1995

1993

                                                                 Heather Dix

                                 First prize Poetry Creative Writing Contest 1994

 

                                           Blood and sex, death and lies.

Hearing hungry children's cries.

Daughter shooting mom,

Because of a fight.

Child killing child,

Because one was white.

Fear of walking, 

Down your own street.

Because of who you might,

Encounter or meet.

Possibly being shot,

Cause you're wearing blue or red.

And never knowing when,

You might wind up dead.

Burning Bibles and American flags,

Shooting lesbians and fags.

Kids being murdered,

Over one pair of shoes.

Abortion and suicide doctors,

Headlining the news.

People judging people,

By the color of their skin.

And forgetting the importance,

Of looking within.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Old Lighthouse

                                                                Megan Cook

                                 First prize Fiction Creative Writing Contest 1994

 

It wasn't really dark, it wasn't stormy, and, let's be honest, it wasn't even night, but it felt like it was to Paul as he walked past the old lighthouse.  He stopped for a moment examining the broken windows and rotting boards and thought about the rumors he had heard.  The rumors about the old keeper who was long since dead haunting the area surrounding his precious lighthouse.  Also, there were stories telling of the phantom festival held on the land every full moon.  Of course, nobody believed the rumors; but they still stayed away from the lighthouse just in case.

 

Paul started walking again a little bit faster.  If there were any ghosts coming to the field, he wasn't going to be the welcoming committee.

 

Later, Paul talked to his friend Lara.

 

"I can see why that thing scares people," he commented.  "It looks like something out of a horror movie."

 

"I know," Lara agreed.  "Nobody will go any nearer than ten feet away from it.  They're all afraid of ghosts jumping out at them."

 

"I'm not scared of any fall-apart, half-rotten lighthouse," declared Bruce as he walked up to them.  He was the local tough guy, ad he made bets about how brave he was.

 

"I bet I could jump out and scare those little ghosts before they even knew what hit them."

 

"Yeah, right!" laughed Lara.  "You two probably couldn't even face going up there on a night with no moon,"  Bruce accused with a malicious smile.

 

"Sure, we could," came the defensive reply from Lara.  "Right, Paul?"

 

"Yeah.  We could stay up there on a full moon!"

 

" I bet," snorted Bruce.  "You'd probably run off screaming before you even got there.  We'd never see you again."

 

"We would not!"

 

 

"I'll bet you my new stereo that you won't stay in the lighthouse all night on a full moon," Bruce challenged.

 

"You're on!" agreed Lara.  "In fact, I'll bet you my CD player."

 

"And I'll bet my leather jacket," Paul added.

 

"Alright then, the bet's on.  Next full moon's tomorrow.  See you by the lighthouse at six."

 

"We'll be there," Lara said.

 

The moment after Bruce left, they realized what they had just done.  They had said they would stay all night at the lighthouse.  With  a look at each other, they resigned themselves to their fate.  At the appointed time the next night, they arrived at the lighthouse with heavy hearts and nervous minds.

 

"So you showed up.  Didn't think you'd have the guts to do it," Bruce called to them.

 

"Can we just get on with it?" asked Paul with a tired voice.

 

"Sure.  You just go inside, and I'll lock the door."

 

"Lock the door!" cried Lara.

 

"Of course, how else am I going to know if you stay in there or not.  Now get moving," Bruce ordered gruffly.

 

"We're going."

 

Lara and Paul stepped through he foreboding doorway and winced when they heard the click of the lock.  They found their way to an open space and turned on the flashlights they brought with them.  Also, Paul found an old oil lamp that he lit.  they both were restless.  Something was wrong.  The place was too open, like someone had been living in it.  It didn't look anything like a rundown, hundred year old lighthouse should look.  Suddenly, a roar echoed through the silence. 

 

"Who are you?" it asked in a malicious voice.  Lara and Paul jumped up and huddled together, shining their lights all over in an attempt to find the speaker.

 

"Who ar you?" the voice repeated.  Paul flashed his light up the stairs and screamed when it landed on the face of an old man.  The man shut his eyes quickly, yelping in pain.  His hands went up to his eyes, and lost his hold on the railing.  He tumbled down the winding stairway and landed with a thud at the foot of the last stair.

 

Paul hesitantly went to him and ventured a question.  "Are you all right, uh, sir?"

 

"No, no.  Get out!  Leave me alone with my misery," came the mumbled reply.

 

Paul frowned at the cryptic answer and asked, "What do you mean?"

 

The man struggled to get up and eyed Lara and Paul warily.  With a sigh he replied, "If you tell me who you are and what you're doing here, I'll answer that question.

 

The two nodded their heads eagerly and sat back down at the man's invitation.

 

"Now," he began. "Who are you?"

 

"I'm Lara; this is Paul," said Lara with a nod in Paul's direction.  She related the story of the bet, and she secretly wondered about the old man as he smirked at the mention of Bruce's name.

 

"So you have to stay here all night, do you?" questioned the old man.  He got two very nervous nods for an answer. 

 

"Well, don't worry.  There are no ghosts around here but one."

 

"W- what do y- you mean, one?" Paul stuttered.

 

"I mean just one, my wife."  He pointed to a picture of a young woman.  "I am the owner of this lighthouse, you see.  Your friend Bruce's grandfather, Brad, and I were always fighting over Sarah," he reflected, indicating the young woman in the picture.

 

"You're the old owner!" gasped Lara.  "But you're dead.  Well, you're supposed to be dead."

 

The old man laughed lightly.  "Oh, yes.  I put those rumors out after.... well, I won Sarah after all, and we had a good marriage.  Brad was always jealous though, and he took advantage of his position.  He was the only doctor in town, and when the big epidemic of tuberculosis came, he refused to treat us.  It passed and I survived, but.... Sarah had been weak and sickly since birth."

 

"What happened?" Paul half whispered.

 

"She was buried a week after she got it.  Anyway, I spread those rumors around to keep people away so I could be alone with my memories of Sarah."

 

"What happened to Bruce's grandfather?" Lara asked.

 

"Oh, he eventually asked me to forgive him, but I never did.  He could forget his guilt, but he could never give me back Sarah.  And so I've been here for .. for , oh, forty years I guess it's been."

 

"Forty years!  You've been here for forty years!" cried Paul.

 

  "Yes, and it's been a long forty years.  Although, I've often thought of leaving and rejoining society."

 

"Why don't you?" Lara shot back.  "A lot has changed in forty years.  Besides, Brad is dead as far as I know."

 

The old man stared into the darkness.  He sat like that for several minutes.  All the while, the room seemed to grow brighter to Paul and Lara.  Paul stood up and walked to a half-boarded up window.  He looked outside and gaped at the sight he saw.  It was morning.  Lara looked over his shoulder and smiled.  The old man followed.

 

"Congratulations!  You've won your bet," the old man said.

 

"We probably wouldn't have made it if you hadn't been here," confessed Paul.

 

He waved their thanks away.  As he climbed back up the stairs, Paul called up to him.

 

"Aren't you going to come back with us?"

 

"I'll think about it.  I'll tell you what.  You two come back here tonight, and I'll let you know."

 

"We'll be here," Lara replied.  The old man nodded and continued his climb.  Bruce unlocked the door and dropped the key when he saw Paul and Lara standing there looking very calm, too calm for people who had just spent a night with ghosts.  He had expected them to have beaten down a wall and run off screaming.

 

"B..b..but," he stammered.

 

"But nothing," Lara declared.  "We won.  Let's go get your stereo.  I mean, our stereo."

 

Lara and Paul walked away, and Bruce followed with a confused look on his face.  The two came back that evening.  Actually, they struggled back.  A fierce storm had started, and they fought to stay upright.  Just as they reached the field surrounding the lighthouse, a bolt of lightning struck the top of the building.  Paul and Lara cried out and looked away.  When they looked back, everything was gone.  The only thing that remained was a large pit of ashes.  They walked back home thinking sad thoughts about the man and wondering if he would have come out of hiding.

 

As the months passed, new rumors spread.  Rumors about how the ghosts and phantoms didn't want the lighthouse there anymore, so they took it back.  Bruce was especially confused.  He thought the ghosts had burned it because humans had desecrated it.  Everyone had his or her own theory about what happened to it, but Paul and Lara knew the truth.

 

 

 

                                                                                                         

 

Valerie Wappelhorst

Second place Poetry Creative Writing Contest 1994

 

As I lie here in the dark, the tears roll down my face.

I cannot stop thinking about how I long to be in her place.

Instead of me, you've chosen her to hold in your arms so

tight.  I wish things were like before; I wish with all my might.

We were so close and yet so far.  How I longed to see

your face, and now that longing grows stronger as I

yearn for that embrace.

I was jealous, I must admit, and I'm sorry for what I've

done.  But each tear that falls has your name on it:

every single one.

So every time I see you with her, it nearly breaks my

heart, to see that you're not mine; to see that we're apart.

And as I lie here writing this poem, the tears still falling fast,

I have to try to understand why we didn't last. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Extremes

J. R. Walker

 

Good and Evil

Order and Chaos

Light and Dark

God and Man

Power and Weakness

Wisdom and Ignorance

Logic and Emotion

Love and Hate

This is Life

 

 

 

The Dealing

Adam Enskat

 

Moving to the loudness of his ticking watch, he walked down the gray possessed avenue, which was drenched in water.  Rainy November days certainly had taken their tool on this particular stretch of Metropolis.

 

"Gripes, it's cold," he murmured to himself as he tried to cover his nearly raw infected ears with his chestnut brown slouch-hat.  The quiet rhythmic beat of his walk now turned sour by the crunching sound of broken glass.  Shards of crap all over the sidewalk, like it was meant to be there.  His wonderment of why, or how this annoying obstacle came to be was only drowned out by his casual glimpse of the now closed and rundown stores and restaurants.

 

After about five minutes of walking he reached his destination, a burnt colored tavern called the Silver Palm.  There was nothing special about its appearance.  The only marking to indicate that it ever existed was a six-foot tall iron hand that was bolted to the right front wall.  He walked over to examine it, while trying to shake the glass from his shoes.  The observation wasn't long, the hand was dirty and spray painted with obscene words, and the fact that someone had urinated just underneath it made his nostrils flinch.

 

Without a second thought he opened the double doors to the entrance.  A puff of stale, dusty wind flew into his face.  Covering his mouth with one hand he surveyed at a setting that was once familiar to him.  With all the words that could describe the place, "drab" was the one that smacked Matthew straight in the cranium, as he slowly entered the tavern.

 

The Palm was once a popular watering hole where big league stock-holders brought their fifty dollar whores to get high.  Now drunks just slumbered to a hall of dusty antique tables and dim lighting.

 

Matthew walked about ten yards to his favorite table, disregarding the idea of taking off his coat and hat.  He certainly didn't want to stay here any longer than he had to.  Ungracefully he slumped into a chair and stared at the entrance, waiting for his appointment... waiting for HIM.

 

Fifteen minutes passed and his eyes were now tired of staring at the door.  So he set his visual interest on something more pleasant.  Slowly he pulled his gold plated watch and chain from his left pants pocket and admired the shiny gleam it still had.  His fascination with his watch continued for a few moments causing him to miss the dark figure that waltzed in from behind.

 

"Mr. Matthew Markins, I presume?" stated the figure.  Almost simultaneously, Matthew jerked out of his chair and turned his body towards the shadowy figure.

 

"You startled me," Matthew exhaled as he mechanically put his watch back into his pocket.

 

"I don't have very much time, Mr. Markins.  So if you don't mind can we just forget the formalities and get on with the transaction?"  said the figure as he walked past a dying potted plant and moved in and out of the shadows that seemed to fit him like clothing.

 

"Yeah, fine by me," said Matthew, now calm and more relaxed.

 

The two examined each other skeptically as they both moved towards a table.  Matthew was surprised by what he saw, the figure was a tall, slender gentleman approximately sixty or seventy years old.  He possessed a face that looked over-worked and tired.  His countenance was only complemented by his sparsely spread gray hair and small long beard that ended in two points.  He carried an ebony colored briefcase which exactly matched his worn out three piece suit.

 

Before they sat down, the gentleman stretched out his bony hand towards Matthew.  Reluctantly Matt shook his hand.  It wasn't a pleasant experience, the wrinkled hand was unbelievably cold and when the embrace was over, the old man's uneven jagged fingernails accidentally scrapped Matthew's index finger.  The old gentleman stared at Matt's hand apologetically as he opened his briefcase and got ready for business.

 

Minutes passed as he flipped through his documents and it was the old man who finally got the ball rolling.  "I need to see your papers please, Mr. Markins," the black clothed man said with a slight grin.  "Yeah, sure.... Hey, listen, what else do I have to do to get this over with?" questioned Matt as he ran his fingers through his moused hair.

 

"I just need to ask you just a few questions, I always ask a few questions during my dealings, it makes the situation seem warmer," breathed the gentleman.  Matt just snickered, this moment was a lot of things, but warm it was not.

 

"Where were you born?"

 

"Kansas City, I think," whispered Matt.

 

"Not too sure about anything anymore are you?"

 

"No, I'm not, look are you about done because..."

 

"No, I am not done and I would not try to hurry this if I were you.  For the way I see it your future does not look very promising and this might be the only enjoyable event you might have for a long time," angrily interrupted the gentleman.

 

Matthew just nodded his head slowly as if he had finally come to the realization of how trapped he really was.

 

"Have you any friends or family, Mr. Markins?" said the elder with a raised eyebrow.

 

"Ah.. no, no," hastened Matt, "my parents died when I was eight."

 

"Did you ever indulge yourself with any of the female species?"

 

With this Matt just spurted out a chuckle, "Yeah, sure I got laid a couple of times, what's the matter is that too morally incorrect for you or something?"

 

"Not at all Mr. Markins, I have no say in what you did and t be perfectly honest I don't really care," explained the elder.

 

Matt just stared at him, what was supposed to ve only a few minutes now seemed an eternity.  Maybe this was the way things are done now, and maybe now he was going to have to get used to it.

 

"Now to wrap things up," the gentleman raised his head, "I have only one more question to ask.  It says here that you used hazardous mind exploration chemicals during the last few months.  Do you remember that?"

 

"Wha--what are you talking about?"

 

"It also says that you overdosed on a particular type called cocaine last Monday."  The old man said as he turned a piece of paper towards Matt for his observation.

 

"Did I ?"  Matthew exclaimed as he shakily put is hands on his face.

 

"Yes, you did, now here."  The gentleman hurriedly gave him a pen and motioned for Matt to sign the paper.

 

"What if I don't sign?"

 

"Well, there are always a few that never sign, but all they do is wander around looking for a place to belong and a purpose.  That is what I do, Mr. Marking, I give people a purpose.  Right after they venture into the other side they have a purpose.  It can differ from damnation to exaltation, but it is still a purpose."

 

It was with this that Matthew started to sign the paper, but before he got to the letter "r" in Marking, his index finger fell off.  There was no pain, in fact, Matthew felt a little rush. 

 

Matthew raised his damaged hand to his face, there was no blood at the decapitation point, only a flaky, gray dust that flicked down his palm.

 

"Wha...what the...but why?"

 

"Oh, you'd better get used to that Mr. Marking," smiled the elder, "Don't worry about it.  It also appears that I am finished with you now, you may leave if you like."

 

Matthew started to walk towards the double doors.

 

"I am sure that there is someone waiting at the entrance, ready to escort you on your way."

 

This statement made Matthew turn his head around and glance at the man one last time.

 

The gentleman was pulling out a long brown cigar from his right breast pocket.  "Oh, by the way," voiced the old man, "just leave your soul by the door, I'll come for it later."

 

 

 

 

 

Goodbye Eighth Grade

Jeff Brodzinski

Third place Poetry Creative Writing Contest 1994

 

Goodbye eighth grade,

it has all been fun.

      Ninth grade is calling,

I have got to run.

The games were great,

the band was cool.

How I sure will hate,

to leave this school.

My classes were filled,

with learning lectures and fun

And I was filled with homework

when each one got done.

I'd walk down these halls,

to my next hour's class

And if I were late,

I would pray for a pass.

The cafeteria was smelly,

with a quaint little charm

But, I watched out for the food,

it could do me harm.

My locker was small

and jammed full of trash.

So every time it opened,

it would all go crash.

Some teachers were helpful,

but others could be cruel,

And some would just sit there,

simply and drool.

The homework was hard,

as hard as can be.

But I'd find the answers,

with my trusty answer key.

Well, the weeks went by quickly,

the months went by fast.

And each day at school,

became a great blast.

Now, I see it's all over,

my classes are through.

My friends have all gone,

and now I must too.

So, goodbye eighth grade,

it's all been fun

Ninth grade is calling,

And I've got to run.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Under The Rug

Eric Foiles

 

It had been two weeks before, when he had first encountered it.  He had spent countless since, thinking, praying that the answer night come to him.  All in vain.  His problem, truly shrouded in mystery, lay just beyond his grasp.  Much like the one that got away, had just escaped the grasp of the angler.  Sleepless nights.  Wakeless morns, spreading painfully into late nights.  Had anyone ever had torture such as this.  He thought maybe Job had, but even that was pushing the truth.  No, he recanted, he would much rather have a thousand plagues befall him, than go through this misery.  What Job saw, he saw with God.  He believed God had long since exited stage left.  He cried.  One step away from the inevitable death of his mind, and the raising of complete mental anarchy.  He thought pityingly to himself, that his rejection of God, was his last shred of rational thought, crumbling toward total decimation. 

 

He sat.  Looking blankly at the walls for guidance.  He prayed to no one in particular, Alah, Moses, it no longer mattered.  He was a broken man.  A successful accountant, with more than enough credentials to satisfy even the most scrupulous of clients.  This meant nothing now.  A broken man had only one title, and it isn't successful.  All because of evil he no longer knew he believed in.

 

It warped him.  It had twisted him, much in the same way a small child will twist something, just to test its limits.  It left him marked.  Mentally scarred.  It held him by his curiosity, drew him by his fear, punished him with his own feelings of insecurity.  It toyed with him, but no longer truly needed him.  Had it ever?  Now his life was only a figment of his imagination, wholly real, and yet, wholly intangible.  Now it remained only a selfish act of self pity.  It had ling ago gotten bored with him, but knew no other way to satisfy its feelings of regret.  Whether he wanted it there or not was not the point, it needed to be completely fulfilled.

 

He had tried everything to take his mind off it.  He had even tried writing a journal.  His record collection had been sorted at least seven or eight times, not that it mattered.  His record player lay smashed at the foot of the basement stairs.  He fancied that just before he had hurled the poor piece of machinery to its now final resting place, it had spoke up in protest, begged to be put back in its proper place.  He had disregarded this as his stress playing with the remaining shreds of his mind.  His small apartment reeked of alcohol.  Bottles lay about the floor like crystalline stalagmites that had lost their sense of direction.  He cannot remember where they had all come from.  Surely no mortal could drink all that.  His left over newspapers had all been read and reread again and again.  They had been sorted, stacked, counted, along with his journal, al a makeshift offering to an unknown god.  He had tried many various mental exercises to alleviate the struggle, writhing falsehoods his mind was beginning to except as absolute truths.  He had painted his bedroom with a half empty bottle of Pepto-Bismal, and ravished his apartment from top to bottom.

 

All this pain and suffering was the product of an accident.  It had taken its form in the shape of a small blemish, an imperfection unnoticeable to one at a single glance.  What may have been an untimely warping of a floorboard, was now a screaming hellspawn to those who listened.  He had listened, many times, truly listened to what it had to say.  It all came down to the same thing.  It was after his sanity.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tienne Churan

 

Little moonlight could escape through the forests vaulted ceiling.  That which did, spread as a silvery snake along the dry river bed.

 

From darkness sprang the contorted figures of shadows that collected in masses wherever the serpent lead.  On and on, it slithered through he empty canyon.  It's scaly body, outlined by the high tree branches, twisted and turned through the parched ground.

 

Sometimes it would creep up the canyons eroded sides to peek out onto the tangled forest floor.  As it always was, the night was still and hot.  The icy serpent ran as a shiver up the canyons spine.  It glided over gnarled roots and fallen trees.  Up and up it twisted.  It's smooth white belly gliding ruthlessly over the dried carcass of a rat, as if daring any others to enter his domain, and share in the decaying creature's fate.

 

 

Music: A Four Poem Piece

Adam Born

 

The light spills from under the door

And the sweet music pours through the window

As I sit and listen to the harmony

That they play

 

The sweet music

Pours through he open window

Into my ears

Like water into a cup

And my mind fills with peaceful harmony

 

Music is pure emotion

Poured out of a person's

Soul

Into the waiting ears of the listeners

 

It's a love of music

That gives emotion

To the mind of the beholder

 

Music can heal

The poor in emotion

And create an eternal

Power into their soul

That lasts forever

 

An Untitled Work

Tim Read

 

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------   Space is a vacuum.  A cold abyss, and a nearly endless void.  The vastness of this place is nothing short of incomprehensible to the mind.

For centuries, man has contemplated the existence of other sentient life forms, and with the short-sightedness of the space programs, man has dismissed their existence.

How can this be?  With billions of stars the void of our universe must be populated by other life forms.  This story is nothing more than a fictional expedition in a futuristic Earth, a futuristic Universe, and a time in which sentient life forms in contact with us.

       -November 20, 1994

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Earth, 2394

 

A young man pored over his data unit, intently reading of the expeditions of the great explorers.  Columbus, Magellan, Armstrong, Aldrin, and Prozallier.  Prozallier, possibly the most shortsighted of the few, was the first man to break the speed of light.  Traveling blindly to another star system, he encountered an alien race, and had brought two things upon the human race.  The first, and most beneficial, was the curiosity of the aliens.  They equipped this explorer with implants, and information on their race.  The other thing that he had brought upon man was an intense state of xenophobia. Man was now afraid of anything not from their own country, must less planet.

 

The Martian colonies had gone into economic turmoil, and then the entire west coast of the U.S. was destroyed in the great quake of 2123.  After this, Earth's core began a process of reforming the face of the earth.  With this heightened period of seismic activity, many people fled Earth.  The logical choice of destination was the Lune Colonies, a Spartan installation on the moon.  Others still want to IO, Callisto, and Deimos.  With the advanced terraforming techniques, Callisto had become a manageable sphere.  Certainly not a splendor like Earth, Callisto was still the closest thing mankind had found to Earth with the advent of advanced terraforming.

 

The young man marvelled at the advances of mankind, and then set down his data unit.  Falling into a slumber, he was poised for any call to duty.  This man was a member of the American Continent Fighter Assault Wing. (ACFAW).  ACFAW was an organization sworn to eliminate the last few European fighters that remained.  This was due to the intense fear of the Eastern Wars of 2011-2045.  In this war, Europe destroyed half of Asia with a thermonuclear warhead.  The war quickly went downhill, with the surprise assassinations of the British Prime Minister, the German Chancellor, and the Prime Minister of Australia.

 

The ACFAW wingleader of this man's combat outfit was a charismatic redhead named Mariann Tory.  A genius in her own right, she also gave her squadron the care a mother would give her children.  She was 24 years old, and was a highly valued asset to the Tac Corps.  She had been rumored to have turned down the command of a dreadnought from the Alliance of Free Planets.

 

Short of what her record said, not many knew of her past.  She was outgoing, but was still very mysterious.  All that most people knew was that she was a pure Italian, but lived in Britain during her formative years, spoke fluent German, but her English was marked by an upper-class British accent.  She was given totally self-running wing of the ACFAW, as she had a mind for strategy.

 

Suddenly, in the man's cockpit, the scramble light went on.  He jerked upward in his seat, turned on a video link, and then proceeded to listen to the instructions Mariann gave.

 

"Alex," she said, "I know how much flying TC would mean to you.  Unfortunately, I cannot give you this position in today's mission.  You will fly on my wing, but are free to go.  It is only formation on takeoff, attack, and landing.  If we are attacked, you are clear to break formation."

 

Alex responded, "Yeah, I figured that one, sir.  Well, I'll power up engines.  We're the only ones out today, right?"

 

"Aside front he AFP ships, and any opposition, yeah."

 

"Good.. Still, I don't like the AFP ships.  Too big, and they're armed to the teeth."

 

"I hear you.  Well, power up.  We launch in three."

 

Almost in a trance, the young man started up his engines and ran through he pre-flight checklist.  He also did something else that was customary.  He mentally recited his will, "I, Alex Lefken, being of sound mind and body, do hereby, etc. etc."

 

Alex felt the pounding of the engines, and then brought them to an idle, as he raised the fighter off the deck of their carrier.  Quickly, his engines powered up, and he pointed his fighter at about a 45 degree angle to break hold of the Earth's atmosphere.  He remembered to go by callsigns now, since he was in a heavily trafficked area.

 

"Death Wish to Hellfire, we have two AFP's behind us, advise on my clearance," said Alex.

 

"Starfire here.  You are to check transponder codes, get an all clear, and then prepare to go to Phobos.  Supposedly some terrorist group is threatening to take out half of Mars," responded Mariann.

 

"Insane Zealots.  Transponder codes check, let's hit full speed, I'm itching to take out some Zealots."

 

"Funny, just keep alert.  We're go for Phobos now.  Punch cruise velocity."

 

"Roger that, I'm on my way."

 

Ten minutes later, their sensors picked up the first ship.  Alex saw the characteristic Zealot markings.  This was a circle imposed over an octagon, both being green.  The ship had a delta-wing profile, with the exception of two mounds raising out of the front of the ship.  One of these mounds was the cockpit.  The other was a weapons storage space.  The Zealots would vary the placement of the two.  Since their species did not view human's viewing range, their cockpits were totally black.  The other mound was painted to a similar color.

 

Routine procedure was followed.  This procedure consisted of four phases.  Contact, Identify, Arm, Destroy.  Right now, Alex was arming his missiles.  He locked on to get his first shot, when suddenly the void lit up with a brilliant green light.

 

"What was that!?  I've never seen anything like that!  Any ideas, Starfire?"

 

"For crying out loud, Sherlock, just smoke those freaks!"

 

"That's what I love about you, Starfire.  You don't mince words."

 

"Shut up and shoot, flyboy."

 

"Roger that"

 

Alex armed his first dumbfire missile, got behind the Zealot, and shot his ship.  The ship shuddered, and went through a standard explosion process.  All seemed well, until the ship started lighting up at the structural junctions.

 

" Sherlock, get  out of there!"

 

           "On my way."

 

Alex punched the throttle to emergency, and shot out of the explosion radius just before the structure collapsed and the Zealot ship exploded.  The sky was lit with a shower of sparks and flaming debris, and then all was dark again.

 

Mariann said over the radio, "Great shot, bud.  Now let's figure out what that shot was."

 

 

"Well, I have a guess what it was."

 

"And it was a...?"

 

"Easy.  It was a weapon meant for destruction."

 

Nice call, Sherlock Lefken.  Adjust course for a standard survey, then we're going home."

 

"Roger that.  Heading is now five mark three-three-oh."

 

"Good.  Maintain radio silence, Sherlock."

 

The rest of the patrol was very quiet.  Too quiet, Alex marvelled.  The only thing that this could mean was that Zealots were moving out of this sector, or the off chance that they were quartering arms for a major offensive.  Shuddering, Alex put this thought out of his mind, and let the auto landing pull him in.

 

 

 

 

 

Black Nites

Sarah Cook

 

                    I dream a coming of a day

                         a day so new, so full, so bright

                    of summer winds and whispering trees

                         and every moment mine

                    I dream a coming of a day

                         a day so old, so gnarled, so torn

                    of forgotten lives and agonies cried

                         slipped forever from my grasp

                    I dream a coming of a day

                         a day so strange, so odd, such fright

                    of dying in winter and living in spring

                         and falling to winter again

                    I dream a coming of a day

                         this day I dream about

                    its scattered themes and shattered thoughts

                         only to be dreamed again.

 

 

 

 

 

Weaver of Dreams

Heather Dix

 

Weaver of dreams, weave into me,

Everything you want me to be.

Allow my hands to work for You,

 Use them to write what You want them to.

Through my verses, let me show,

Your almighty power, so all may know.

The talent I have, in all that I do,

Comes not from me, but only from you.

 

 

 

 

 

The Key

Adam Born

 

I seek

what many find,

but I cannot find

it.

because I search with my body

and not with my soul.

I ask

Why? Where is it?

and a voice

known to all

speaks.

my son

you look

for what you seek

as one.

you can find nothing

as one

but as many you will find

the key you seek

to unlock the door

go search my son

as many

but I did not know

the meaning of the voice's words

I searched as one

and died

 

as I passed

 the River of Peace

 I asked

Why? I don't understand

let me find the key

to unlock the door

the voice answered

as it had

 so many years before

my son

listen

for I shall tell you

once more

 so that you may find

the key

you must search for what you seek

as many

and as many

you shall find

 the key

and unlock the door

I still did not understand

the words

that were spoken

I passed

back to life

and I continued

to search

then I spoke

 to my friend

 who had helped me

 before

I told him my story

 and he spoke

I do not

understand the words

that were spoken

to you

but let us search together

 I will seek

what you seek

because we are friends

 we began our search

 and found

the key

 

to unlock the door

 and for the first time

 since the voice spoke

unto me

I understood

the words

 and now

as you search

search as many

for together

you will find

the key

of friendship

which unlocks the door

to happiness.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Creative Writing Club

Table of Contents

 

 

                        1993..........................................Heather Dix

                      The Old Lighthouse...................Megan Cook

                   An untitled poem.......................Valerie Wappelhorst

                   Extremes...................................J. R. Walker

                   The Dealing...............................Adam Enskat

                   Goodbye Eighth Grade..............Jeff Brodzinski

                   Under the Rug...........................Eric Foiles

                   Music: A Four Poem Piece........Adam Born

                   An untitled description................Tienne Churan

                   An Untitled Work........................Tim Read

                   Black Nites.................................Sarah Cook

                   Weaver of Dreams.....................Heather Dix

                   The Key......................................Adam Born

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

            Metro-East Lutheran High School

                    Creative Writing Club

                                1995