As I walk into school, I imagine seeing couples kissing, holding heart-shaped cards and candy.

Instead, I'm seeing black and orange, ribbons being held to hearts.

Not again.

The morning announcements confirm my suspicions:

"...Today is February 14th, Valentine's Day and anniversary of Parkland. Please take a moment of silence."

It has never been so quiet.

No one stands for the flag.

The silence perseveres with us.

Inspired by the stillness, I begin to write:

"Oranges and blacks

will not stop their bullets.

Our silence

will not stop their silencers.

Are guns

worth more than daughters and sons?"

Timber creeks beneath bare feet, splintering the silent scene viewed from the weathered front porch. Night’s brushed with hues from Morning’s pastel palette. Bristling breezes echo against the steel-blue drum of the heavens and rustle through canopies of wooden brush drumsticks. Coffee warms like sunlight, piercing beaded rain that dots blades of emerald grass; saturating slow-warming air with the familiar fragrance of the forest’s terpene tonic. Pine needles crackle beneath the hooves of elk, dining on foliage lacing the gnarled branches of manzanita trees. The screen door squeaks and the elk freeze — watching me, watching them.

The granite walls are a flawless white, cool to the touch save for the warm ribbons of blood trickling down their surface. Once this palace of stone was a paradise. Now it was a prison. The girl shook violently, wishing she could run, but footsteps were already drawing near. Black combat boots paused inches from her bloodied hands.

"Get up." The girl crawled to her feet, silent tears snaking their way over her cheeks. There was blood. Blood everywhere... but it was not her own.

"Finish what you started," the voice whispered, pressing a cool blade into the girls hands.

My head throbbed, as my heart began to beat much faster with each passing moment. I tried to control it. But the smell of the human by the lake~ was driving me crazy. My nose twitched, I sensed fear— I waited for the human to start running.

Let me give my prey a head start- there was no rush. After all, tonight was a full moon & I would catch up in a matter of seconds. The feeling of running with the breeze, and howling at the moon was thrilling!

#SceneChallenge.

Looking in the window, you’d just see the shadow of a girl. An arching ceiling, an unlit chandelier. The slanted shape of the untouched piano.

Stillness. Dust has collected on the sparcely decorated shelves. The corners of the room spill inky black dark, seeping inwards, threatening to devour the girl.

Just a silhouette, statue figure. Black dress, limp hair. A hand hovers over the keys.

Closer. Her eyelashes are wet, and so is her face. Fingertips frozen, lips parted. Eyes welling.

The piano: suspended. Her eyes unblinking. Memories lingering... haunting melodies, ghostly repeatings. She hears his songs, his love.

Mouse, horse, swine, and dog

Came across a figure sunk in the bog.

"Alas!" Neighed horse, “I believe it has fur.”

“Nonsense,” grunted pig, “A mossy rock as it were.”

"A rock?" Pipped mouse, "A mountain more so."

And dog only sniffed, the stench making him groan.

"Well, I know I’m right," horse said with a whinny,

"Egads!" Shouted pig, “No, you’re the ninny!”

"Hey!" retorted mouse, "I saw the thing first”

"You're all wrong," dog barked, “Your brains are burst.”

The four continued walking, bickering into the night

Because who cares what it is, as long as you're right.

Sitting on the sofa, cozy, my weight absorbed by the couch,

I watch the black and white.

Being sat on by the slob , absorbing the weight,

straining, someday a collapse will come. I'll take him with me .

Directing trillions of electron through a vacuum tube, I patiently constuct images, they mean little to me, but fatso likes them so.

Bored out of my mind, I sleep on the welcome mat. It’s nice and warm, I wish he turn the awul noise down, the putz.

I am the ghost of a dead film maker,

After all these years, I feel sad, that so few appreciate my work. If only there were aesthetics of viewers as much as the stuff being viewd, the world would be a different place.

Red octogons, yellow triangles, iron fences crumbling like gingerbread. I observe my kingdom from the tenth floor, watching the fly-crusted bodies drift in their deflated kayaks. There's the yellow line, shimmering beneath the water, the line I weaved over as I rushed to stock food, to survive. Now I slurp my last bites of brown-sugar beans. Three extra weeks. All I did was eat and wait for the helicopters. Nothing.

With a finite sigh, I toss the can out the window. Then I climb, curl my toes over the sill. I think of Philadelphia, of rainbowed swimming pools, and jump.

Turquoise depths below

golden shimmers,

brush as green as emeralds,

cliffs loom above,

shear ridges, broken rocks

a siren’s call from

the mountain tops.

The young man in

the Black Sabbath t--shirt

waits his turn

to be photographed

with the Easter Bunny

in the Price Chopper produce

section. The girl

in the bunny suit

feels like shit. She

stayed up way too late

drinking with her oldest

friend. They drank themselves

shit--faced, peeled

off all their clothing and

explored each other like

children. The friend

is smiling in the bathroom

painting her toenails. The rabbit

will try to let her down

gently, and still

the snow

isn’t melting

fast enough for anyone