The 360 West Project

The sun slowly sets between my long wooden fingers. I can barely move anymore and each day it becomes harder and harder to function. I was born like any other, with a family that cared. But I was sad and depressed all the time so I wished on a shooting star, not to die but to have all my problems be taken away from me. By some odd chance of fate, I started turning into a tree. The changes were not very noticeable at first, but over time my legs formed together to become a trunk and my arms branched out and grew above my head. My family decided to keep me outside where I could thrive in the sun and the fresh air. Most of the transformation was already over. My face was the only part of me not covered in the light brown bark of a willow tree. As I got closer to the final change, I realized that I would not miss my human days filled with heartbreak and sorrows. I would embrace my life as a tree. I could now feel the soft bark moving across my face and I took one last look at the dying sun as a smile became permanently etched upon my face.

Direction by Marc

I’m stuck in the woods, or what feels like them. Complete darkness surrounds me as I stand from the floor of the environment. Cool, crisp air brushes past my ears and leaves shift and crackle beneath my feet, but I still only see darkness. I feel the need to move, but the question that holds me still is “Which direction do I go?”

            With no apparent destination in sight I sit still, waiting for my thoughts to provide an answer. My insight for once has no prediction, nor advice on what to do next, and even with the feel of nature around me I still feel alone. But wait, light. It shines past the trees and into my eyes, sparking hope. ‘Finally! A destination!’ I think as I move in the direction of the glow, but slowly it subsides and reappears in another location. On instinct I move in the direction of the light once again, my eagerness of finding a way out pushing my body past its limits. This continues as I become weaker and weaker, both physically and mentally.

            ‘Maybe I’m not destined for this.’ I begin to ponder, now looking to the darkness for an answer. I still only receive the light as a response, and seeing as how I only have the light as a destination; a set point, I follow it hoping I’ll find a point to its constant movement.

                      Woe, to the Tree Standing Bare.

By Foster

 Weep,

Weep,

Weep,

Weep, for the tree that stands alone.

Once a part of a forest,

once upon a throne.

Weep, for the tree that stands alone.

Cry,

Cry,

Cry,

Cry for the tree that is now standing bare.

Once,

Before, with leaves, that flowed like hair.

Cry for the tree now standing bare.

Oh, once, Yes, once

was the tree like the rest but weathered and battered

this tree barley stands.

Left by the leaves, woe to the tree.

Woe, to the tree standing bare.

Hope,

Hope,

Hope,

Hope is all gone, this tree standing bare will not make it to dawn.

 Once upon a time there was a land between two valleys. A village sat at its center, isolated, but peaceful and happy. Its people had tools of harmony rather than tools of war. On every street was a great painter, a great writer, a great musician. Being such a peaceful village, they were completely unprepared when disaster struck.

               It came slowly, they didn’t notice it at first. A hairline on the ground. Then it began to crack. The earth opened, splitting the town in half. Each day the crack grew wider until they could no longer cross it. And still it grew, separating mother from daughter, friend from friend.

               Near the crack lived a funny old man with a thick beard and even thicker glasses. The man never spoke to anyone, but the people liked him because he always smiled and played beautiful music. But when the great divide began, and people stopped listening to his music, he stopped smiling.

               One day, to everyone’s amazement, he took his guitar and calmly stepped into the ravine. Down the earth he went, sliding past dirt and rock. The ravine narrowed as he went, and by and by it narrowed enough so that when he stuck out his foot, he stopped falling, suspended between the two cliff faces.

               Then he began to strum. His fingers danced across the frets, playing a melody like none had ever heard before. His smile slowly returned as music filled the air. Beats drifted down into the earth echoing through the cavernous trench.

               There was a moan from deep beneath him as his soothing song progressed, and the walls began to move. With each note they came closer, until finally the music stopped and the ravine had closed. The people always said the crack left behind looked like a smile.

even if I tried my hardest

threw the ball farthest

held that note the longest

I’d still be dead to you

even if I did everything right

helped you out that one, cold night

stood up for you in that brutal fight

I’d still be dead to you

even if I was homeless

hopeless

worthless

I’d still be dead to you

People. People in the back of my head. Screaming. Screaming at me. Calling my name and telling me what to do. There are little people inside my head, crawling around and demanding my obedience. They reach through my eyes and pull back my lids, peer through the empty wholes where my eyes used to be and take a look at the world around me. They tear me apart; inside out, outside in. I used to try to fight them, use all of my energy just to make them stop. Scream at the top of my lungs to try to drown out the voices. But I became exhausted; they sucked out all of my energy and made me weak. I bend to their every will, I carry out their commands. My mind is not my own. There is no democracy in my brain; I have no say or no right to an opinion. My opinion doesn’t matter in a dictatorship.

They speak all at once, some quiet… just like a whisper in the wind; others, practically bang on my eardrums. I can’t tell which thoughts are real, or if I have ever even had one single thought of my own.

I sit back and wonder what silence is. I have never experienced even a second of it. Is it calm like and autumn leaf falling gently on a lake, sending little ripples dancing across the water. Or is it suffocating? Would the silence be as loud as the voices, or maybe even louder? Gasping for air, but it is too thick to swallow, drenched in silence. Cascading over me like a rogue wave, swallowing me and drowning me in silence.

I like the people in my head. Any company is good company. Without them… there would be no me.

His mind was full of stars, his brain was the crescent of the moon. He wasn’t like others, people that had half a brain, filled only with trash. Aiden had a calmness about him; the type of calm that most people admire. But when he spoke… god when he spoke, he spoke the universe.

His voice was soft and flowed gently out of his lips like the Milky Way. When he spoke it was like the whole world stopped. The earth took a break from spinning and orbiting, and just listened to Aiden’s sweet syrupy voice. It was like he had the whole world, the solar system, and the people in it, on puppet strings. With the slightest flick of the wrist he could manipulate them however he wanted. After all, he was the puppet master.

He was one of those people that you could stare at for hours, and never get bored. He was mesmerizing. His features were soft, smooth, and almost angelic. He had the moon in his eyes. Looking into them just for a second would have you hooked in a second with no escape from his trance. His eyes were his greatest feature, followed by his lips; the soft curve of the bottom, and the traced outline of the top. Perfect. He was perfect. Pure perfection.

But Aiden was a closed book. Actually, it was as if the pages didn’t even exist. Blank. No words to read. No way to understand. It was impossible to understand him, there was nothing to look at through his eyes. But he understood everyone else. Read them like an open book. It was like he could look into your eyes and see your soul. Peer into your own book and read carefully though the pages. There were no secret you hold hide within the pages, because he read between the lines. He saw right through the mask that we put on to hide our true identities, hide our emotions, our fears, our truth. But he never judged. Never spoke of the things he knew. He just knew.

By Kquiyani She was beautiful elegant but was mean she looked down on everyone and her name was zhahara. She had everything. She loved to pick on less pretty girls one day. Vahra a little girl asked Zhahara what she saw when she looked in the mirror. Zhahara screamed and yelled fo r the guards to take the girl away. Zhahara ran in her room closed the door and grabbed a mirror. She was beautiful elegant and very amazing looking, but she was displeased with herself. Zhahara saw that she was very ugly inside. She touched the mirror and then her face. She began to run, threw the door open and ran, she found Vahra’s house she bang on the door and begged the girl to make her beautiful on the inside. The girl told her to go far away from Congo, Africa and find the girls grandmother and so Zhahara did. She found the girl’s grandmother and was very impolite to the elderly woman. The elderly lady began to speak, she said, “Grab a mirror.’’ Zhahara did. ‘’Now,’’ said the elderly. ‘’What you do or say on the out, affects your in take this to heart.’’ Zhahara looked in the mirror and cried, ‘’Go Zhahara,‘’ said the elderly lady. ‘’You know exactly what must be done .‘’ Zhahara leaped up and traveled at a steady pace back to Congo. She ran to Vahra’s house found Vahra and said, “I am jealous of you. ‘’ Vahra slowly replied, ‘’But why?‘’ “Because your beautiful inside and out.” Vahra hugged Zhahara and from then on they helped each other with beauties from inside and out.