower you to the water.I am there when you cry. I take yoursorrowful song into me, I carryyour pain as I rub against the peeling paintof empty vacation houses in September.Then, when the flags are silent in June,when the sun burns without relief,and when I am quiet, I am still here.With you.
RadarJude had once heard that alcoholics always knew where the liquor was at parties and how much was around; well, he always knew where Anne was. Right now she was on the other side of the room, near the window. He didnt do it consciously. Hed just look up, glance around, locate her, and resume whatever he was doing. He didnt stare, or follow her if she left the room, but hed know if she came back. She was in his class; it wouldve been hard to pretend she didnt exist. Their high school was running a program where juniors and seniors went to a local elementary school to hang out/pair up/help out with some little kids. The current focus was arts and crafts. Jude was near the back wall with a little boy who was consumed with using a pair of safety scissors to cut a figure out of construction paper. Anne was with her kid, also a boy, and they were making some
picked cleanI grieve in three shades: gray, black, and in that pinkish hue you find on the underbelly of a dead fish. I walk through cemeteries and the gravestones pour out their hearts to me, and I am glad to have umbrella when the pale-faced sky opens all the faucets in the house at once. I grieve inside of acoustic-guitar strings. Its quiet there, and the warm hum reminds me of the glowing ember gnawing its way out of me from right behind my lungs, puncturing them to let out every breath I took from the crisp winter air that nips my face, licks me right on the nose, bathes my face in icy feather down.I go to the art store to look through empty frames, because your face is in every one, and the gray in me turns to black. And I am the pebbles on the bottom of the river, slippery, holding up the water, and I am below the pebbles. I am the dirt. I am grimy and there is grit in my face, my mouth, my lungs, and I know what with
A Beginning - 80 wordsDont you dare dump that bucket of mud on me, Thomas Hassall. Missy crossed her little arms over her new pink dress. My momma just got me this dress and she'll have your hide if you get even so much as one drop of that filth on me."Thomas glanced over at the other boys. Their eyes were identical shades of eager. Picturing Outlaw Frank from the wild west TV show in his minds eye, Thomas grinned. "Lady Rose," he said, invoking the script from last week's episode, "Prepare to meet your doom!"
CombustionHarper did not want to get on the train, as it belched acrid smoke, or look at the conductor, a dark blue rubber ball of a man, standing next to the door with his ugly little mustache. More than that, Harper did not want to be on the run. He hated having to look over his shoulder as he walked down cobblestone streets, hated waking up in the middle of the night at a sound, and hated being suspicious of every tailor, baker, or post office clerk he saw. He hated having to act normal, like everything was okay, when it was most certainly not. He did not want to get on the train. But, he was on the run. So he did. - -Catherine had been riding on the train for a long time--three days to be precise. Shed gotten off only to sleep. There was something infuriating about that, like seeing the same floral pattern on the carpet in every coach, and the fact that the Conductor now kn