Category: 2013 — 6.1 (Fall)

by: Bonanza Jellybean

 

I think of you daily, for

what it’s worth which

isn’t much, I know, but

it’s the only penance I can

pay, because being lonely,

it’s all that I can do, this

reminding myself to never

do it again, a living amends,

and does that sound as empty

to you as it feels to me?

 

I can’t call to say I’m sorry

because where you are

the calls only go one way

besides what would I say

anyway it wouldn’t change

what we’ve become even

“estranged” is too good

a word; “two paths having

diverged” is simply too

poetic to describe this burnt

and disfigured mess that

was once  an “us” and not this.

 

Is it enough to close my eyes

and count to ten before

I speak to him; to be good

to him because I wasn’t then;

can tomorrow erase what

yesterday wrote; can I use

today to mend the promises

I broke and if I could, would

I take away every word we’ve

ever spoken to each other?

No, I don’t think I would;

would you, if you could?

 

By C.E. Churchill

We line up outside the schoolhouse,

Trembling in our skirts and shorts.

The wind feeds on our shivers

As it races over our bare skin,

Waiting.

Pressed up so close to one another,

We feel each and every shudder

That racks through our bodies

Like a sick ricochet of domino pieces,

Helpless as force and fate knocks them all down.

In our useless winter coats,

We line up outside the schoolhouse,

The chill of the weather nothing

Compared to the ice that freezes our hearts

As the gunman pulls the trigger.

One by one, we fall.

Like domino pieces.

By Alathor Champion of The Light

Left my hammer swings, and then again to the right

Like a pendulum eternally swinging, my hammer crushes their skulls

I forge forward into the dark abyss, the metallic smell of blood consuming me

The time is growing near.

 

It is as if I am swimming through a sea of putrid flesh,

As the Goblins have terrible bathing habits.

The scent is enough to make the most stone faced Dwarf –

Cry to his mother…..

 

Left, right, my arms grow tired; but they continue

Continuing on, I see the light.

I approach nearer

And it consumes me.

 

By Detective Felthoff

Oh, don’t despair, your hair of non-paper,

And your beauty will compare to realize,

And onlookers aren’t made of stone.

Worry not, child, for you are clay,

Beyond understanding, please don’t look so blue,

This shine of yours is of innocent sense.

Oh young one, this world to you is still non-sense,

And the trees overnight turn to paper,

And the ocean isn’t a brilliant blue.

Worry when you see with real eyes,

Beyond your form of clay,

This world of people behaves as stone.

Oh pick up your chin, child, don’t shuffle with stone,

And let your hair grow is of sound sense,

And be proud of the gifted body of clay.

Worry for the others are a fragile paper,

Beyond the strength to handle real lies,

This is a primordial truth, but don’t look so blue.

Oh ye of little knowledge, don’t look so blue,

And mind you, don’t shuffle with stone,

And mind you, don’t let the onlookers realize.

Worry not the world making sense,

Beyond the scorching of paper,

This is the sound ringing in your ears of clay.

Oh you will get it soon enough, creature of clay,

And go have fun ’till you turn blue,

And let your legs fly around a zephyr of paper.

Worry is not in your mother’s tone,

Beyond still to a point of counting cents,

This is a trademark that can reel lives.

Oh little heartbeat, you will soon realize,

And you will appreciate your body of clay,

And you will make others jealous green.

Worry when you see the sky crystal blue,

Beyond it will rain of fire stone,

This existence will be of burnt paper.

This is something you already realize, so don’t look so blue.

You are of wet and glorious clay, the fire will make you hard as stone.

As I said, you will make others green, for they are only of paper.

 

Bio: Josh is a man of many interests. A four year and counting student of SCF, he currently seeks a BAS degree in Homeland Security. He is constantly inspired by the people that surround him and draws many creative ideas from his interactions with them, but only from the darker side of transient thoughts. As such, it can be said that he is simply a conduit of the writer’s mind behind the creaking oak closet door.

By Corey Culbertson

I looked inside a book, and I saw nothing but shoals

Umbrage is dudgeon is resentment,

but I like the first word better.

It hints at the leaves that afford trees

and nose-shaped shadows that hang over tea.

Ethically speaking, truth lacks objective meaning,

but the concept is fun for beggars.

Lithe segments find spaces to call home,

but the deep pocket inside Man shows that

Over-wrought bridges drink whiskey—

spilling word-vomit and tallow on doors.

Vanilla ice-cream is a prank they pull on first-timers—

I didn’t use the spoon and instead stained my clothes.

I looked inside your soul and I found none,

but the letters that make up numbers labeled—

Resentment held over hunger ‘til man’s umbrage

turned into steady rage.

The masses cried,

limbs raised.
Bio: Corey Culbertson has been at the State College of Florida since Fall of 2012, and plans to transfer to New College of Sarasota in the Fall of 2014. He is currently studying the fantastic in the arts and horror literature. He is active in SCF’s writing club, Swamp Scribes, and is a regular participant in SCF’s open mic events where he has won honors. He has an interest in experimental works, and plans to begin writing a novel in the spring. You can find him reading somewhere around sunny Sarasota where he’s probably contemplating the philosophical underpinnings of unnecessary non-sequiturs and the mystifying nature of word vomit.

By Kristina Rehak

As the time wastes away so does my soul,

Withered like someone’s age,

My day comes to its end.

Wishing that I can face the next day,

Knowing that no matter what,

I am going to have to deal with it anyway.

My eyes shut without my consent,

Dwelling in my dreams,

I overlook the problems of the day.

My loss of breath expands to a loss of energy,

I lay in the breathless state,

In the darkness of the room.

The only thing to comfort me,

Are the dreams to come,

And I fall into my restless sleep.

I dream of you and my breath sparks,

You are my breath and my hope,

To get through the next day.

So I smile as I dream,

Because I am with you,

Wishing my dreams will never end.

I awake, yet my breath dies again,

Because without you,

Every start of my day is really the end.

 

Bio: My name is Kristina Rehak, and I’m currently attending SCF to obtain my AA in Biology. After my 2 years I will be transferring to FAU on the East Coast of Florida to continue my schooling, to eventually obtain a Master’s in Marine Biology with a Minor in Oceanic Engineering. I am an animal and nature lover, and my favorite reading material is poetry. Favorite authors are Charles Bukowski and Percy Shelly Bysshe. I will be getting married Nov. 9^th 2014, and my favorite hobbies is cooking and surfing.

By Bonanza Jellybean

That house.

The house I hid away in; yes,

that house,

head under the blankets

to shut out

the daylight,

the landlord’s call,

the knocking

from anyone at all;

the face in the window,

that I don’t recognize,

but that looks a lot like me.

From here,

I stand to look at you, house,

with a stomach full of rocks.

Knowing

the contents of my life

still lie in the bottom of a box

forgotten in that corner by

the window that’s still shattered,

the red curtains closed,

bleeding over the things that

I thought mattered.

Inside,

stepping over clothes

forgotten after they were flung

masterpieces remain unfinished, and

pictures left unhung.

Cupboards are still empty.

Ghosts of “Remember When?” will still be

lying on the bathroom floor

like those people that

“I’ll never be like…”.

Outside,

the skinny black cat

still hides by the front door,

afraid to come in

and ask for more but

too hungry to run.

I can see all of this

from here, in a new house,

by a new window, looking out

of new curtains,

on a new bed,

with my new cat;

I can see this because

part of me is still there, in that

old house, in that old bed,

with my head under the blankets,

too hungry to run.