The UNSPOKEN

Losing my pace 

As the space in my head goes blank 

I’m so close to the finish line

Oxygen thieves  my throat 

As these paper  words scatter 

For a chase 

Like the ant piles we stepped in as a kid and ran from the pain.

 Breaking these lovely bones 

Manipulating these 1 eyed hearts 

I strangle these sticks of ink to  plead my thoughts 

Only to end up with that same 

Blank space searching for the light switch to these  

wounded whisper walls 

I run away from fear gripping my heart like overdosing on adderal   

Running as fast as  i can to the near end, these memories behind me landslide 

 i hear them raging for revival 

I fought for u blinded, 

who was i soul snatching.

Fading into a slow depression 

The sting  stunned my control 

To this arcade game 

I’m an eye  catching toy in this glass claw machine 

I hopped on a joy  ride

to win for this loser 

 One step closer to victory was always 2 steps closer to endless misery  the devil had spelled on me.

Your Victory cannot be legal 

It  has been 

life draining 

and mind twisting 

guilt tripping 

just  for a 5 minute win 

  to lose more then you won

 these arcade masters feast on water poring feelings of color 

so they win to lose  all sight of color 

 till nun is  touchable 

like bloody bones 

of humanity that was ripped of its flesh

Winning is only a mind game that these arcade players 

invented

 these short term smiles are only a losing  game, 

But  what  I wouldn’t do to see the  sun smile back at me 

So Why are u losing this game 

Just Rewrite it

i sit in the back seat

concrete roaring underneath

yelling in front of me

it surrounds me

pushing me into the cushion

squeezing the air out of my lungs

my breathing gets quicker

the monster will not let up

 i put in my earbuds

crank up the volume

but not even music can drown out the words

so i look out the window

at the flowers beside the highway

blurs of pink and purple

white and gold

and get lost in the color

and the sound fades

and i am able to hide

among the petals

by Angela Ke

There’s a place in my daydreams / reserved just for you

You’re welcome to stay / as long as you need to

Do you need some water / I’ll get you some food

Be happy here / happier than I could

I have the front row seat / the box office booms

It’s you as the star / my mind featuring you

the beach

by Krista Fleming 

I do not go to the beach 

because it reminds me of you

When I am there, I sit on the shore, 

water running from my fingertips into newly 

damp sand. 

Once, you asked me to make you something, 

to build you a castle --- something grand.

But as much as I tried, it did not stick together; 

our castle was a clump of mud. 

My fingers shook when I went to show you, 

offering creation with fragile fingers 

and being denied with breaking hands. 

A thousand castles I could write you, 

sculpt soldiers out of sentences and build walls 

out of words. 

I’ll spin you a tale, tell you a story; 

don’t you worry: 

this, I can do.

You brought me clay next 

and pulled a potter's wheel from the sea, 

and you told me to sculpt you something grand. 

The clay broke apart in my hands, 

caved in on itself and crumbled together. 

A part of me found peace in thinking it was beautiful, 

that damage did not defy worthiness. 

So I took it to you with freshly bleeding hands, 

and you took one look at our creation, 

our salvation, 

and you told me to stick with sand. 

A thousand pieces I could write you, 

sculpt you out of sentences and build you 

out of words. 

Let me spin you a tale, tell you a story; 

don’t you worry: 

this, I can do. 

Lately, I’ve been thinking about that beach, 

how the waves will crash against the shore 

and the sun will set all the same

even if you are not there.

I was asked, yesterday, 

to go with someone new, 

someone else, 

someone far too different from you. 

I told them I was no builder, 

that the sand would remain just that; 

I warned them I was no potter, 

that the clay could never become anything more 

in my hands. 

A thousand words I wanted to write them, 

but no longer could I remember how. 

You hurt me, 

you hurt me, 

you haunt me, 

so I’ll drown you in my drought.

It’s strange how intrinsically the past affects the present

by Heather Wheeler 

It’s strange how intrinsically the past affects the present.

I’m bad at taking criticism because it takes me back to being cornered in the third-grade playground, sobbing while being lectured about everything I had done wrong.

And I crack my knuckles because of a seventh-grade friend.

I get anxious when I hear yelling after years of it being directed at me. 

And I have piles of books on my shelves because, at five, I sat next to my mom on my couch and slowly learned to read Dr. Seus.

I’m so scared of losing the people around me because of past rejections. 

But the people around me have made me who I am today.

I’d like to say i’m sorry

by Krista Fleming 

I’d like to say I’m sorry 

for everything I’ve done, 

for how I became the monster 

in every story that you’ve spun. 

I’d like to say I’m sorry 

for the happiness we shared, 

to tell you I wish I didn’t leave 

the moment I got scared

So go ahead, continue to spread 

every lie you wish was true: 

how I was rude and bold, and cruel and cold, 

and how the sky isn’t really blue. 

And so I’ll say I’m sorry, 

because it’s what you want to hear, 

because if all the blame is placed on me, 

then you are in the clear. 

But it takes two to waltz, 

and, my dear, that’s all we did: 

we danced along to the sorrowed song 

of the tragedy we lived

I think, one day, you’ll realize 

and two words will echo deep, 

but, for now, I will extend my hand 

and offer a final apology.

The flowers jump to say hello 

The breeze and sun engage 

What once was bare is now encased

In green and blinks of beige 

It’s a childish thing

To find fever in so simple things adored 

But who cares if its been done before 

We’ll watch it more once more 

New is novel but so is old

Quick feet will walk right by

But we’ll witness the winks of the sky 

And hear the dew cry its cry 

When things shimmer 

And the clouds drowse on by

The morning will open up with a yawn 

Blocks of sunlight thrown around

Hands catch them in their palms  

What’s new and old and charged with color 

Begging to be seen

It’s spring, it‘s March, it’s April, May 

It’s lace and lavender and jeans

The blind eye will stay in a lull

But to us, it’s just as beautiful

I can still see the traces 

where the past brushed against your skin, 

where a thousand awful memories 

are begging: let me in

The bruises feel immortalized, 

a trophy from your greatest loss; 

there are stitches running up your heart 

and you paid too high a cost

Still, your pain tells you 

that it is all you are, 

but you lived so long without it, 

and you’ve made it pretty far

I wish someone had told you 

that wounds eventually heal. 

They’ll turn to scars and nick your heart, 

but that’s what makes you real

golden boy

by Angela Ke 

The golden glow of a little boy's night lamp did its best to illuminate his bedroom. The shadowed faces of action figures and stuffed animals looked on eerily from across the room. It was yet another night in Carensburg, California, where flower pots bloom on the windowsills and wives kiss their husband’s cheeks when they come home from work. Dining tables are always set, scented candles are always lit, and nobody is ever caught dead in their pajamas. 

In Carensburg, problems are never discussed because no one ever has any. When everything is hidden behind complacent conversations and perfected smiles, there is no need for crying or counseling. Issues like suicide and divorce aren’t fathomable, and there is no such thing as dysfunctional families in this part of town. Children love their parents and their parents love each other, simple as that. 

But every rule has an exception.

On the corner of the street, the little boy’s house sat prim and proper. The house had perfectly trimmed bushes and a freshly painted navy blue door. Snap peas and parsnips flourished in the white picket garden in the back. The boy’s soft yellow light shone from the window on the second floor, two windows from the left and facing the front driveway. Oftentimes he liked to sleep with his window cracked open to feel the crisp breeze and listen to the clear nothingness of night.

The little boy's name was Charlie. It was a name that described a golden boy with blue eyes and a smile of sweetness and clarity. The name ‘Charlie’ rolls off people’s tongues like thick cream, leaving a saccharine scent of caramel and lemon drops. “Charlie,” a neighborhood mom would drawl. “You want some of these cookies I made for the potluck? I put a couple aside just for you.” He’d nod eagerly, tell her his genuine thanks, and the lady would hand him one, ruffle his hair, then walk away muttering, “Pure angel, that boy. And only six years old. Hope his parents are holding up well. What a shame.”

It was true, the situation really was a shame. Charlie’s father had just gotten laid off from his job, and it was all anyone could talk about. Money troubles, or any troubles at all, were unheard of. Baskets of bread, lemon pound cakes, and signature meatballs all showed up at their front step soon after. It was just the friendly neighbors of Carensburg doing their part to love their neighbor. No invites for a conversation over coffee or comforting words. Nobody knew how to give them, after all.

  Jack and Anna, the parents of Charlie, had done their best to put on a smile for the visitors who dropped off the baked goods. They did their best to put on a smile for Charlie. But the same thing couldn’t be said for each other. Constant fighting had broken out after the news of Jack’s job, and now they couldn’t look at each other unless it was filled with disapproval and bitterness. Smiling was out of the picture. 

Charlie was oblivious to his parents' struggles. All he saw were two loving people who he himself loved so much. Anna and Jack told him very little, only that they wouldn’t buy him many new toys for a while. After all, that was the Carensburg way—hiding problems with innocent excuses.

In that soft lit room of the house on the corner, Charlie snuggled under the covers of his cozy bed and laid there, content. His mom sat on the edge of his bed with a thin picture book in her lap. A story before bed was a special tradition between the young mother and son. This one, though, Charlie had never heard before.

“There was once a royal family that lived in a grand castle,” his mother read. “The king and queen had a handsome son who they knew would grow up to be strong and great. Their lives were happy and plentiful, when one day a horrible dragon came and breathed fire on their castle. As it was burning, the family tried to save it with water from the lake, but no one else from the nearby castles came to help, so their home burned to the ground. The king and queen tried to rebuild the castle, but nothing ever worked out.” She paused. “They could not agree where the ballroom should go or how big the entryway should be. The king and queen were very unhappy. So finally…” her voice wavered. 

“What? What finally happened?” Charlie asked, sitting up in bed now. 

His mom shook her head and blinked quickly. “It’s getting late now, actually. You can find out another time. But now you should get some sleep.” 

Charlie stuck his bottom lip out in a pout but obediently sunk back into the covers. He pulled his blanket back up to his chin. “Why are they upset over such little things? It sounds like they can solve it if they just work together.”

Anna gave a small shrug. “Sometimes small things can seem really big, Charlie.” She set the book down on his nightstand next to the lamp, still open to the page they left off on. The white pages glowed yellow under the light of the illuminant. 

She sat back onto the bed, about to say goodnight, when Charlie opened his mouth. “Mommy, what’s Daddy doing?” The young boy’s eyes were big and curious, staring up at his mother. The innocence pulled at a string in her heart. She couldn’t bear to tell him. Reaching down, she smoothed his golden blond hair from his forehead and planted a light kiss there. 

“Daddy’s just downstairs preparing for something,” she whispered softly. 

“Why? Is he going somewhere? To the store? He told me last week he’d get me the Red Sox hat I wanted. He hasn’t yet. Is that what Daddy’s doing? It’s a surprise, right? That’s why I have to stay up here. Daddy’s good at surprises. Like the time he took me to that baseball game. Remember, Mommy?” The boy smiled to himself, reminiscing of that perfect afternoon months ago. He had got to sit on his father’s lap and cheer along with him, perfectly content with hearing his dad’s booming laugh every time the commentators said something humorous. 

“No, Charlie. Daddy’s not going to the store.” Anna could feel her mouth start to quiver. She ducked her head down. “You don’t have to wonder about any surprise.” 

Her hands trembled slightly as she took in a deep breath and bent down to give her son a tight squeeze. “Good night, honey. Get a good sleep. Love you!” 

Charlie squeezed her back best he could despite his small frame. “Love you, Mommy.” His mother gave him one last kiss, quickly clicked off the lamp, and turned away to the door.

Just as she slipped out into the hall, she heard his voice again. “Is Daddy coming to tuck me in?”

  She closed her eyes and felt the heat behind them. “I’m not sure, honey. He has a lot to deal with tonight. You’ll be asleep by the time he’s done.” She softly shut the door before she could say any more.

Out in the hall, she collected herself and straightened her shoulders before making her way downstairs. When she rounded the corner to the kitchen, she found her husband sitting at the table staring at the packed suitcase propped up against the wall next to him. His shoulders were slouched and shadows darkened his features. Even though his blue eyes had grown dull and his golden hair had lost its glow, Anna couldn’t help remembering how he used to be. The affectionate, charming boy she’d met only eight years ago. Jack and Anna, Anna and Jack. She felt a drop of compassion try to squeeze into her heart, but she quickly pushed it out. He was the one who ruined everything. She couldn’t forgive him. There was no time either way, with what was about to happen. 

Jack noticed his wife standing in the archway and abruptly stood up, letting a cool expression slide onto his face. “Does he know?” he asked. There was no emotion or feeling, not even an accusatory tone. Just a simple, monotone, “Does he know?”

His wife shifted her weight onto one side. “No. He doesn’t.” 

They stared at each other, waiting for the other one to let their guard down.

Anna broke first, her voice barely above a whisper. “Do you know how hard this is going to be?” 

Jack stared at her. Of course he knew how hard it was going to be. On her. On him. They had both read all of those single parenting books and the logistics of child support. Goodbyes are always hard. “I do. And it’s not like I have a choice.” The last four words came out harsh and fast, like they had been pent up for too long, swollen with indignation.

Anna balled her fists. “Well, if only you had—“

“Don’t go blaming it on me again! This is not just me. It’s both of us.” Jack’s voice cracked. “This is both of us. Not just me. Not just you.”

He took a step closer to the suitcase. “We both know I didn’t lose my job on purpose. We both know it was because of budget cuts in the company. So don’t blame that on me. But that—” He jabbed a finger at the suitcase. “That is proof that this problem is both of ours, and I know that when you're alone you’ll see how you should have admitted it was you too, and how much easier it would have been.”

In one swift move, Jack picked up the suitcase and marched down the foyer to the front door, his jaw set. Anna followed. Jack raised his voice. “So here, okay? Let’s just get it over with. Here it is. I’m ready to say—” his voice hitched and he walked faster so she couldn’t see his face. “I’m ready to say goodbye.”

Jack stopped at the door, his back to the right wall, and set the suitcase down. Anna stood across from him. The freshly painted navy blue door measured the distance between them. It was the same freshly painted navy blue door that welcomed neighbors into the prim and proper house of a golden family with perfectly trimmed bushes in the front and snap peas and parsnips flourishing in the white picket garden in the back.

Jack and Anna, Anna and Jack.

The suitcase stood between them. 

Anna slowly leaned forward and took the suitcase’s handle into her hand. She turned the knob of the navy blue door and stepped outside, rolling the suitcase with her. On the front step she turned around. Jack was right. She’d be alone soon. This was her decision. This was what she wanted. It didn’t mean it was going to be easy, though. Goodbyes are always hard. 

So she gave him a curt nod and whispered, “Goodbye, Jack.” 

Jack wasn’t actually ready to say goodbye. He had hoped he could try to convince her one last time to stay, to see that it was both of them, and that both of them could fix it. He didn’t want her to go off alone. But she had made up her mind. 

“Goodbye, Anna.” 

And with that, he quietly shut the door. He didn’t want to watch her walk away. 

A hand stayed gripped on the doorknob, the knuckles white. His shoulders began to tremble and he sank to his knees. Fast, shaky breaths shuddered in his chest. Then he put his head to his hands and wept the wretched sobs that can only flow from a grown man whose wife had just left him. Every ounce of emotion that had been pent up inside of him for the past month broke out in raw, grieving sobs, thick with despair. He tried his best to keep it quiet so his son upstairs wouldn’t hear, but up in that second floor room, two windows from the left, there was a perfect view of the front driveway. 

The golden lamp switched on.

“Mommy? Is that you? What are you doing? Are you going to the store? For my hat? You don’t need to. Mom! Mom? Can you hear me? What are you carrying? Where are you going?”

Anna didn’t turn around. It would be too hard to bare, the sight of her golden boy with blue eyes sticking his head out of his window, the moon shining a creamy white film over his hair. She placed her suitcase in the car trunk and snapped it shut, ignoring the tears burning hot behind her eyes. This was what she thought was best for her. A life away from Jack, a life away from Carensburg. Everything came with a sacrifice, though. No matter how selfish it was, she had to lose her golden boy. Or more so, her golden boy had to lose her.

Charlie seemed to have caught on that this wasn’t just his mother getting in the car with a suitcase. “Mom! Stop, what are you doing? Don’t leave!” 

The driver side door swung shut and the headlights flashed on. The sound of the car’s engine cut through the clear nothingness of night. The clear nothingness of night that Charlie often liked to listen to through the opened crack of his window.

“Mom! Mom, no! Don’t leave! Stop, Mommy, where are you going? Don’t leave! Don’t leave me!” His wails snapped the crisp evening air in two. Tears fell down his face and onto the ledge of the window, where his small hands gripped the frame.  

The car pulled out of the driveway. Charlie watched as it turned onto the road. With a shaky bump from the curb, it drove away. Away from the house on the corner. Away from the neighbors of Carensburg, California, where flower pots bloom on the windowsills and wives kiss their husband’s cheeks when they come home from work. 

The golden glow of the tail lights faded. She was gone. 

Charlie stared down the street, his sniffles and whimpers evolving into the bawls that can only come from a young boy whose mother had just left him.

The door to his room creaked open and Jack appeared in the doorway. Charlie ran to him, wrapping his arms around his father’s legs and burying his face in them. He cried in hiccupping sobs filled with snot and drool that crushed his father’s heart. Jack picked Charlie up and sat on the bed, hugging his son to his chest. Tears streamed down both of their faces.

Under the light of Charlie’s lamp, the picture book still laid open. Charlie and his mother had stopped on the last page. Jack cradled his son carefully as he leaned forward and caught sight of the words. A sob suddenly seized his chest, already hollow and tired from crying. He cleared his throat softly and took in a cautious breath before reading aloud. 

“So finally,” Jack whispered. “The queen decided to leave and go build her own castle in another land. The king and his son were left alone. But the king knew his son would still grow up to be great and strong. The father promised his son that he would conquer any dragon that tried to burn him down, until he was old enough to conquer them himself. He promised his son that he would never leave like the queen. And so the king and his son built their own new castle and lived happily ever after—together.”