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Photo by Matthias Gellissen
He isn’t a mighty dragon that any myths depict, bravely fighting off adventurers to protect his treasure, nor a fearsome companion that I soar through the skies with. You won’t see him on the battlefield, roaring with enough strength to shake the earth; in fact, he’s the quietest member of my family, squeaking only in surprise in the 20 gallons of water he lives in. He’s a Spanish ribbed newt, which my 11-year-old self named Issac Newton, a birthday gift that excited me beyond belief. I was over the moon upon learning that he could live with me for 20 years, defending me against the great foes of boredom and homework; my mom was undeniably thrilled to hear that as well, the remark conveniently made after she’d signed the receipt.
Pretty Little Dead Thing—
Sky Creature Hit Ground,
you were always invincible to me,
above the Earth’s cruel touch,
but It has taken you.
He isn’t a mighty dragon that any myths depict, bravely fighting off adventurers to protect his treasure, nor a fearsome companion that I soar through the skies with. You won’t see him on the battlefield, roaring with enough strength to shake the earth; in fact, he’s the quietest member of my family, squeaking only in surprise in the 20 gallons of water he lives in.
I’m a wanderer, a nomad of sorts
When I walk, you follow, and when I hurt, you hurt
If there were a path we went down
I wouldn’t look back or turn around
I’d go and know, you followed…
They walk together hand-in-hand. He savors what they have. His best friend. Her pale skin glows in the moonlight.
She’s so striking.
Shaking the thought out of his mind, he turns to her,
“Tell me something.”
“I love you,” she lilts.
I’ve been breathing for a while. I can feel the wood against my back, and taste the air. But my heart hasn’t started beating. It’s an odd feeling. I can tell that time has passed, and I can tell that my consciousness has returned, but my internal clock is still broken and my life hasn’t come back.
I reach into the depths of my backpack and become engulfed by a sense of relief when I feel the sharp metal object. I begin to pull it out, or at least try to. The key gets tangled in the pages and pages of Greek grammar notes shoved into my backpack. It’s been two months and I still don’t know how to conjugate the verb “ειμαι.” The key finally makes its way up into the fresh air of Pangrati. As the cool key hits my sweaty hand, I realize that I cut my index finger…
She doesn’t give the baby another look and leaves the room on swift feet, passing the maternity ward and not stopping till she exits the swiveling doors and collapses in the spiky grass outside the horrid walls that reek of death, even around life. There are light pink peonies, like the baby's hat, growing out of a small patch near a hospital garden sign. A monarch butterfly flaps its wings and floats in front of her and a gentle breeze wipes the tears from her face with a soothing whisper. It’s cruel how beautiful it is. As if nature itself refused to give her another look, to even regard her pain with a gray cloud or drop of rain. The flowers would keep growing; the flowers would keep living.
“You wait until the day before finals to scream? kid i’m screaming every day #collegelife”
August 17, 2141, onboard the FES Daedalus. First Lieutenant Ziva Schaefer snapped out of her thoughts, still staring listlessly out the window of the craft into the intense darkness.
I looked for you.
You were not in the kitchen,
The ugly orange tiles lay there, lonely.
You weren’t in the dining room.
An attack on the city was inevitable.
Granted, it was New York City.