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MY KEEP SAKE by Macy Shreffler

A sister My secrets I trusted you with Were my badge of Honer I gifted you But you took that badge And melted it to a blade that you held to my throat My own shield powerless With no handle to hold My secrets you keep so closely The sharp metal is cold Behind your maroon leather sheathe Stands an old friend But the convict staring back at me now Is my sinister nemesis

A fool taking form of a Diamond. A Diamond made with just the right amount of pressure Thousands of years of constant pressure Comes war and sacrifice For an unbreakable rock Beaty and strength Yet too much pressure and what was beautiful and stable will brake Rocks and minerals form value What a Crytal would give to be a Dimond What an imposter would give for an authentic smile The reflective shards cut deep beneath the surface of the jewel Fooling the eye, to see what is not Infront of one's eye. Taking form of what the beholder desires Sadness pampered to a pretty smile, and an imposter taking the form of a Dimond. A Dimond is strong and beautiful But a rock that has robbed it of its beauty will ever be a fake The reflective shards cut deep beneath the surface of the jewel Are a fool when it is faced with the awakening smack against a hard ruff floor And the diamond that has been robbed of its identity Will receive justice Then will the rock return to Rocks and minerals That have been broken down But left broken,

With thousands of years left to pick up the pieces And never whole again Colin Stick A poet walks into a bar Claiming his thrown He takes a seat, Comfortably sitting, he sat his warn, dry hand Held just above his greyish black Baret Patiently awaiting service The wise old man visited often Monday through Sunday he strutted through those old bar doors And Mondy through Sunday he ordered our finest malt scotch Ten shots of it to be exact The wise poet lined his ten shots up along the bar tables edge Declaring which would be first And which would be the last in the line of his solders Grabbing the unfortunate ones And pouring them to the floor This cloudy Monday morning being no exception Setting his oversized, cracked journal to the right side of his oversized body his naked pen being without a journal taking up too much space for his next project Placing his pen so delicately in the inner part of his ash-colored black pea coat pocket He orders his ten shots our finest malt scotch

After receiving his ten glasses The poet lines the ten shots up close to the edge of the bars dead end Taking the first and last translucent classes The first shot held snug in his left hand The last shot held loosely in his right Beginning with a slow bend of his wrist Ending with a flick of his wrist's rusty joints Poring both victims to the unfinished cracked bar floor Filling the void between the splinters in the floor with his neglected liquid courage Hydrating his dry dehydrated vessel of a body with the remailing eight shots as if water was what was contained between the translucent walls of the petite shot glass With little intermission The poet straightens his coat Tips his hat and walks out the door But a folded napkin left sitting upon his selfless thrown On it... a note with the most crooked cursive as if it was written to be read from the writer himself So, it read My first shot always tastes awful And my last shot makes me feel terribly sick To drink them would be unlawful. Signed by the poet himself Colin Stick

Love 1...2...3...4...5... The exhausting routine of opening your eyes The millions of muscles it takes to blink 1...2...3...4...5... Counting every time your eyes close And the energy it takes to open them for a sixth time 1...2...3...4...5 Opening my eyes for the sixth time And The sixth time a moment of sense, shocking the dormant muscles in the eye lid... A familiar smell The music from the wind Playing so delicately Giving your body the energy to move again Chirping Crickets Easing your mind as your heart beats faster And as you move your left foot along the winds tide The smell of grandmas crisply cooked cookies And tiger Lillys evaporated pollen Adding another beat to your hearts Rythm And the grasp of a loved one's hand Grasped upon your palm

waking every nerve in your body bringing feeling back to your finger tips And for a moment the body moves faster And your heart skips a beat 1...2...3... You blink for the fourth time On the fourth blink a Joyful memory from the elements encourages a smile And the simple melody of the wind moves your feet to the dance floor A flood of butterfly's swim beneath your skin concurring the aching pains that once imprisoned your laughter 1...2...3...4...5... And on the rhythm of your sixth heart beat you smile My lime green mechanical pencil I see my lime-colored manacle pen Moving so elegantly I see the verry tip of my led Struggling to move forward as it finally gives out Darting off the old wooden classroom table I sat at I hear the creaking plastic of my mechanical pencil Bending in the hold of my hand I hear the screeching of the paper beneath the Leds tip Accepting the words of my pencils touch Giving it a place on the surface of its white face to present itself

I see my pencil working with the papers blue inked lines Creating not just stories but moments I smell the broken in leather of my broken journal I smell my mom's floral Chanelle perfume from home But when I turn to the source she is missing from the doorway I feel my pencil indenting the inner part of my right thumb I feel the pencils vibrations shooting upwards from the tip of the led To the last eraser flake I feel the nerves in my bottom lip cowering Thus, creating a vibration connecting to the top of my lip I feel my cheeks I am verry aware of my cheeks As a malaises like tear tickles its way down to my jaw line Aggravating the peach fuzz on the surface of my red cheeks I feel nothing, yet I feel everything And to feel anything at all I rely on the feeling of my pen destroying my skins natural design I rely on the scraping of the papers oily surface to distract me from putting the pencil down And when the lead of my lime green mechanical pencil shatters so goes my care Darting off the side of the old wooden classroom table I sat at

My utopia “Snap”, the sound of a twig breaking in the distance. The one responsible unknown, yet I am unbothered. The warm golden sun, shining down on me creating a spotlight, while the trees dance around me through the wind. The birds playing a familiar Meledy making it hard to think of the disastrous world that remained past the dirt I stood Apon. My hair gliding through the air as I spun around with my arms spread wide as if to touch both ends of the world. With the sun so bright the shadows from the earth creating a runway to my destination. I was surrounded by a forest full of unknown creatures, Yet I felt safe. The warm air battling the cold was a massage of butterflies against every nerve beneath my skin. The smell of lavender and tiger Lillys nourishing my nostrils, and as I neared the end of my path, the smell of burnt spices and cooked onions brought a smile Apon my face. ‘Hey there angel”, My grandma said, “why don’t you come grab a plate.” I accelerated forward into her arms releasing all my feeling into our hug when we finally collided. Her arms around me finishing the war between the warm and cold, leaving warm victorious. In this moment we were not fazed by the disastrous world that was beyond the dirt we stood on.

Stacie Hutchinson Shreffler Sitting with my three siblings, watching channel 7, dad is out with friends, and mom is cooking dinner in the kitchen. My two sisters, Jen and Amy playing with each other's hair, while my little brother David and I sat playing Atari. We were young and had no idea what was really happening in the world. To us it was just a Wednesday night, but to our mother there was much more going through her head. the electric company had just turned the lights in the house back on, and mom was on the phone with dad asking where he had been the whole night. Dad usually came home late, and we were usually in bed by the time he came home. Our simple little minds didn’t think anything of the problems going on in our world. Many days our lights wouldn’t come back on. Mom worked two jobs but had trouble paying some of the bills. Dad would occasionally go to work, but I heard mom yelling at him that night for being at Elizbeth's house instead of working the week before. At the time I didn’t know what was happening, I was only eight years old when I noticed their marriage was going downhill. I remember when things were normal, and the only problems I faced were having to go to bed early for school in the morning, or scraping my knee playing hide and seek with friends on my street. I miss those days. The day I truly realized what was going on I was with my dad. My dad liked going to the bar, and some nights he would bring me along. This time, he couldn’t walk straight. When I asked him why I couldn’t understand him and the way he was talking was weird. After an hour of sitting with my dad, the guy behind the bar called me a cab while my dad stayed behind for another drink. when I got home, my mom was mad that he had stayed behind and sent me home alone. She payed the cab driver and took me

inside. I laid awake that night. I was confused and had no idea what was happening, and the thought of my dad doing something wrong hadn't fazed me. In my mind my parents were perfect, and they were just having an argument. After school I would come home, make dinner, clean the house, and watch my younger siblings while mom was working her first job during the week. My weekends were similar. Mom had her side job, so I would help around the house until she got home. I grew up fast, and I wish I had a carefree childhood like most of my friends. I had a lot of responsibilities. My favorite memories were the days I had my parents in the same room, and my three siblings and I together on the floor, our biggest worries where about hair and who was winning Atari. I miss those days. My childhood was hard, and I grew up faster than most of my friends. My parents were rarely in the same room, and some nights the lights wouldn’t turn on. At the time I thought it was normal and that was our life. Today I am a mother of five. I love them with my whole heart, and I try to be at every volleyball game and every Scouting even. I work hard to keep our lights on and love my husband. I kiss my kids too much and take pictures of every first that they have and make sure they know I love them. I got my kids to college and I call them every day to check up. I make sure I don’t miss any moment in their lives. My childhood was hard, I may not admit it to myself because I know I am strong, but it has made me into the mother I am today, and I can't thank god enough for the story he has given me, for I would not be who I am today without the struggles and obstacles he has put me through to be here today.

writer The art of ink on a piece of paper Is a platform of the source To type Or to draw vowels and large words on a piece of paper Gives power to the one who wields the desire of the pen But with power of the ink comes uncertainty Too many writers wield the pen to please society But what if those with the talent of expression Decided to use their heart Rather than their brain And what if writing was about passion Rather than satisfaction As social media flourishes So does discrimination A platform to write Has become a platform for something that is not right When given a platform there is much temptation But a platform to write could easily be a platform to hate unless you build a platform for love and a platform to understanding maybe a bridge for unity