The Sound of Silence
Is there ever really silence in a room?
There’s always something.
Birds chirping outside, cicadas harmonizing along,
A dryer or a washer spinning on its cycle.
But I heard none.
Sweat overtook my hands.
My thoughts ran about, panicking, while one stood still.
How can something be filled with nothing?
If it can at all?
The absence had me by the throat.
The blood rushed to my head.
And I exploded.
The sound of silence was thick, and it filled the room like honey.
It choked me with its absence.
Some find silence peaceful, as an escape from their noise filled life.
Not me.
Then the mirror of silence cracked.
I heard, no, I felt a beat
As if someone was playing the drums in the neighboring room.
I felt it deep in my chest, gaining intensity by the second.
It shook through my veins like a storm,
Not flashing lightning or hail,
But like deep, rolling thunder.
Then I felt it in my forehead
It spread to my neck,
then my legs
and all the way down to my toes.
It was not an inanimate pulse.
It signalled that life was prominent.
But who? I was alone.
The only soul in that room was me.
It rushed, pulsated, elevated.
I needed to be still.
Air forced itself into my lungs
And I tried my best to slow it
On its way out.
With each breath, the tempo faded
Not at once, but some at a time.
As if a tiny child was picking at it
Like they would do with their dinner.
And the silence overtook again
But this time, instead of recoiling from the absence,
I allowed myself to be still.
Who am I to Judge?
Judgement is not honesty.
Who am I to judge
When I myself walk imperfectly?
There is never rational judgement.
Judgement only occurs in vain.
One cannot comment on how
Another chooses to express themselves,
Without reflecting on themselves
Whether they are looking with disgust or with pride
So who am I to judge another,
When I should place my judgement
On myself?
I judge people for their flaws,
When I myself, have my own.
My Body is a Temple
My mind is like a house–
With many doors locked.
Truths I don’t want to face again.
My past haunts me.
My heart is like a mountainous region–
Difficult to scale.
But once you reach the summit,
The view is priceless.
My legs are like a single mother–
Tired and overworked, worn thin.
Aching for even a second of rest.
My hair is like glowing fields of wheat–
Always swaying in the wind.
Until the farmers come to harvest,
It will always regrow.
My eyes are like oceans–
Deep and mysterious.
Urging you to jump in and explore.
My lips are like a worn book.
Cracked and torn,
Read aloud one time too many.
Never refurbished.
My voice is like a Horned Lark–
A bird with a delicate song.
High-pitched, sometimes obnoxious.
My body is a temple–
Messy but simple.
Easy to enter if you have the key.
Kidnapped
As I sit here on the wet concrete floor, I go over the facts I know in my mind. One: I am trapped in a room with a concrete floor, concrete walls, and a concrete ceiling. Two: My hands are tied above my head with a rope that painfully gouges me every time I move. Three: I did not kill Howard Owensworth.
One moment I was sitting in my empty bedroom, brainlessly channel surfing my old television. I was exhausted but couldn’t shut my eyes to sleep. The next, two husky men had knocked down my door and held me by the arms, leading me out of my own apartment as if I had broken into their apartment.
Kicking and screaming, They lewdly jostled me into a matte black limousine, bruising every inch of my pale, uncovered skin. I shrieked with might, hoping someone on the busy sidewalk would see and intervene, or at least call the police, but not one soul even bat an eye at the alleged kidnapping transpiring in front of them. It’s like everything that was occurring was invisible to them, insignificant.
I was expecting to be thrown into a trunk filled with corpses or sharp unidentifiable weaponry. Instead, I was thrown onto a cushioned, velvety backseat, polished clean. There was a wall between me and the front seat. The two other men slammed the door once I was in and disappeared. Maybe into the front seat, I assumed.
A millisecond passed before we thrusted forward. With the unexpected force, I was jerked forward towards the wall and hit it. Hard. “Ouch,” I whispered.
I don’t know how long we drove for. My mind was racing through all of the possibilities. The license plate was from a different state and was just a series of numbers. It was dark outside, so the men were indistinguishable.
It could’ve been an hour, maybe five minutes. Without a clock or a timer, time isn’t measurable without counting, and I was not in the mindspace for math. Time stands still when disasters like this one happen. Seconds take days. If I was kidnapped, how would I be able to tell how far away we were?
Then it hit me. My alarm clock read 12:23 am when I was taken. If there’s a clock when we arrive wherever we’re going, maybe I’ll know how far away it is. That is, if I can remember that.
Then our pace slowed and stopped gracefully, unlike our departure.
*
The men opened my door and I got a better look at them. The largest man’s head gleamed. His face was square and chiseled. He wore sunglasses like those you see in spy movies. His suit fit snugly around his prominent muscles. His face showed no emotion, not even anger. It’s almost like he was robotic.
The other man was slightly smaller and shorter. His skin was light brown, and his hair was slicked to the side. I could tell on a day where he wasn’t working that he would be the type of guy to wear his hair messy. He wasn’t as muscular as the other man, sort of pudgy, but still fit. His face wasn’t as chiseled and wasn’t as emotionless. His expression was still serious, but there was a sense of professionalism. He had the same sunglasses and the same suit.
I knew that I stood no chance against running or fighting. I would die before I could beat them in a fight or a race. So I cooperated. I obeyed. They swung me out of the car and it drove away. We were in a parking lot in the middle of nowhere. It was still nighttime and the moon had not appeared to move. There was light coming from somewhere, but I didn’t dare turn around.
The bigger man held my arms tightly against myself, but when I didn’t struggle, his grip let up. The man tied a cloth around my eyes, tightly. I let him. The men spun me around and led me to what I expected to be a building. And I let them. Lots of walking, blindly. They never gave instructions like, “Step right,” or “Curb coming up.” They just juggled me around. I tripped but never fell.
I noticed that we went down a large flight of stairs. I struggled for a few minutes. The men were growing annoyed, so they roughly carried me the rest of the way. Their muscular hands dug into the pocket between my hips and my ribs.
Then we stopped. I was pushed down, probably by the men. I fell for a second, but then I hit a chair. I heard heavy footsteps and then a door slam which made me jump a bit. As much as a very dangerous situation I was in, I wasn’t scared or nervous. Mostly focused. My mind was calm and alert. Trying to collect as much information as I could.
I heard very subtle, muffled voices. They were mostly men, but there seemed to be at least one woman there. They conversed for a second, and then came back in silently. Someone untied my blindfold and lifted it off of my face. I wasn’t exactly expecting the environment I was in.
The room I was in was completely concrete. Floor to ceiling. A singular light bulb was installed at the top of the elevated ceiling, slightly illuminating the room. I was sitting in a desk chair, slightly cushioned but not enough to be comfortable. There was a table with a folder placed on it in front of me. On the other side of the table was a woman I’d never seen before.
She was young. Maybe my age, about eighteen. She had ebony loose waves that flowed down to the bottom of her ribs, framing her face. She had a very slim frame. Her face was full of youth, but she had dark purple circles under her tired, olive eyes. It looked as if she’d been crying. The woman was staring daggers into my soul, like she was planning to murder me or something.
I wasn’t going to say anything, so we just sat in silence until the men left. The door slammed and almost instantly she spoke. Her voice was full of pain and anger, craving revenge. “You killed my father.” I definitely wasn’t expecting that. Questions filled my head. Confusion spread across my face. Who’s her father? Who even is this girl? Why does she think I killed her father? Did they really have to kidnap me? What the –
“Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about. You were jealous of him, so you killed him. You want everything that he has. Stop lying! Why are you lying?” Her voice was rising by the second. “I-I’m sorry, I don’t–” I started to say before I was (rudely) interrupted by her. “Don’t lie to me, Sloane.” She was still harsh, but not as hysterical. I am so confused. How does she know who I am? I’ve never seen this girl in my life.
“Who are you?” I ask. She looks almost taken aback. “Fine, if we’re going to play dumb, I’ll play along. My name is Stephanie Owensworth. My father, Howard Owensworth, was killed one week ago today, on July 10th. He was murdered by someone that was jealous of the army he’s composed. That person is you. The entire evidence is there.” Evidence? “May I ask to see the evidence?” I pushed. Surely she’s crazy. I mean, I can barely lift a jug of milk with grunting, let alone kill a guy. Without talking, she opened the folder on the table and pulled out a specific picture, turning it towards me. It was two identical fingerprints next to each other. “We have the fingerprints found on the weapons. That’s this one.” She pointed to the one on the right. “These are your fingerprints.” She pointed to the other. “We put them through a scanner. Identical. Perfect match.”
“That doesn’t-” I started to say, but was interrupted yet again. “You were also spotted a mile away from the crime scene eight minutes from when it happened, running for your life. Wearing all black.” This doesn’t make any sense. I didn’t do anything. I don’t even know who Howard Owensworth is.
“We know you did it. There’s nothing you can say or do that would convince us otherwise,” she spat with smugness. “Then why am I here? Just to confront me?” I retorted.
Just then the door was forcefully opened and the two men from before grabbed me by the arms once again, not caring to put the blindfold back.
They led me through hallways made of concrete and steel. Our footsteps echoed in my ears. Get information, I kept repeating mentally. Surely if I can do that, once I get out of here, I can get justice. They can’t do this to me! Libraries, offices, and torture rooms flashed by me. My fear rose and my thoughts became quick despite my efforts to slow them down. But I still couldn’t do anything. If I just cooperate, maybe, just maybe, they’ll let me go home, free.
Finally we got to a room, and they quickly tied my hands above my head. Now I’m here. Alone, hungry, and scared, and knowing that I am a liar. And that I had you all convinced.
Casserole
I always used to tell people that I loathed casserole. I would say, “Good flavors on their own don’t always make a good combination.” I still stand by that, of course. But sometimes things taste horrible apart and heavenly together.
One evening, my mother said something she says about three times a week: “I’m trying a new casserole. I think you’ll like it!” Disappointment overtook me. Although I didn't like casserole, I tried to hide my negativity. “Zucchini and Chicken Casserole!” my mother had said as she set it on the dining room table. I couldn’t suppress the disgust that spread across my face. My nose crinkled and I frowned. “Mom, I don’t like zucchini. Or chicken.” She told me to give it a try. So, I tried my hardest to clear my mind and shoved a spoonful of casserole into my mouth.
My life had changed.
Flavors exploded in my mouth. The chew of the zucchini, the crunch of the breaded onions, the chicken, the mysterious sauce. I still don’t know what’s in that sauce. But I don’t care. I only want more. I need more.
My eyes widen, wide as saucers. I shovel the dish into my mouth as if it’s about to disappear. I can’t get enough. My family watched me in shock, particularly my mother, who had this look on her face that said, “I told you so.” But I couldn’t be annoyed with her, because she did.
From that day on, whenever my mother asked me, “What do you want for supper?” or, “What food would you like to have for your birthday?” I would always tell her that I wanted her famous Zucchini casserole.
I don’t judge new things before I try them now, even if I know I won’t like them. That casserole opened my eyes that day, quite literally. I’m less picky about my food now. That casserole made me a better person overall.
“Driving From The Vet” by David Cazden, Passages North, Issue 34, 2013.
Reviewing the poem, “Driving From the Vet,” by David Cazden was a daunting task for there is so much to unfold. This poem was particularly special to me because my own pet unfortunately passed away back in November of 2024. “Driving From the Vet,” deals with loss and grief, which makes it extremely impactful.
This poem is about the narrator's thoughts while driving home from the vet’s office where his kitten was put to his eternal sleep. On the box containing the baggie of ash is a condolence card. On the cart is a cartoon kitten, and the narrator points out that the cartoon kitten won’t move–his paws will always be curled, and he will always be half asleep. The compares it to the narrator's kitten who also won’t ever uncurl his claws again and won’t ever wake up from his slumber. Also on the card are signatures of vets and vet techs, strangers to the narrator. He compares the ink clinging onto the cardstock to patches of earth spreading out thin roots into cracks towards an open field. Possibly, the field could symbolize some sort of after-life that the kitten now resonates in.
Cazden also compares the ashes to the color of a November day, gray and depressing, just as how the narrator is most likely feeling. The narrator says that he will put his kitten’s ashes into his drawer, which I found confusing at first because I felt it diminished the importance of the loss the narrator just experienced. I came to the conclusion that the narrator isn’t ready to take on the importance of his kitten being lost, and that the narrator is in a sense of denial, as he doesn’t talk much about his feelings in the poem.
The poem is structured in three-line stanzas and Cazden never actually finishes his sentence in a singular line or a singular stanza. I find that this symbolizes jumbled thoughts that run into one another.
This poem hit close to my heart and made me think about my personal experiences that relate to this poem. David Cazden does a phenomenal job at impacting the reader and making them feel what he feels. I would recommend this poem to any reader as it is very easy to understand.