Poem: False Optimism
Poem: The Pendulum
Poem: The Dead Tree
Story: Zombie Kid
Slam Poem: Yukon's Cherry Coke Phobia Experiment
Slam Poem: 13 Steps to Successfully Kidnap Someone
Group Poem: Melting Into Beauty
Screenplay: The Junebugs' Night Out
FALSE OPTIMISM
Originally appeared on KUVR’s Town Talk
“Do you see her over there?
Dancing in circles, lost in a trance?
A bluebell planted to assure
An owl ready to guide
A sculpted pearl
Meant to shine.”
do they not see it?
the cold, empty eyes
that fall when unseen
“An angel of joy,” they say
like that smile is joyful
strained beyond sane
listen to her
when words from the dark are spoke
She twists them til they glow
all to hide the whispering
begging to be heard
what is, what has
“It’ll surely work out.”
so she will fight and strangle
and choke and burn
until all she can cry,
is “Tomorrow, Tomorrow!”
with not one thought
of today
Today
THE PENDELUM
Inspired By The Trolley Problem
tick, tock, tick, tock
just get off the tracks
I’d scream
If the trolley wasn’t in my head
Those rats should know better
But they can’t,
They’re metal
tick, tock, tick
Mocking me
The lever in the center
Hanging rats by a thread
Giving me the scissors
It’s barely a decision,
Just a mocking of life
And of human nature
tick, tock
Wavering above the lever
Pull or leave, leave or pull
Strange how guilt’s what matters most
Not the lives ticking away in the center
Counting down to my final choice
passive or active
doesn’t change the end
tick
Screeching brakes,
Bloody glass
I won’t look out the window
I’ve created five nooses,
perhaps just one,
On account of indecision
I’ll stay in this trolley forever
Revisiting my morality
Questioning my sanity
But then, just faintly,
nothing
the Pendulum
has stopped
THE DEAD TREE
Have you seen the dead tree?
down at the end of the road?
It’s stood there, motionless
for as long as time itself
As far as anyone knows,
the tree never lived
“But why?”
A newcomer might ask,
“Why has no one tore it down?”
Well, the answer to that is simple:
the children
You see, one day,
no one is sure when,
the children began to climb the tree
Reaching with their soft, small hands
to be met with rough, rotting bark
At first, parents kept their children
from the old, dead tree
But, as time went on,
they began to notice
The way the branches curve
to embrace the children as they come
The way the leaves sing
using the breeze as a lullaby
The way the wood catches
the children before they fall
So, they kept coming
until the tree was less of a mark of death
and instead a sign of joy,
of laughter,
of hope
No, no one will ever tear
the dead tree down
For that decrepit, damaged, dead tree
is more of a protector for life
than life itself
ZOMBIE KID
In the dark, everything looks like a monster. As the forest stretches on, shadows craft ominous, smiling faces that watch from behind the leaves. Whistling wind mimics the sound of whimpering whispers, and I shiver in their presence. The branches of the trees twist, reaching out to grasp me. I push them away and continue on, ignoring the creatures my mind invents in the dark.
Finally, I reach the end of the forest. A great metal fence stands before me, wrapping around the outside of the cemetery. I walk beside it, dragging my hand along the metal bars. It’s not as cold as I thought it would be. Instead of the expected freezing touch, the metal is cool. Like the weather on a cloudy day. Eventually, I come to the entrance, a tall gate made of metal like everything else on the fence. Strange, sculpted wolves of stone sit positioned away from the gate, acting as watchdogs. A lock and chain holds the gate doors together, and keeps me from my brother.
I fish a paper clip out of my pocket and unfold it. I carefully insert the newly-made lockpick and begin to work at the lock. First attempt, the lockpick breaks after five seconds. Second attempt, it lasts for seven. Sighing, I realize this is going to take a while and mentally thank my anxiety for telling me to bring more paper clips. I finally get the lock open on the eighth attempt. The gate swings open with ease, and I step into the cemetery.
The gravestones are lined up in rows with ten gravestones per row. A rough gravel path cuts down the middle and wraps around the edges of the cemetery before reconnecting with the beginning of the path. There are a few scraggly trees that reach out onto the path. Slowly, I walk down the battered path until I come to the last row. On the right lies five gravestones adorned with flowers of all colors and notes from loved ones. Cautiously, I walk to the far right gravestone, the one with my brother’s name on it.
I stand there for a while, focusing on the flowers surrounding it. There’s the chrysanthemum Mom left for him last time, and the tulip Dad found in his garden. They’re all wilted now, but they’re easier to look at than the tombstone. The tombstone carved with my brother’s name. The tombstone that marks his resting place. My throat feels dry.
I swallow before kneeling in front of the tombstone. Gently, I run my fingers along the carved letters, reading the words I’ve forced myself to read many times. Clay Elijah Carnell. 2006-2022. The brightest flower in our garden. Dad chose those words in honor of Clay’s beloved flower garden. Honestly, he spent more time in that garden than with us. We couldn’t keep it alive after he left. I drop my hand and lay it on my knees.
“Hey, Clay.” I say, watching the yellow rose beside the grave, the flower I brought for him. Surprisingly, it has not wilted. “Sorry I haven’t visited you in a while. Life is troublesome as always.”
I smile and begin to run my finger through the dirt in circles. “As usual, school has been difficult, especially English.” I shake my head. “I swear, I can do Math and Science with my hands tied behind my back, but I can’t do English even if someone was writing for me. But don’t worry, Lola is always there to help me when I need it.”
I drop my gaze down to the circles I drew, sighing. I know what Clay would ask, if he were here, so I might as well answer him. “Dad’s drinking problem got worse. He keeps disappearing at night only to appear hungover at the front door early the next morning. And, of course, that would lead to a screaming match between Mom and him.”
I try to say it casually, but the underlying bitterness rises to the surface in my tone. I’d thought he was doing better. Heck, he’d even made it to my band concert last week. I suppose I was being too optimistic.
If I were anywhere else with anyone else, I would bury my growing fury. But here, with my brother, I know it doesn’t matter. Clay would probably agree with my anger if he were alive.