no fairy tales
just black & blue
squiggles and swirls
You’re always told to blend in.
Yet you will not change. In order to
draw less attention to you, the room
is painted to match though her
outside appearance is meek and
dull, inside she holds the power
of a thousand thunderstorms.
Her face is contempt as others
try to cover you up, you know
the power you hold through the
Right Foot Creep
Not all people’s power comes
through words. I can’t al-
ways rise like Maya or have
a dream like Martin. However
I will always dance. I feel
great enjoyment when I
dance, and the ever unforgettable
lyrics of right foot creep pop
into my brain, family and friends
alike begin to smile and cheer
as my griddy begins, still
those words playing over and
over, right foot creep, right
foot creep. This dance trend
has made commotion all over
the world, though you may
not be able to griddy, find
what you’re good at, let it
inspire or make a difference.
You may never know what
your right foot creep is.
Ode to the birch wood
of which is split and burnt.
Calling to its fellow halves,
trying to escape its awful fate.
Rolling and breaking giving off splinters to
whoever holds it.
The smoky char that covers the surface
will soon disappear into nothingness.
One by one is burnt and dead,
which will then no longer see the light of day.
Giving off a damp, dry smell to then be
devoured by the wind and carried on to
Pounds upon pound of sugar fall
gracefully on top of some rhubarb.
Dad where is the rhubarb? I thought we
were making a pie.
Underneath the sugar.
What kind of sorcery was at play here?
Rhubarb was nowhere in sight,
the information was a lot to possess all at once.
There is rhubarb, there is no rhubarb, there is
Again and again I attempt to understand.
Suddenly a hand reaches into the pile of
And before my own eyes I witness
rhubarb hatch from its beautiful cocoon of sugar.
And then get chopped up.
I prefer the world within my mind, that’s all
When I dream
the dreams seem to paint
maybe the clocks seem to melt
sometimes I am on a cliff looking out on
a starry night
maybe colors are dancing;
crossing the beginnings and ends of each other
My dreams have no bounds.
Mary Claire Lasseter
Ants and elephants argue.
The ants threaten to step on the elephants
so the elephants fly away and the ants
return to their cold cave.
The flies are stuck in traffic, there was
an accident up ahead. The sun and
moon fought. The sun complained she
was overworked. She was forced to stay
awake for hours in order to provide the
land with sunlight and heat. The moon didn’t
care. For he felt power during the night.
The time when the squirrels chirped, camels sang,
and chickens barked.
This is a world where when the rivers cried their
water is salty, and when the wind blows
the mountains get cold.
Summer Camp… Maybe?
One of the best times of day is when
it isn’t day at all. My mind calls up the pillow
and wanders far and wide as I drift into a happy camp.
A place where the hills have instead narrowed
into cliffs, but I still know
where I am.
The wagons where we sing songs and ride
around have now bounced back
into the Oregon Trail, yet I still know it’s
the same camp and the same tunes I’ve sung before.
The cliffs narrow further as I tip-toe across the
ledge, yet my fear of heights yields
to the happiness feel. A rock
slips from underneath that old wagon which I’m
helping to push to one of the
old, wasp-infected cabins.
The rocks beneath me run away as well
and I’m left hanging there, my wagon gone
and no hope of getting to my resting
place. I should be scared
Yet, the satisfaction I have fights my
own fears as I fall but surely wake.
of my light
go down the rustling street thick and
populated with more cars than people
go down the dim lit alleyway that
smells of scented wax and sour sawdust
go down the hill at which a restaurant
used to stand, always full like a chicken coop
turn at the scene which the last gleaming
stop sign lay and the noise of hustling hushes
there you’ll find the palace and comfort of my light;
my best friend
A sungaze of memories that engulfs me with
the waving of trees to soon be devoured.
There is no one that can solve the
prompt of _______
she is like no one else
Mount St. Mary Academy
Little Rock, AR
Dates of Visit: Feb 16-17
Faculty Sponser: Monica Madey
Grade Level: 9th
Appx. Number Students Served: 122
Visiting Writers: Kait Yates, Ali Hintz, Bailey McKinney, Sylvia Foster