Salem Alhussaini
Pseudo Vitae or The Gray Man with Gold in His Eyes
The bus shook violently on the rough pavement. Light shattered off the snow and ice and cast the world in a dusty, gray film. A weak column of light fell upon a tall, heavyset man seated in the back corner of the shuttle. His face was wide with large, protruding eyes and his skin sagged on its boney frame to the point that it seemed ready slip off. Deep, dark bags sat under his glassy eyes. His irises were grey like faded paper. They enclosed in them pupils that could not see but a few inches forward. He carried with him a walking stick and a large, brown briefcase. In the case, there was a pair of gloves, gardening shears, and a book: “Alien Plants and Their Evolution.” In the distance, he heard the rasping of an old dog. His eyes turned to the window in an attempt to see but he could only detect a dull sheet of gray and the dust falling in front of his face. In a moment, the mist melted away and a golden tint seemed to brush the air. In its glow, a boy and his dog appeared laughing and barking as they played. The man watched them for a brief moment as the light played off their forms. Suddenly, the boy stopped playing and stared back at the man. There was a crack like lightning as the bus hit a pothole and the bus trembled. A voice over the speaker declared this was his stop. The man stood awkwardly and shuffled off the bus. He dismounted and the beast went sputtering and shaking off into the cold mist.
The man approached his final destination; a trail head on a fading green mountainside. He stood alone at the worn wooden post and stared down the winding path ahead. He knew he would find what he was looking for in these woods. As he was staring, the trees that were still as stone only a moment ago, trembled as if some being had blown breath into them. A yellow light split the breaks in the forest like golden daggers pointing him down the road. He followed their direction as quickly as he could. His bones ached with every step but he staggered onwards. He could feel his life being sucked out of his body and into the unknown. As he struggled forward, he saw a young man with broad shoulders; a wide, square jaw; and eager, bulging eyes at his side. The young man hacked through the underbrush as sweat poured down his face in little golden beads. The old man stared at this distorted mirror as he followed longingly. They moved at the same pace although the old man looked as if he should be miles behind.
At last they came to an open meadow with yellow flowers shifting back and forth in the wind. The whole field was ablaze in their light but it was not a joyful scene. There was a sickness to the flowers, a slight green tinge that tainted their beauty. The man almost collapsed in despair. He looked down at his grey and faded hands. He could almost see the skin blowing off them like dust. He sank into the ground without the intention to rise again. He stared at the flowers that now seemed only to taunt him. Then, a deep yellow rod of light cast its light in the center of the field. The man tried to stand but found that he could not so he set forth on his hands and knees and crawled towards the light. Rocks and twigs tore his clothes and scrapped his body but he persisted. When at last he reached the center, he saw a single, golden flower. Its three petals opened gracefully to the sky. It seemed to exude life. Numerous thorns were arranged on its thick stem. The old man reached into his bag, pulled out his glove and shears and cut the flower from its base. He lifted it towards the sky and admired it. In its glow he saw himself as a young man again. Tears began to streak down his face as he envisioned the life he would have once again. He crushed the flower in his hands and a golden syrup flowed down his arms. His cracked lips were on the cusp of receiving the treacle when a dark cloud formed and blocked out the sun. A low rumble like a an angry dog shook the trees. A deafening boom engulfed the meadow as a white bolt struck the man where he held the plant and shot down through his body to the earth. The bolt took his soul with it and the man fell to the ground. The flower rolled out of his hand and rerooted itself to the ground. It stood itself up as its petals turned a sickly yellow-green.
— Rachel Hall
They Will Not Touch You
The night is cold and the moon is dark,
when silence is broken by one loud bark.
A little boy named Clyde
lies in bed, with eyes open wide.
The boy tries to count sheep,
But cannot sleep.
He imagines monsters behind the walls,
And creeping through the halls.
Looking for their next lunch,
They would eat him in one crunch.
Clyde gasps and almost cries:
In the corner, he sees two pairs of eyes!
Quick! He grabs his blanket and covers his head,
To hide from the eyes that glow dark red.
“Where is he?” the monsters wonder.
They do not see the blanket he is under.
Uh oh. In his throat, he feels an itch.
It does not go away, not one smitch.
Clyde trembles and his heart beats fast
How long is this going to last?
Then he coughs. Oh no!
The hungry monsters all know!
Clyde whimpers and soon hears,
From beside his bed, the sound he most fears:
A squeak, and then a creak.
No, Clyde does not dare peek
The monsters have all come.
They see him and say, “Yum!”
Something touches his knee
Clyde screams: “Don’t eat me!”
A voice says “But little boys taste good!”
Clyde thinks to run. If only he could.
He needs to escape some way.
Too late! His blanket is pulled away.
Two hands grab him and pull him close
Clyde cries but then smells the scent of a rose.
The monster is not eating him, it seems.
Instead it says, “You’re having bad dreams”
Clyde opens his eyes and sees, not claws or fangs,
But his mother’s glowing face. Over him, her long hair hangs.
“Clyde, it’s okay. I’m here.”
She says softly as she holds him near.
He hugs her tight and again begins to cry.
She wipes his wet cheeks and the tears dry.
“It’s alright. I have felt what you now feel.
The monsters seem to be so real.”
Clyde nodded and looked around.
But there was no trace of them, no sight or sound.
“I learned to not fear them and you will too.
Besides, I will protect you: they will not touch you”
In her arms and in the light,
Clyde knows the monsters are now full of fright.
— Betsy Osinaga, 12th grade
Something Sweet
He said meet me at two
As I put on my shoes;
To run out the door
I could have sworn
That as I left
I felt the breath
Of something sweet coming my way.
The creek was low
As I should have known
He would be waiting for me,
Under our sacred tree
Greeting me with a smile,
We always had a while
And I knew of something sweet coming my way.
We walked to the shores
Shrouded by thorns
Covered in dust
We knew we must.
Food we ate
Under the sun we baked
And something sweet was coming our way.
Finally at last
As we laughed
We splashed and played
And were merry all day
Not a care in the world
Happy at our core
Something sweet was near our way
Drying off in summer heat
Not too tired to be beat
Jumping over the trees
Not bothered by friendly bees
A tree a little too tall
And then a spectacular fall
And something sweet was in our way
Days like these
Beneath the trees
When all was fun
Under the sun
To him I'll commit
And I shall never forget
Of how something sweet had come our way.
— Lauren Peters, 12th grade
The Bell Breaks the Silence
I see them running.
Up and down the playground stairs.
I sit by the whistling trees.
A notebook by my side,
Pencils and pens scattered along the rocky soil.
The entertainment from the constant, overrated drama.
My curiosity takes a hold of me.
The small, black ants on my light up sneakers.
The dead, colorful leaves from the scattered branches,
fall onto my lap.
The cold wind blows on my doodle covered notebook pages.
My imagination comes alive on my pages where my art is expressed.
It's peaceful,
Until the loud ringing of a bell breaks the sweet, tranquil silence.
My once quiet mind is now dragged back into the stressful equations of math,
And the loud chatter of people who don't pay attention.
— Ryan Rodriguez, 10th grade
My Childhood
My childhood was a place full of thousands of ideas that I could call my own. They felt bright and shiny and new, as if the world was hearing them for the first time.
My childhood was a place where being vulnerable was normal,
when you’re young and defenseless, all you can really do is trust and hope
that people will not hurt you.
My childhood was a place where I was not afraid to cry in public over the teddy bear at home goods that my mom would not let me get
because it was ripped but I swore I could fix it but she wouldn’t listen.
My childhood was a place that I grew tired of at age 12.
So, I stepped out the door and hid away the key deep down in my pocket.
My childhood was a place I didn’t miss until I was 13
when a man with brown eyes cut a hole in my pocket.
— Rylee Russler, 10th grade
Dressed in Black
Black.
I am surrounded, consumed?
It is quiet.
It is black.
There are sniffles.
Absent shuffling of papers, of cloth.
A man clears his throat.
I look down at my loved one.
Had I known her in health?
She is quieter now.
Quieter even than this room.
She is dressed well, painted prettily with the life she gave up.
That Death took from her.
I think I am holding someone's hand.
This is not her. She is not this.
This is flesh and cloth; she was person, mind, soul.
There is a ceremony.
We must be respectful. Quiet.
Now we pray. Song. Introductions. Words. Words. Words.
These words are her life. Were her life? Are her life.
Are they?
There is a disconnect.
She is body and soul, but only body now.
I do not understand. I will not say so. It is quiet. There are tear-sounds.
I should be more sad. I should know these things they mention.
I am not deserving of grief.
I did not know her like they do. Like they did.
I look at my mother.
She is grieving. She knew the body, the mind, the soul.
I do not understand.
But I am quiet.
I am respectful.
They will tell me later they approved of my behavior.
The quiet is painful, suffocating.
The words are all-consuming, yet I am not affected.
It is black.
Bleak black.
— Hayley Shankle, 11th grade
