Alexis Englund 2018

Poem:    "Escape"

Poem:    "People"

Poem:    "Water"

Poem:    "Fire"

Story:     "Sweet Lilies"

Story:     "Frigid"




You can’t escape;

this world has its hooks in,

holding us prisoner.

Vile actions bind us here.

Search as you will,

there is no exit.

The world hides its true nature

in a shroud of riches.










People are hideous creatures.

We lie,


and curse.

Forever tied to our sins,

we wander and search for vindication.

We squander our short lives with pleasure.

Not knowing where to go,

with death impending,

we struggle for enlightenment.









Dripping tears

cascade down her face.

Glowing in the moonlight,

dark tides create murky shadows.

The deeper she sinks,

briny liquid fills her lungs.

She'll struggle but

she won't drown alone.










Flames are the sunset signaling the end.

They burn through the night,

glide through the darkness

in flare of light, a sea of flames.








Sweet Lilies

        The fragrance of stagnant water with sweet water lilies fills my senses. This place is warm to me. Billowing tree limbs flurry around, creating a canopy of comfort. Humming saturates the air as a mockingbird begins to warble. Allowing myself to taste the brisk air circulating around me, I rush forward. Giddiness fills me as I feel my heart pounding to the rhythm of my strides, short breaths ring in my ears. The tranquility is attractive, but it doesn’t last long.

        Screams in the distance call. Strides become leaps as I try to evade pursuers. Breathing grows into ragged, painful panting. The feeling is of sandpaper grating the throat.

        Hours upon hours of this leave me numb, detached. Collapsing onto the spongy turf, limbs like lead, I grip a fistful of the rough pasture. Ripping it up sends clods of soil springing out of the ground and soaring to elsewhere. My thoughts turned to him, but he’s gone now, never to return.









        Rubbing my thumb on the hilt of my blade, I shut my eyes. The bitter wind bites into my hands until they are a raw red. I try to coddle the fire back from ashes, burning my hands in the process. Silver tinfoil wraps around the last of my food. Swirling snow descends upon my head and settles. My teeth are chattering as I wrap my blanket tighter around me. My fingers slip and I cut myself on my blade. Fresh blood begins to drip onto the fresh powder beneath me; warmth pours through me, and I fall asleep.