Wounds

Wounds

Jared Pace

These wounds seem to linger

While time still presses on

I sit and often wonder

About the days that are so far gone

They say in time it gets easier

I can’t say this is true

Because even after all this time

I still don’t have a clue

I remember all the memories

The times that we both shared

Maybe someday the pain will fade

And I’ll be better prepared

Our friendship was forever

Until death did we part

Although you may be gone for now

You are always in my heart

The Lone Star

Julia Fouts

Once upon a time there lived a star; and in that star, there was the soul of a girl. This star was bright and small, a young star recently born from the dying girl. The star was shy but careful, watching the other souls that had once touched the girl’s heart. As the star watched, she began to feel lonely. The lonely star with the little girl’s soul needed a companion, a friend. While riding along the galaxy, the star felt trapped and alone in the endless universe. Then, after seeing the deaths of all those the girl once knew, and after watching the earth slowly die, the star realized something amazing. All the other souls that passed had also become stars, locked in the heavens. The star no longer felt lonely, but instead, she gleamed with hope. She shone with indescribable joy as she knew the possibilities of finding an intimate. The star took comfort in knowing the hearts and souls of those the girl once knew were out there somewhere -- looking for her, just as she now looks for them. All she must do now is wish upon a star.

The Lonesome

The Lonesome

Jared Pace

A lonely life, a lonely road

A heavy burden to hold

Some friends came, and some went their way

To go off and join the fray

Many came back, and many were lost

Just how many would it cost?

He sees his friends, his family, and his kin

As they fight a battle that they cannot win

The Universe

Peter Davis

     I sit, staring into the barren abyss in front of me.  The longer I stare, the more my eyes begin to wander, deeper and deeper into the universe.  It becomes apparent how many mysteries mankind has yet to unravel.  My mind begins to churn with endless questions.  Are there other living things out there?  Am I being watched right now from a far-off planet, by a foreign race?  What stones have been left unturned?  As these questions wind through my head, my eyes begin to wander again.  To the east, I see Jupiter; its chemical rings orbit like an endless rainbow.  To the west, I see Earth; it looks like a meaningless circle of colors from where I stand.  I wonder how many people are looking up at the moon, unaware that they are being watched by someone millions of miles away.  I lean back and let my head rest upon the ground. As I slowly close my eyes, my final question is: Do I dare disturb the universe?

National Silver Key Winner: A Changing Neighborhood

A Changing Neighborhood
by Braeden Sharer

                       
            The small house was painted dark green. It had natural wooden trim that had never been covered, and a small wooden porch, on which two rocking chairs sat, buffeted in the wind. This was perhaps the one scene that changed only with the seasons, the chairs covered with rusted leaves in autumn that transformed to glistening snow come winter. Now the paint peeled down the sides of the house, as though the years of neglect had caused it to droop like the wrinkles of the old man who inhabited it. The house had once been charming, cozy.
            Gary had lived in this same house for his entire seventy eight years. Following his parents’ sudden deaths, he had dropped out of high school, married young, and lived in the house with his wife, Ruth, and eventually their five children. To make ends meet, Gary had worked as a butcher and Ruth, after the birth of their third son, began a small tailoring business in their basement. 
            Unlike their old-fashioned parents, the children had escaped their hometown as soon as possible, returning only sporadically. Following Ruth’s death, they staged what they called an “intervention” every two years or so in attempt to move their father to an assisted living apartment, in which he could live a “quiet” and “safe” life. Their efforts were useless.  Despite what his children believed, Gary was far from feeble; he still possessed a clever mind. He was aware that his children’s need to interfere in his life was more for their own collective conscience than his benefit. Thus, Gary used his strong will to remain where he had been for nearly a century.
            The neighborhood had once been normal. In fact, it had been nice. As a child, Gary had been able to run free through the streets. Children played friendly games of hop scotch, kickball, and baseball. They bought ten cent chewing gum and bottles of Dr. Brown’s celery soda at the general store. Each summer weekend, families held large picnics in the soft grass near the gurgling stream in the park. Remembering this, Gary could virtually taste the succulent fried chicken and potato salad that his mother had made each summer Saturday. In the old neighborhood, everyone had known everyone and children could come and go in and out of each house as they pleased.
            Although the old man never changed, the neighborhood did. With every passing season, it became poorer and more rundown. The town had been unable to receive government funding, and those who once cared had simply moved away. Graffiti-covered buildings sneered down at passersby and the scent of polluted streams filled the nostrils of each resident. Cigarette butts and shattered beer bottles, rather than asphalt, filled the potholes that scattered the streets. The neighborhood was a breeding ground for gangs and drug-trafficking. News of shootings and robberies were the norm. Consequentially, the elderly fled south and never returned. But it was Gary’s memories, along with his stubbornness, that kept him here. 
            Year after year, Gary and Ruth had sat in their rocking chairs each day, thinking, talking, observing. They sipped bitter, hot coffee as they discussed their children, or their debt, or community plans. But Gary also listened to Ruth’s gossip or was given thorough analyses of the ridiculous outfits worn by her church friends. It was their tradition, their therapy. And it had become such a habit that each child had known not to disrupt mama and papa during their sacred “chair time.”
            Thus, even after Ruth’s death, Gary continued the calming ritual, accompanied and comforted only by the soft, creaking melody of the rocking. Neighbors passed by and offered consoling, pitiable looks and timid smiles. Gary, however, did not return them. He believed everyone thought him pathetic. He could sense their whispers, “There’s Old Man Gary; sitting in his rocker even though his wife’s dead. Maybe he doesn’t realize it. Maybe he’s gone insane. Maybe he still talks to her.” Gary knew what the people thought, but he refused to be troubled by their judgments and pity, so he merely ignored them. Eventually, the streets became too dangerous anyway. Not a soul was to be found walking past his home.
            From his rocker, Gary had observed the swift, terrible changes, and he knew that the transformation must have begun before Ruth’s passing. He knew it was impossible that a neighborhood could transform into something so revolting so quickly. Nonetheless, he did not care, as long as he was undisturbed on his porch. As long as he could be left alone to pretend.
            Halloween night had once been a festive, exciting holiday. Children had pranced around in homemade costumes. Ghosts made of starched white sheets with two holes for eyes had scurried up the paths and begged for treats. Witches with painted-on moles in their fathers’ top hats could be seen cartwheeling across lawns, their pillowcases bulging with candy sprawled behind them on the cold ground. Jack o’lanterns grinned menacingly from the porches next to plump, ripe pumpkins concealed by colorful leaves. Each year, Gary would transform himself into a frightening monster, painting his skin green and wearing his oldest, ripped suit. Ruth would put margarine in his hair to make it stick up in a terrifyingly unruly fashion. Although she pretended to disapprove when he chased the small screaming children, Gary sensed that Ruth appreciated his enthusiasm.
             But Halloween, like everything else in the neighborhood, had changed. It was now an excuse for gangs to recruit new members and for teenagers to frighten and to bully children. To go trick or treating would have meant suicide. If anyone dared to put out a decorative pumpkin, it was smashed, the pieces oozing with orange juices, scattered in the street like a bloody corpse. Every house was strewn with toilet paper and splattered with rotten egg shells. Often, the homes were graffitied with vulgar words, in permanent paint. 
            Unwilling to concede defeat, Gary had sat in his chair each Halloween night. While awaiting the ruthless attack on his home, he enjoyed the silence and the glow of the candle in the jack o’lantern at the bottom of the porch steps. Gary understood the significance of that single flickering candle. At one time all the candles had glowed simultaneously, lighting the streets. Each year, Gary put faith in his candle to give him the strength to stay put. But as the gang approached his house, Gary’s survival instincts would kick in.  He would blow out the tiny candle, flee from his rocker to the warmth of his house, and listen to the sound of eggshells cracking on his window panes. When they were through, he would emerge, pick up the remnants of the pumpkins, throw away the debris, and scrub viciously at the windows and shingles until only vague imprints of the horror remained. 
            While Gary was repulsed by the gang members and their activities, he was also disgusted by his neighbors and himself. They were afraid to leave their homes to go to work, let alone on Halloween. Thus, nothing ever changed and no progress was ever made. Gary was the only one to sit outdoors, but even he bolted the doors when anyone advanced. He was unsure how it had come to this or why he had become a coward. When Ruth was alive, he would never have acted afraid and bolted from children sixty years his junior. It was despicable. It was disgraceful, this lack of respect for their elders. Gary now felt as if he were the joke of the gangster’s circle. He was the old man who acted tough, but who ran from them every Halloween. He hated the defeated feel of the neighborhood but really had no idea what to do to alter its appearance and hope for the future. Of course the neighborhood was becoming a cesspool. People fled the moment trouble began, and for good reason. But Gary was nearing eighty and he was alone. Why should he be afraid of those who had interrupted his comfortable life? The mongrels should fear him!
            That Halloween night, Gary sat in his rocking chair and waited patiently. He had made a decision. He would not run this year and hide inside his safe, warm house. He would simply sit and wait. As he sat in the cold, bundled in a heavy jacket and sipping his steaming coffee, Gary longed for his wife. He longed for the days when he and Ruth were able to enjoy the evening, watching the costumed children, rather than the destruction that had engulfed the neighborhood. He looked to the glowing jack o’lantern for some familiarity, and was reassured. He doubted this simple act would make a change. He feared the outcome. But Gary was the remaining symbol of hope. He knew that something had to be done. For his wife, for his children, for his neighborhood, for the happiness that had once been, and for hope.
             He saw the dark, rusted car come to a stop in front of his house. The gang leader emerged. He was tall and thin, with long, greasy black hair that had never seen a comb. Leisurely, silently, he strolled up to the base of the porch, eyeing Gary the entire way. His heart frozen with fear, Gary could see the butt of a gun beneath the hooded sweatshirt. He could barely breathe, but he would not back down. Gary met the boy’s gaze with a hard smirk, slowly rocking back and forth, listening to the comforting rhythm of the creaking chair. 
            The boy moved his hand to the gun and Gary took in a sharp breath. No words were exchanged. The boy never took his eyes off Gary’s and Gary never dropped his gaze. He could sense the presence of the weapon, but he did not care. Gary’s mind floated to a young Ruth. He visualized her smiling image, her red hair shuffled by the wind. Then she laughed a small tinkle that made Gary completely relaxed. But the laugh grew louder, louder, until it was a menacing cackle. Gary was confused. And then the greasy boy reappeared. He stooped down and, without a sound, blew out the candle.
            The shot fired. The boy strode away without thought, without regret. The tenacious old man who had sat in his chair, creaking, sipping, mocking him each Halloween night, was finally dead.

Semper Fi

Jared Pace

Red is for Fortitude;

Those whose perseverance

Stave off the vicious

White is for Liberty;

To live in a world free from tyranny,

So that our lives aren’t tainted with misery

Blue is for Heroism;

Endowed with such wisdom,

All obstacles can be overcome

Sanctuary

Jared Pace

Fear not the dark and the truth it may hide;

The shadows have secrets hidden from the world outside.

Disregard the truth, the less light you will find,

Before you go astray in the darkness of your mind.

Your skin is pale, sallow and gritty,

With an expression of complete and utter obscurity.

You don't even know what you’re running from,

Waiting for a tomorrow that may never come.

Darkness and light exist in every man,

As they always have since life first began.

We can fight the darkness inside us all;

Will we win the war within or fall?

Nexus

Jared Pace

Amidst the tenebrous shade, light hides

Overcome by the darkness that resides

Principles and creeds you must uphold

Before your mind becomes uncontrolled

You have no authority, this you fathom

You’re merely chased by your own phantom

Then you realize; you begin to understand

While your mind is about to disband

Live for those that you adore

Set yourself free forevermore

Procure that which giveth you love and light,

And I shall promise that you will be alright

Somewhat Blind; Leadership: Honorable Mention - Poetry

Rachel McNeil

Somewhat Blind

At my Sabbath table I prayed with purpose
My family humble and kind,
No one thought that they could hurt us,
We were so innocent and somewhat blind.

For the evil men came to our home
With weapons and waving claims
They said “Don’t worry you’ll be back soon”
But they lied all the same.

With just our most precious things,
Among ovoid jewels and pearls,
We made our way through words that sting
To a cramped dark train, us boys and girls.

Days and nights we wondered and hoped
Until ashy daylight was poured upon us.
Out we stepped to read a sign ever so sloped
That called our destination Auschwitz.

Sorted and separated we timidly walked
They enabled us to clean our skin
Instant death came to those who talked
Our possessions were all rudely taken.

Striped clothes and a number
In return for our worldly goods
Coyness and bravery swept down under
Our heads shaved equally, cautiously
understood.

Assigned horrid games to play
Endowing us with numbered breaths.
Crumbs of bread our only pay
Besides the livid gift of quicker death.

What on earth was our objective?
Who could have let this happen?
Look and see from our blanched
perspective.
The oblong routine never broken.

Only so long ago we slept
In peaceful demureness and passion
Our prayers and rituals were always kept,
In sight, our dreams and aspirations

Now Satan would be happier
Taking that long fall from heaven.
For this is a brutal hell I am sure
Bloody hands stuck in slow motion.

Will I see my brother again?
If ever, let it be soon!
In darkness I call out to heaven.
To the lonely elliptical moon.

Hardly can we remember our hopes.
Our beliefs have been torn and melted.
The crematorium, the pain, and forgotten soap
Investments gone and mounded.

Today we do not cry out to Yaweh.
Too weak to work they herd us like sheep
To the chambers of no return I boldly walk.
Eminent death is to finally mine to claim.

Leadership

This morning awakened many, to their troubles and from their dreams.
Some stretch with pride and confidence, while others denature at the seams.

Each individual arises, different and unique their routines and thoughts.
A spiral of ideas and questions, tied together in endless knots.

The day goes on and one by one, the people live their lives.
Some quiet their tongues of gold, to let others speak their minds.

Each day brings something new yet eerily the same.
Malevolently, the same fears will grip the quietly insane.

For belligerently their minds will fight for silence and for speech,
A strong-willed leader yet somewhat buried is only just out of reach.

Discarded adulation, forgotten and lost at sea,
The minds of seagulls flying away, so foreign to you and me.

The majority smiles and rewards the strong with astounding deification,
Even the silenced must admit that confidence grabs your attention.

It is only when the idolatry wears off that the quiet bring their words to life.
What silent, powerful control they have that perseveres through change and strife.

Inspired and revived, the people stand in admiration for the speaker.
They marvel at the ideas portrayed with the talent of a leader.

Seagulls fly with unquestioning certainty, with no reason for alarm.
The open ocean a welcome sight bringing peace and unknown harm.

Not to be galvanized all stand on edge in undying anticipation.
They wait for their leaders, both strong and weak, to try and lead their nation.

Shame is fiercely doffed from their plumage of feathers.
Clustered wealth and greedy hands not worthy in this kind of weather.

The tortoise wins the race while the mighty hare sits aside.
Hope is ruthlessly abandoned in a tuft of worthless pride.

The night greets everyone once again, their dreams calling them to sleep.
But today the quiet have spoken their minds and the ink will continue to seep.

Missing: Honorable Mention - Flash Fiction

Ali Jenkins

          The door of the grocery store swings shut behind me, the tiny bells jangling loudly. The chilly, autumn air swirls across the land, scooping up burgundy and ginger-colored leaves with its rampant gusts. I yank my knitted scarf tighter around my neck as I prepare for the long trek home, where my parents and siblings await me. As I step to the curb, something catches my eye. I move forward, ready to ignore the paper taped to the inside of the grocery store’s window, but something pulls me back. I find myself walking toward the window, drawn to this paper like a moth is drawn toward a flame. The paper is old, its edges yellowed and torn. The girl in the picture is much younger than I. Her pale, thin lips are parted in a wide, toothy grin. One of her baby teeth is missing, and her pink tongue pokes through the new hole. The girl’s wild, auburn hair is pulled away from her face, but several untamed curls have sprung loose. I lock eyes with the girl, and I am lost in her gaze. Her eyes are a dark, cerulean blue, and their depths seem endless. She gazes through the faded years that separate us. A shiver runs down my spine, and it is no longer from the cold.

           The young girl skips down the sidewalk, her mind buzzing after her first day of second grade. The blue sky is clear, and the cool, September sun shines down on her as she scampers along. She kicks her pink rain boots at the leaf piles that line the sidewalk, sending showers of burgundy leaves to the ground. Several leaves fall on the girl’s head and become tangled in her auburn hair. She snatches up a gnarled stick from the ground and carries it with her as she dances down the sidewalk. She hums the song she learned in school, tapping the stick on the ground. As she walks, a feral, black cat crawls from the bushes and staggers across the road before her. The young girl sings out a warning to the creature before resuming her melody. As she nears the stop sign at the end of her street, she notices a white car trailing behind her. The car’s motor whirs and sputters, as if choking on the black smoke belching from its exhaust pipe. The girl hums louder, fazed only by the sound’s interference with her song. She is several steps from the stop sign when something crashes into her from behind. Pain shoots through her head, and she collapses to the ground. Her vision fades away.
        Consciousness gradually finds the girl. Absently, she wonders if it is Saturday and if her mother will make pancakes for her and her sister. The cold, hard surface beneath her, however, shatters her dreams, yanking her back to reality. She pushes herself up, the back of her head throbbing, agonizingly. The girl’s foggy memories return to her in a rush. She remembers the blow to her head and the rough ride in the trunk of a car. Through a tiny window pours cool, blue moonlight that illuminates the room with its eerie glow. She gazes at the metal bed holding a thin mattress, the lone window, and the door, bolted shut from the outside. The young girl’s chest constricts; her eyes brim over, and she sobs silently. Utterly alone, the girl rocks back and forth on the ground as silent tears slide down her face.
          At first, the girl pretends that she is in a nightmare, that she will one day awake, assuaged and safe. These new people, though not unkind to her, are so different from her own, loving parents, whose memory she holds dear in her heart. Over time, the girl’s fear of these people is transformed into acceptance.
          As time passes, the girl’s new family members slowly integrate her into their lives. At first, she is allowed to leave her prison for hours at a time. Later, she is granted access to the entire house. Eventually, even the neighborhood opens up to her. She cannot explain why she does not escape at the countless chances that arise. It is as if this house is now her gravity, the place to which she always returns, regardless of how desperately she struggles to break free. Although she yearns for her true parents, their faces eventually recede to the depths of her memories and are replaced with the faces of her new parents. And so, slowly, painfully, the years slide by.
          As I stand outside the grocery store, my mind reels. My hair stands up on end, and shivers wrack my frame. I am lost; my world is tipped upside down. The eyes that look at me tell a story. My gravity shifts, and I struggle to remain on my feet as I stare through the years into my own eyes.

Voices Of Our Nation: Honorable Mention - Flash Fiction

Ali Jenkins

A young man steps into my embrace, piercings studding his face. He inhales a steadying breath. Elijah thinks of his negligent parents with their green lawn, their white house, their perfect lives; he can taste their hollowness. The last time Elijah confronted his parents, they had castigated him with abomination, turning their backs on their only son. He slept in his car for days, his face stained with the bitter tears he wept. But then, he cast off the weight of his abandonment, extricating himself from the prison in which he lived. He turned his eyes forward and created a new future. Brushing his long, black hair from his eyes, Elijah slides his fingers across my switches, securing his choices. For the first time, Elijah grasps my red handle with his tattooed hands. A feeling of empowerment courses through him as he pulls, and the curtain snaps open.

A tiny, Cuban woman glides into my arms. Taking in the many names before her, the woman is transported back to her own country. Ruled by Castro, her people were held prisoner, chained by iniquity. Carmela suffered in silence until, finally, she professed her intention to flee. She begged her tías to accompany her, but Carmela’s decision had rent her familia in two. Following the beckoning of her heart, Carmela fled to the land of freedom, utterly alone. Upon her arrival in los Estados, Carmela toiled tirelessly for her citizenship. And for the first time in her life, Carmela had felt truly at home. Returning to the present, Carmela adds her voice, a privilege she has never known. Aware that she will never forget this moment, Carmela wraps her delicate hands around my red handle and pulls; the curtain snaps open.

A lean Onondagan man ducks into my arms. Running his long fingers across my levers, Atian thinks of his people. For years, he harbored resentments toward this country. His father had planted a deep bitterness within him, and it rooted firmly in his heart. He could think only of the ancients, who had dwelled on this land since the beginning of time. They existed as one with the earth; they respected the precious gifts they had been given. As a young man, Atian could not forgive the people of this country for what they had done, and the bitter hatred within him had blazed in his black eyes. But as time passed, he learned to forgive the ancient crimes, and he joined the people of his nation. And so, with a liberating sentiment of acceptance, Atian adds his voice. Grasping my red handle in his bronze hands, he pulls, and the curtain snaps open.

A woman hobbles into my embrace, leaning on her daughter’s arm for support. Rose pauses for a moment, lifting her pale eyes to gaze affectionately at me. She feels her many years in her aching bones, in her spidery veins, in her snowy hair. Rose recalls the first time she came here, clinging to her father’s strong hand. He had lifted her, showing Rose the many names spread before them. Her father tenderly guided her soft hands over my switches, whispering how privileged they were. Many years later, Rose had returned with her own children. Like her father, she guided their fingers, passing on his timeless lessons. Now, her remaining child clasps Rose’s hands, and mother and daughter add their voices together. Her daughter squeezes Rose’s hand lovingly and brushes her lips across her mother’s weathered cheek. Closing her eyes, Rose places her frail hands on my red handle, knowing this will be the last time. With her daughter’s strength, Rose pulls, and the curtain snaps open.

An African-American woman shuffles inside, two children perched upon her broad hips. Imani’s loved-ones cling to her yellow sundress, gazing at my gadgets in amazement. Their mother steps closer, forbearing her children’s pleas to play with me. Imani points to the names as her children pull my levers. Watching them, Imani thinks of her ancestors, who toiled on the land in anonymity. Their agony is carried through the years, residing within her throbbing heart. For them, she holds her head high; for them, she adds her voice. Closing her eyes, she says a silent prayer of gratitude for the life with which she and her children have been blessed. As Imani takes my red handle in her powerful hands, she can taste her ancestors’ names on her tongue; she can feel their strength in her limbs. She pulls, and the curtain snaps open.

******************************************

I have seen hundreds of faces. I have seen white and black, old and young. I have seen the loved and the abandoned, the wealthy and the destitute. But these faces share one unifying aspect: they are all American. And so, I swell with pride because of what I possess: the many voices of our nation.

TO FEEL

Julia Fouts

It feels good to feel.

To feel the wind breeze through my hair,
Pretend to fly,
​Through distant lands.
​​​
To feel the cold run down my spine;
​May this chill
​​Define my love.
​​​
To feel the warmth spread like dawn,
From my head,
And to my toes.

To feel the love from a friend,
​Despite my harm,
​​She understands.

To feel emotions
Affect my tears,
​And remind me who I am.

Because it feels good to feel.

Ignite the Soul

Julia Fouts

Kindling light in the soul of man,
Takes the flames of a monster, a dancer so grand.

Fire ignites with just a spark,
Spreading through the coldest dark.

It grows with the breath each child makes,
While devouring the old to give way to new fates.

Smoke begins to taunt us with its game;
It seems as if nothing is quite the same.

Flames dance on the earth with such great passion,
Inspiring our souls to sing with compassion.

Then, they disappear from the world they set ablaze,
Escaping to the soul they were destined to amaze.

The Morose Fellow

Jared Pace

In the fervid streets of London, a surly dotard sulked in the dark corner of a secluded alley, quaffing a great deal of muscatel and attempting to console his shattered soul. The drink burned as it slowly trickled down his throat, though he surprisingly seemed numb to the pain. His fustian apparel was in shreds, his coxcomb frayed and cut in many different places; a small bauble was attached by a string at his hip. He bitterly doffed the cap to the side, questioning how he had gotten himself into such a precarious situation. Suddenly, without warning, he became dazed. He felt the poison course through his veins and was suddenly stricken with an appalling migraine; he felt as if he had been pierced by an adder. Madcap ideas began to stir in his head, affirming that he had been threatened by a cullion who cozened him into his current predicament. The man was once a pithy prodigy who dedicated his life to the rudiments of writing; he suddenly remembered where in his life he had gone awry, when he lost every ducat he owned, and when he lost every person he had held dear. Abruptly, he began to weep profusely; a never-ending cascade of tears streaked down his face. Dark clouds soon engulfed the skies, showering the land with rain. Utterly lost in this world, he stood up and walked into the dark depths of the alley, a lost soul cast into an abysmal limbo.

Winter

Julia Fouts

The sting of cold hits my face
As I walk outside to the wintery place.

Snowflakes fall and dance to my nose;
They are each individuals, every time it snows.

I embrace the scene of my world in white,
A terrifying storm brought upon this peaceful sight.

I see the children playing;
They are squealing and laughing and obeying.

I walk back inside and warmth gives me a hug
As I drink the hot cocoa from my holiday mug.

I try to forget bad times from this year,
​For now it is time to sing and to cheer.
​
This is winter,
It’s the end of one and the beginning of another.

The Silent Clamor

Jared Pace

Hear the music cease to play

In the land to man forever lost,

Where the skies are comprised of cloudy gray

And the trees are covered in rigid frost.

The roads are silent; no sound is made.

No rustle do the woods contain,

Past stone, past pond, past river frayed:

Only silence that leaves none too sane.

I walk past all these taciturn sights,

With thoughts malicious and feelings grim,

When, suddenly, down a lane, I hear

A church bell chanting its melodious hymn.

I walk, with fear, to the tolling sound,

Past house and marketplace decayed.

I stop and pause to look around,

But the silence makes me more afraid.

I must continue to the roaring bells

Before I fall into the snow

And never reach this fallen land

And the secret that I need to know.

Again, I trudge to the icy town,

Although my muscles tire,

For entranced is my entire being

By this booming, but soundless, choir.

Finally, I reach the city wall,

Its gates still guarded on either side

By frozen bones dressed in formal cloth,

The men that were once the city's pride.

They seem to stand immortally,

But by simple touch, they fall aside

And allow me to enter a wicked place

Where tremendous evil must reside.

As I opened the frigid gate,

I wonder what terrors lie behind

Or if this is phantasmagoria

From the deep recesses of my mind.

Looking up, with timid delay,

I quickly mutter a silent prayer

And, repudiating my rising fear,

I make my way to the center square.

As I walk, I see what the village was

During its famed and memorable prime.

For a moment, I see a hint of good

In an evil defined by a much darker time.