Numbers

by Kaitlyn Marlowe

Numbers.
n-u-m-b-e-r-s
7 letters come together to form a word that is my existence – I am a number.
Since the moment I could breathe I have been a 9-digit code even worse than a barcode because I am now an object for the government’s use – I am a number.
I am nothing more than the calculator you buy to devise a set of numbers that round into an A and decide my GPA – 3 more letters that form a number that define my existence, that define if I can pay for my education – full of numbers.
Will I ever be more than a number?
My life is defined by the number on the test I took in high school that will force me to stay in the 865 – which is yet another number defining my location so those CIA can track my existence with yet another number because I will never be more than a number.
One day when I pass away I will be a number of the day, of the month, of the year, of the lifetime, my soul will add to the clock that increases every 0.3 to tell you the number of people that have died in this moment because in the end I am nothing, but a number here in the 865 or the 37919 – I am a number.
I am so tired of just being a number.
Hi. My name is Kaitlyn and on this day I am deciding to not be defined as my 9-digit birth right because I am no robot, I am not under government control I have a soul and screw that below average test score – I will not let numbers describe who I am like the polypeptide strand that I will never understand because I hate numbers.
Hi, my name is Kaitlyn – 7 letters come together to form a word that is my existence.
I will not be number.

The Lightbulb and the Battery

by Shane Embury

Copper wires connected the system.
A lightbulb on one end,
A low-voltage battery on the other.
The lightbulb glowed a pale yellow,
Given life by the battery on the other end.
Energy coursed through the wires.
The lightbulb flickered,
And began to emit a brighter yellow,
A stronger yellow,
A more powerful yellow brilliance.
The room was illuminated with vibrant light.
The battery released massive amounts of energy,
And without warning,
The exchange became violent.
Energy was sucked from the battery.
The lightbulb became greedy,
Starved for the flow of energy,
Determined to release a light strong enough
To rival the sun’s.
The battery had little more to give,
And the lightbulb took all of it.
Then,
With one last electric current running through the copper wire,
The lightbulb exploded.
Glass shattered,
Tiny shards sprinkled all over the system.
The light vanished.
Where the lightbulb once cast a yellow glow,
Nothing remained.
Nothing but a lifeless battery
With nothing left in it
But an unshakable fear of whatever lightbulb came next.

Stranger

by Amber Brown

I know you more than anyone
Although not at all
I hope for a better bond
Because that is all I want.

They say change is good,
But not for you and I.
I don’t like to be different,
It doesn’t seem right.

Sometimes we get angry at each other
Sometimes it hurts to look at you.
Even though we are always together,
I feel like lost connection.

There are days when we are sad
There are days when we have fun
But we cannot come apart
We will be there until the end
As we were from the start.

In the end it is only me and you
So I guess I should get to know you better
Can we please start over?
My name is me and I am you.
I am a stranger to myself.

Smoke

by Loren Haas

The smoke screen; breathe it in
Taste the virulent sulfur
Choking, suffocating
The toxins are familiar
Retch on the morose tar
The stench burns at your nostrils
Sticking to your drained skin
This viscid smog is hostile
Your knees shake and buckle
Your heart trembles in your chest
A guttural screech rips
Out from your frail, gasping breast
Black dots dance in your eyes
All else has already drowned
Fall forward; fall empty
To be greeted by the ground

The Book

Isabella Burlingame

The book dries her tears,
it keeps her company.
The book calms her
anxious mind
and tells her everything
will be okay just to see
her rare, beautiful smile.
Her normally haunted eyes
light up with each turn of
its tattered pages.
The book makes her forget,
it makes her disappear from
her world-until
she reaches the part of
the book she despises,
the dreadful last page.
The girl looks up and
she realizes that
her treasured book
lied to her once again.

2:55 A.M.

Kaitlyn Marlowe

At 2:55 a.m., not even the songbirds have woken to share their joyous harmony.
At this hour, the last call is said and lost souls whistle through their whiskey covered lips trying desperately to venture home.
At a time like now, there is a still in the moonlit air where only night owls should be hunting their prey.
At moments frozen as these, I should be trapped in a solace penumbra, fast asleep, with my mind dancing through shimmering streets.
But, as I lay here restless, listening to the calm beat of my heart, my imagination drifts to a locus I dare not recollect.
As I drift into a slumber, I commemorate the taste of your rough lips brushing against my soft cheek.
As I repose, your steady hands feel warm across my chilled back.
As I marvel at the though of you, I look into your pastel blue eyes and see the gentle longing to take all that I am willing.
As I wonder when I will be reunited with my love, my heartbeat skips and disturbs it’s sanctifying rhythm and I sink into a cherished languor where I may wake hand to hand, chest to chest, and lips to lips with the one I call my beloved.

In The Fading Light

By Kaitlyn Marlowe

The fading light
Falling over the field of memory
Years in shadow
Years reflected in the glassy eye of a silent pond
Years in retrospect
Driving in reverse over gravel roads
A greyed-out dead-end sign
This is the past
This is the present
The future is bright and the shade passes over yesterday
And I am standing with one foot in the light.