“It’s pouring, I love when its pouring. It’s like the sky is crying” I said. “Why is it crying? Maybe it just got over a break up with the moon”. I hear the voice coming across the wall of water falling and flooding the ground. I peered over to see a guy standing there. A black trench coat opened, black ripped skinny jeans, black sweater and tall white rain boots. “Oh, I didn’t know anyone was here.” The lamp post by us was radiating light making all the droplets look like white and yellow raindrops. The stranger spoke again “Yea, I always come here when it’s raining. But why do you like it when the sky cries?” I was baffled that someone wanted to talk to me. “I don’t know I feel like everyone is happy in their lives, but I’m always sad or depressed. So, when the sky cries I feel like something at least understands me.”

The stranger spoke again un-phased by my words. “That’s poetic, just like the coffee shop over there. With its autumn tone radiating through the cold.” “Yea that would be nice.” We walked into the coffee shop. It seemed old and rustic with books lining the walls. People sat on couches and drank coffee out of multiple different mugs. As we approached the counter a sign read “PICK A MUG”. The stranger picked one out. “This one is my favorite.” It was a jug shaped mug with that famous Japanese. painting of the wave on it. I seemed to be made from pottery. I picked out the mug that was simplistic with a thick black and grey line on it. “Mysterious” The stranger said. “Just like you” I told him. “He merely smiled.” We sat down at some chairs. “So, you just talk to random strangers?” “Not necessarily, you’re the weird one. Talking to yourself and being sad all the time.” I gave him a look, the look you give someone who just insulted your sister, the insult being slightly true. However, it did not come from you therefore it was mean.  “My current emotional state shouldn’t concern a stranger. Who don’t even know the name- ““Its Jon.” He seemed to interrupt me with haste wanting to fill the awkward moment. “oh. My names Khozmo.” “That’s and interesting name.” The moment passed by like getting hit by a 16-wheel semi-truck. Then stumbling down a flight of stair at the Lincoln memorial. Painful and awkward. “Yea, my dad named me after someone close to him, a horse.” Those words flying out of my mouth felt as though I just said I was stupid as a rock. “That’s cool, that must have been some horse.” A feeling of relief ran over my body like waves crashing against the beach.

Concrete Imagery

The buses with the scarring color yellow I’ve dreaded for the past 11 years that make my eyes crumble.

The leaves on the trees trying to decide what their complexion is, messing with the August lovers.

The blue benches that are abandoned until the end of the school year, empty like a broken heart.

The forgotten ruby red do not enter signs.

The accumulation of vehicles waiting desperately for the bell to ring.

The parking lot that goes from deserted to grand central station every morning and evening.

The towering trees shedding their appearance every season into the latest trend.

Every color of the rainbow you can imagine out in the parking lot, every car diverse in its own unique way.

The parents with unimaginable apparel that come to break their kids out for doctor appointments.

The teachers with their heels that echo in the distance as they walk on the empty pavement.

The Beautiful Ocean

The waves are gently skipping through the shore, greeting the sand with a warm hello.  The cozy sun is slowly fading away behind the horizon. Soon nighttime will appear from above covering the sky like a blanket. The sky is a soft red tone complementing the sun. The ocean is sprinkled with little crystals that glistens in the water. On the shore, there is a lonely wooden dock that seems lifeless like a dried up rose. The wood has been chipped away over the years. Next to the dock light bulbs are hanged up. That is the only thing that keeps the night going. I stand by the dock admiring the view. The sand tickles my feet, as I walk closer to the shore. The seagulls are scattering the beach like a pack of wolves. They scavenge for food as hyenas. The shells wash up on the shore, sleeping on the sand silently. The waves soothes the beach with its low melody. The day is finished closing the scene, and welcoming night as it takes the stage.

There I sat near the revolving doors in the only coffee shop on an empty road that stretched on for miles. I looked at the mocha liquid in my cup and thought back to sloshing around in the slippery mud puddle that used to form in my backyard when it rained. I ruined every pair of shoes I owned that way, soaking them with the soil that had been sitting there outside my home for my whole life.  I also thought of my mother, early in the morning, she would lean against the counter drinking her coffee with a quiet resolve. The quiet whisper going around the shop was calming. I realized I was the only one who wasn’t talking. It was early in the morning, why would I want to talk? The persistent wail of a car beeping outside the shop dragged me out of thoughts. I looked at my blinking neon watch realizing I needed to go to work. I put my coffee cup back on the counter, ignoring the brown liquid that spilled over the brim, and walked out the door knowing I would be back tomorrow for the same routine.

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Station 5

In a quiet, sunny place. I hear cars rushing bye. People trying to make as much money as they can in the small amount of time they have in their day. Money hungry. I see buildings, just chilling, not going anywhere. I hear teachers screaming at students. And they wonder why they don’t get respect from some of the kids. I hear a loud noise approaching me. Automatically, scenarios pop through my head of what this noise could be. Maybe a car, maybe a big truck coming to smash into the side of the school, maybe it’s the end of the world, or maybe its just a mower. It’s a man blowing leaves away with a leaf blower. Not as bad as I thought. I see advertisement signs. Company’s trying to outdo their competitors.  Fighting and scratching just for that little bit of money. Just like the wild. Animals fighting and killing for food. Humans…. Humans are wild animals.

abstract to concrete – Jere Ringler

Balance

A timeworn pair of sunglasses half covered in sand that lay inconspicuously on a beach. They are old and there is nicks and scratches covering them. However, at one time these glasses were new and shiny and were worn by a captain of an inherited tuna fishing vessel. This captain was as new as a pair of shoes never worn and inexperienced and had bought the glasses so he looked more qualified. He thought he could prove that he had enough knowledge to be a great captain. However, on his first trip out to sea he ran into a storm. The waves were like mountains driven by winds that could rip his ship apart at any minute. He tried his best to control his ship that was bucking like a wild horse however he lost control and his ship broke like a bottle smashed on the floor. The captain struggled and fought in the salty water to swim and stay afloat but was futile against the swirling of waves. Then years after the wreck these sun glasses were a disturbing reminder from that fateful day. The glasses washed up from the unforgiving sea onto shore were people stroll by unassuming of the tragic story those weathered glasses could tell.

Concrete Imagery: Leah

Going up to Syracuse, New York every year is one of the most memorable memories I have from my childhood. Every time we went to Syracuse, we would go to Green Train bridge, a metal bridge which spans over a train track. At this bridge, there were ramps on both side of the bridge starting from the rocky and grainy parking lot connecting and leading up to one another that is separated from the actual tracks.  The bridge is surrounded by a fence that has rust taking over. As you walk up the ramps, you get higher and higher from the ground. Then once you get to the top, the bridge goes over the whole width of the old, dirty train tracks. As time goes by, we would just wait for the big, deathly machine to go underneath the green, old bridge. As they go underneath, the wind hits you in the face with a strong force that seems like you are in the middle of a hurricane. When we went this past winter, we looked out over the snowy tracks, holding onto the old, rusty pole.  When the train goes underneath you, you feel like you are invisible, because you would never think that you would be taller than this huge engine, transporter.  The only thing you hear is the big, deathly wheels riding against the rails. This is where my love for trains came from.

Creative Imagery

Number 4

Four-wheeling

Suzuki 230

When I was younger I absolutely loved riding four-wheeler all around my house. It was all I ever wanted to do. One day my dad asked me around the dinner table if I wanted to go with him and a couple other riding. I was so happy I ran around as fast as I could as though I was a mouse running from a cat. Then the day finally came. It was enjoyable other than bouncing on rocks all day long.  After a couple hours of riding even a bumpy four-wheeler ride can make you feel like resting. I slowly clonked out up against my dad’s back, and woke up later to find my dad jumping off the four-wheeler while leaving me on it in the middle of a big puddle. I was calling out to my dad, “dad, dad!” until he explained what was happening. Them my dad tied a rope to another four-wheeler and told me to hang on. The first few feet were intense. I turned the wheels straight as they pushed through the mud. Eventually I was rescued. I gave my dad a big hug to resemble my gratitude. It was all worth it.

Vivid Imagery – Rachel Hungerford

The scene opens on a dimly lit bar. The sconces on the wall look like spheres of honey in the twilight. There’s a sax crooning on stage—but even those fluorescent beams are dim in this place’s atmosphere. It’s as though time has slowed in the midst of eveningfall.

There’s a girl—dark curls swept up, big pearl earrings, flashy diamond necklace—see her? No, not her, the other one. The one talking to the barkeep. Yeah, there you go. Go over there.

You stammer out a hello, and she spares you a sharp glance. “Put it on my tab,” you hear her say. She’s got a strong accent—Boston, maybe? What the heck’s she doing here, you think.

“What business?” she’s asking you. You’re still taking her in. Green eyes to match the emerald of her dress.

“Just wanted a dance,” you say, and you’re not even sure if that’s what you want.

She cocks an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Whatever,” she concedes. She takes your shoulder. You take her waist.

Her dress shimmers as you sway. The solo switches to the piano. “Who’s the band?” you ask.

Her eyes cut to the stage behind you. You’re sorry for the loss of her gaze. “Don’t know,” she grumbles. “You’re not much for conversation, are you?”

You’re a little stung. “Well, what do you want to talk about?”

She shrugs, a graceful little bounce of her shoulders. The lavender-tinted light plays with the hue of her skin. “Where’re you from?” she asks you.

“Right here,” you say.

She gives a harsh laugh. Your eyes cut to her red lips. “From the bar?”

Your hand tightens on her shoulder. “New York,” you grind out.

Her smile is knife-like. “Boston,” she replies, inclining her head in a way that’s just sarcastic enough to be self-deprecating.

So you were right in your first impression. “What are you doing here?”

The music crescendos into full big band, and she keeps her mouth shut for a while. Finally, when the song ends, she says, “I wanted a change of pace.”

“So you thought dancing and drinks would help?” you ask, quiet under the cracks of applause.

Her face contorts in disgust. It’s a little disturbing, to see something beautiful twisted. “Not much of drinks,” she murmurs, and then, stepping closer so that the toe of her shoe falls on yours, “and not much of dancing.”

She’s gone before you can reply, somehow disappeared into the haze of the bar, but it’s a beat or two before your breath comes back.

The scarlet of the EXIT sign is the only clear thing in this place, so you follow the clarity into the near-approaching night.