# data[].attributes.body
I peer into a vast canyon of empty space. The West of my existence is dirt and rock, steepened by the light of the sun and gorges where water used to flow. I have been walking, I felt freedom in my feet at first but now that I’ve reached my wits end I see, I might’ve gone too far. I’m not unhappy, or happy, or sad, or mad. I just am. I sit down and admire the waves within my cloudy vision. The haze. It is ferocious, whipping and cascading down across the valley. It’s red like clay, the dirt. It’s hard and strong, feeling cool to the touch, and held like steel even in the cracks. I can run my hand along it, and I feel the scarring. I see the foreshadow of my nightfall, my experience that lies within. It has been a long time, far too long in fact. I should’ve consolidated, and didn’t. I should’ve asked more questions, I didn’t. I should’ve thought more about life, and I refused to, in an attempt to recapture the glory of youth, realize nor accept my own mortality. This is the pain of my existence. Food nor water nor fire could make me pretend there was comfort in my world. My western world has become a desolate graveyard by all means. I see it. I breathe it. I can try to say goodbye but I can’t due to the combination of my inability to navigate the barren, and my choking of putrid dust and scape upon inhalation. I am quite tired. So for the world to know, should I rest my head upon this rock, I can only hope and pray that I do not wake tomorrow morning.

# data[].attributes.body
“...Deliver to the address stated below or you will never see your precious cloak ever again.”

Dennis dropped his gaze down to the bottom of the note that was written in too nice a handwriting for it to come from a four year old. Seeing the word “pantry” written in flat, bold letters with two lines drawn underneath for emphasis, Dennis let out a very theatrical gasp, which earned him a bout of giggling that was attempted to be quieted by a whispering “shhh” and the words “he’ll hear you” from the kitchen.

Folding the note up and putting it in his pocket, Dennis stood from his seat in the living room, glancing towards the arch that led into the kitchen, where he saw Jane stepping away from the pantry, closing its squeaking door. She looked at him, her painted face breaking into a smile before placing a finger over her lips and gesturing to the door to the pantry, which was out of view. Dennis nodded his head, clearing his throat loudly.

“My god! How ever will I be able to get this wicked witch three chocolate chip cookies baked specifically from Lady Jane! I’ll be on the road for weeks! Not to mention I’ll be traveling for weeks to get to the Deepest Darkest Forest and to the Spooky Tower!”

More high pitched giggling ensued.

Jane laughed lightly, shaking her head. Dennis smiled, crossing the living room and walking into the kitchen where it smelt strongly of cookies. Jane had walked over to the counter where the chocolate chips had been sitting cooling for the past few minutes. Putting on a face, and accent, Jane lent against the counter and put her hands on her hips.

“My! Ser Dennis! It’s been a while since I’ve seen you here. What brings you?” She said loudly so the little witch in the pantry could hear.

“I have come for three of your best chocolate chip cookies,” Dennis replied, making up his own accent. “For I am in desperate need of them.”

“Whatever for?”

“To retrieve my cloak from the Witch Priscilla. She has taken it from me and will only return it to me if I bring her what she asks for.”

“That witch does have an appetite for my cooking,” Jane agreed. More giggles from the pantry. Jane smiled, glancing at the closed door before turning back to Dennis. “Alright, I’ll give you three of my best chocolate chip cookies. I have just made some.”

“As I can see.”

“But I won’t let them go for free, you know, they’ve built me up to what I am.”

“Whatever my lady asks from me,” Dennis said, bowing deeply at the waist, “my lady shall have.”

Jane scoffed, rolling her eyes at him as Dennis straightened up. They both beamed. Jane tilted her head, her eyes sparking. “How about a kiss from a handsome knight?”

“EEEEEWWWWWWWWWW!”

“My, did you hear something?” Jane asked, looking to the pantry door that was still closed.

“Must be the wind,” Dennis said with a shrug. “It’s known to have its temperaments in this part, as I’m sure you know.”

“Yes indeed.” Jane said, turning back to Dennis as the pantry giggled again. Jane then selected three cookies from the plate in front of her, setting them in a tupperware container and patting the lid. Dennis walked forwards, lent across the counter, took Jane's chin lightly in his grasp, and gave her a sweet kiss.

“Many thanks,” Dennis said, drawing away. Jane smiled, handing him the container of the three best chocolate chip cookies.

“Safe travels,” she said. Dennis nodded his head, turning to the pantry.

It took five swift, light steps to get to the pantry door. Dennis reached for the handle of the door and yanked it open.

“Gotcha!” He shouted.

Priscilla - the witch - was standing in the pantry, clutching his coat to her chest. She shrieked as he startled her, turning into a fit of giggles.

“Witch,” Dennis said, holding out the container of cookies, dropping to one knee and bowing his head, “I have brought you the finest chocolate chip cookies the Lady Jane had to offer. I now ask that you return my coat to me so that I may - ack!”

Priscilla had raced forwards in the short space and wrapped her arms around Dennis’s neck, the force taking Dennis off guard as he quickly wrapped his arms around her and tried to not fall into a shelf filled with cans. Priscilla giggled as they righted themselves, smiling with her teeth as she took the container of cookies from his hands. She handed over his coat in a flourish.

“Here you go!” Priscilla proclaimed once she had stopped laughing. Dennis took the coat from her, nodding his head.

“My thanks to you,” he said.

“Hi mommy!” Priscilla said, her gaze going from Dennis to someone behind him - Jane - as she waved furiously.

“Hello precious,” Jane replied. Dennis turned on his knee, seeing Jane standing against one of the chairs at the dining table, smiling nervously.

Dennis smiled, his eyes dipping to a small black box that she held in her hands. His lips parted, looking up at Jane who nodded her head and laughed nervously.

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Together we could make the dream work

Plant your seed fast if you want your garden to grow

Jordan’s furniture is forever as well as furniture is forever

It’s raining in my heart

Emotionally I never have…

The language of winter is so cold

What do you desire?

I am delirious.

It left a spark in my mind

I worship power

Please, manipulate further

I lather the shaving cream on the desk

Was it very sensual?

I hate this place

I’ve never felt the touch of a women

I really like chocolate

I can’t recall anything either

I am a out of fingers

I like flowers

I am feeling not good

My mother has left me

Left for eternity

I can hear all the whispers

It is raining in my heart

There is nothing quite like it

I will perish in the summer

________________________________________________________________________________________

I hate this place. I don’t know how I got here and I can’t recall anything either. But the whispers that have been with me since birth are still here, which is good. Emotionally I never have had a good relationship with anyone other than the whispers. Even my mother left me so early on in my life that I don’t think she touched me other than the day she birthed me, so I have never felt the touch of a woman. Perhaps she was wishing that I would perish in the summer, to be left for eternity. Sadly though the language of winter is so cold, my whispers understood and translated those words for me. My whispers were always good when talking in theoretical languages. My friends have told me that I am delirious and that I worship power, but having whispers in my head only made me want it more. I begged them “please, manipulate me further!” and they obliged saying “Jordan’s furniture is forever as well as furniture is forever.” It left a spark in my mind which expanded my horizons tenfold, there is nothing quite like it.

I lather the shaving cream on the desk to clean the dirty surface. Its surface is coated in multiple layers of cream foam faintly smelling of flowers. I like flowers. Though it pains me to start and clean the foam off the desk, I start with one of my fingers. Back and forth one of my fingers goes. Soon it will have been covered in shaving cream, left unusable in the removal of what was left on the desk. After another ten minutes of heavy and slow shaving cream removal, the desk is clean and I am all out of fingers. The power to do whatever I want having truly overwhelmed me, this shaving cream had mystical powers. Clearly, it was telling me to do something. Something I would have never contemplated if I never heard anything. I heard all the whispers, they were telling me to eat the shaving cream. I wish I could put the whispers away but I can’t. I lick my fingers clean. It tasted like chocolate… I really like chocolate… Letting this feeling and aftertaste disappear I realize what I have done. I am feeling not good, maybe, the whispers are telling me I am fine. I trust the whispers. Perhaps if I only had a little more of that shaving cream I would feel a lot better, and the worry would go away.

I rub the desk once, twice, thrice to get the last residue off, there is nothing quite like it. The literally sickeningly sweet cream is no longer present, but the desk is now sparkling. As the light reflecting off the desk seems to bask me in warmth, I soon recognize the light is growing in intensity. I do not blink, as the whispers told me not to blink when shown something so beautiful. Thankfully I didn’t, because I was able to witness a swearing genie come out of the desk, using many languages that the whispers translated for me. The whispers sure are smart. The genie was saying things like “That 🤬™ witch just had to trap me in a desk” and “Who the F*** even has such a specific curse” but such things didn’t matter. The whispers told me that it was a mythical being that granted three wishes, could be any being a god and could kill any being.

“Okay kid, let's do this fast so I can bounce off this universe and head back home. What do you desire?”

The whispers told me, they told me… nothing. There was only silence from the whispers. It would seem I had to make this decision on my own, a terrifying concept.

“It is raining in my heart, but I have no crop to grow,” I said, confident that the whispers would speak up and correct me if I said anything wrong. “Is there a way for you to give me a mind full of emotion to plant, a budding love to grow, and a life to cultivate to its fullest?”

“Ha, ha ha, Ha HA HA AHA HAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHHA! KID! THAT IS ONE INTERESTING REQUEST. I expected something like infinite power, godhood, or a harem full of gods and goddesses! But you chose the one thing I didn’t expect, and for that, I will help you. Together we could make the dream work. But first, you need to plant your seed fast if you want your garden to grow.”

“Thank you!” I exclaimed, still wondering if the whispers would come back soon.

“Now then, since you have used all three wishes on this wonderful task, we will be together for quite a while. So let's get to know each other, my name is Ragavan, the genie of endless gratitude and might, maker of gods and destroyer of plights. And you kid, have only one very important question to answer from me. When you got rid of the shaving cream, was it very sensual?”

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Word 1: Talia and Rosie were preparing for their magic act in the school talent show. They had an assortment of props from playing cards to even a live dove. They've been working on this for weeks and tonight is their big night. As they put on their outfits and did their hair they could feel the nerves racing through them, but they were ready to perform. They walked onto stage as their name was called. Rosie was wearing a hat, little did they know there was a whole bird in it. Rosie raises her hat to reveal the bird. The crowd laughs at the sight. Rosie placed her hat back on her head and proceeded to count to five. “ ABRACADABRA “ she yells as she removes the hat. The dove had disappeared. The crowd cheered at the sight. From them they knew this show would go well, and it did. They won the talent show!!

# data[].attributes.body
Gollomy Wood

Green is not the color

That the oak tree takes in winter,

For frost will freeze its insides

If it chooses to live longer.

It dons a shade of stick-stark brown

That serves to block the winter out

As its leaves fall to the ground

In red and gold and yellow.

The maple tree drops sticky sweet

From porous gaps

Pushed in by meaty

Hands that want to take the stuff

That flows inside the veins of trees.

The maples by their seedling posts

Like comatose donors

Arranged in rows,

Sleep through the act

But gloomy, they know

As they drip and drip and drop.

(If anyone has any edits/suggestions, they are greatly appreciated!)

# data[].attributes.body
My restaurant's expediter has lived several lives that he’d never explain to you, and you can tell it just by looking at him. Maybe it’s in his eyes or in his mannerisms, but you know immediately upon meeting him that he has a history more rich than most. Or maybe he doesn’t, and he just has eyes that allude to absolutely nothing besides a dark pigmentation of the iris. I have always seen him looking tired or burnt out, thus it seems to be so ingrained into his person that it is almost a physical feature written on the lines of his face. His face itself is regular, if a better word existed I don’t know it. His face looks like every other white man, someone I would confuse with different strangers in a crowd in my peripheral. In the winter time he looks more like the masses than ever, but when warmer months roll around and he gets a haircut he mimics the European style of Italy, which sets his curly dark hair apart as my sister and I make secret fun of him. But for all of his normalities, his face is more expressive than anybody I have met before. He is Italian, and if that alone would not make him expressive in gesture and face, he prefers not to speak English if it can be avoided which requires a level of nonverbal communication that most would never imagine. In a single glance I can see if he is stressed or jovial, who he is annoyed with and who he is eager to talk to. It takes a level of skill to understand everything he tries to convey in his glances and pursed lips and crossed brow. I have adopted many of these habits as a means of returning the communication, in a strange instinctual way that allows humans to speak to each other without having to utter a word. I find myself making obvious expressions as people turn from me after saying something bothersome, or staring at someone with an intentional vacancy so that they can see my lack of understanding. For a New Englander and an American, I have yet to learn how to deal with the responses of those who see me scowl to their face. And I have adopted it all from him, just by the proximity of living and working.

He prefers not to speak to anyone, I can tell, even in his mother tongue. Rarely do I see him starting a conversation in Italian with his closest coworkers, unless his work demands it. He has an innate introvertedness that acts as a comically stark foil to our obnoxious head chef, also a man of Italy. So despite his neutral looks, I can recognize him by behavior alone, and I prefer him to most of my coworkers. He doesn’t need to scold me for things I do wrong, because he trusts that I know myself. All he needs to do is make a face that tells me he doesn’t approve, and I will correct my behavior. When he does speak, I know that it is with intention and meaning. It is not as if he is poor at English. He has a thick accent that I need to work through, but he is clean with his grammar and cadence, whatever insecurities he may have himself. If he tells me something I take it to heart, because I know that he took the effort to say it at all. He never fails to say “thank you” to anybody, which I would argue is a trait of most Italians and the ecosystem of our restaurant, but when he says “thank you nayyya” in a high pitch of enthusiasm, it never fails to but a grin on my face. Or when he goes out of his way to help, granted it is not often, but in acts of small service I know that I am one of the few employees who he appreciates and finds no qualms with.

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Marcello seethed.

His name could not be taken this easily.

He knew this feeling well, it had been ground into him nearly from birth. The current Mr. Rogiolani, the head of the House, Marcello’s father, had told him, year after year, as they would walk the stone path through the misty compound, passing the towering hedges that surrounded the Castle Rogiolani, once every month, when his father was home from overseas from his visits to the many many people he knew, to possibly the mafia (who it was said he had good relations with), that the Rogiolani name was sacred, but many would want to taint it with mispronounce.

Marcello Rogiolani, Duke of the Western East pasture of the East Side of South Colombia, who ruled over seven towns by the sea and had claim over a profitable island eight miles offshore of Dukat, knew, solemnly, that one day, it would happen to him.

He was accustomed to the mispronunciation of his first name, which was to be expected. Often, people of the common land with no connection to the nuances of the Italian “hard c” would pronounce it soft: Mar-sello. That, in itself, was annoying, but not disgraceful. The family name however, was something that required more thought when one went to say it. One in the presence of a Rogiolani could not just blurt out the first pronunce they think at the sight of the name written down, no.

How taken aback was Marcello, when, in a class he knew, with his fellow scholars, when one he knew well, who he often talked with and did not ignore like some of the commoners among the bunch, said, as a joke of all things, that his prestiged family name sounded similar to one of a Pokémon.

Marcello had rid himself of his Pokémon cards long ago, and so plotted the doom of one Caroline Chute, as she chuckled softly and said again, Roggenrola.

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Martin walks into the front door, kicks off his shoes and realizes he has stepped right into what seems to be a heated argument.

“How are we supposed to get this many rubber ducks?” Martin overhears.

They haven’t noticed him yet. With his curiosity piqued, he refrains from revealing himself.

“And do they have to be yellow?”

Hm. Interesting. Not the content he was expecting to eavesdrop on.

“Honey, we just don’t have the resources for this.” Martin’s father says, putting his head in his palm.

“We clearly don’t have a choice!”

Okay, seriously, Martin just has to know what’s going on here. Pretending he just walked through the door and had in fact not been listening to whatever this outrageous conversation is, he preppily pops through the doorway, making his presence known to his heated parents.

“Hey mom! Dad! What’s up?” Cheery enough as so it doesn’t raise suspicion, but it also makes it clear that he knows something is up.

Upon seeing her son’s face, Martin’s mother takes a deep breath, and guides him to take a seat.

“We have an- unfortunate circumstance.” she explains in her best ‘trying to conceal the panic’ mom voice she can put on.

Martin’s mother pulls out a crumpled note that reads--

“We need you to send 29,000 yellow rubber ducks from China to the east coast of the United States. This is a ransom note. If not supplied by the end of January, 1992, then your home and your stable life will be completely uprooted, and you and your family will succumb to the evils of the world. Don’t contact anyone of government importance, it won’t go well for you. If you fulfill your task, the cost will be reimbursed, and we can all continue as if this never happened. Choose wisely.

Love,

Quack quack”

Oh no. Oh no no. This cannot be happening. Never before has something so bizarre yet so unlucky made it’s presence in Martin’s life. Now he understands how frantic his parents were.

Little did Martin know, this would be the unknown origin story of the Rubber Duckie Spill of 1992. His family worked hard and managed to order 29,000 yellow rubber ducks from the country of China. They thought their work was done. They started to sit back and relax, moving into their normal routines again. However, the worst case scenario that the least expected, made itself into fruition.

On the news one cold evening, Martin’s father called everyone into the family room, with his jaw dropped and mouth aghast. The rest of the family followed suit, with movement leaving their bodies, moving still, silent, eyes glued to the tv. They had spilled. The ducks. The boat spilled. The cargo ship carrying only their rubber duckies had spilled, dumping all of them into the ocean.

With their rubber duckies spilled into the sea, so so close to their final destination, they were simply unaware of what their futures had in store.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

We don’t know exactly what happened to them, but we do know their fate, as this is the first time this story has been revealed, and my fate after sharing it is unknown to me. There’s no telling where they are, and who was behind this note. Was it an evil regime of rubber ducks? Was this a play in the war between different colored ducks? Was this the work of a different high level organization? Was this work done at the hands of Martin’s family themselves? There’s just one thing we do know; the ducks are still out there.

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Appreciation was something hard to come by. At least for me. Whether I be on the receiving end of it or the one experiencing it. There wasn’t much to appreciate about my life. I suffer for no good cause, perhaps you could argue there is some kind of comedic value to my pointless suffering, but it isn’t grand enough to even warrant that. But sitting here beside her while she slept on this rundown bus was clearly getting to my head. I find myself meandering in a sea of appreciation for this girl I met just this morning.

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i Sit next to Charlotte and Marcello they argue about who is wrong, who is right,  who is smarter. They sound like an old married couple. Mr. Sullivan sts next to them like a marriage counselor. Who is concerned for their marriage. I Miss took Caroline for charlotte.  The students talk in circle desks about war. Mr. Sullivan goes against the idea yet they keep talking. As this happens Marcello is in a corner planning out his attack with his knowledge about weapons and guns. This concerns Mr. sullivan. it's like marcello is an evil genius plotting against Mr. Sullivan. But why? They’re like two peas in a pod, but, does Marcello want to be the only pea? Like a pear. Not a pair. An apple. An apple on a teachers’ desk that looks down upon everyone with pitiful eyes. But today Marcello's google account broke. Three of his henchmen came to him and tried to fix his problem. But it didn’t do anything. Instead his henchmen destroyed his evil plan. Ripping up every tab extension and sticker on his computer. He cannot get into his plan like before. He can’t see his secret files, the padlet for organizing secret files and youtube where he looks at “How to not fail sabotage” “How to sabotage someone” and ‘How to sabotage a group of people.”  It's all his search history on his hacker computer. Whatever plan he has, he is quick and intelligent. Or at least he says so. His word is law in the village. He has these poison green eyes with a bruise on his knee. He claims that he went skiing and hit a rock. The madman lives off of water pizza and french fries. His followers chant his holy meal “cheese cheese pepperoni cheese french fries pizza!” Sometimes in the village i hear others whisper about how Marcello is going to sabotage Mr. Sullivan and the class. But I can't see him doing that. It's marcello. he doesn’t drink water. But it's always there next to him in his water bottle that could house a family of mice. I remember once that he told us about dinosaurs. How he had such an addiction for fossils and bones. Dead creatures to be examined. As a kid he grew up reading all types of books on dinosaur bones and fossils, different species and the history of them. Bones. Why bones. And dead creatures. It's not serious. He’s not serious. My mind plays that same message in my head until I believe it. It's not serious, it's not serious, it's not serious, it's not serious. So why is it that anytime I say it, a part of me doubts it more and more and more. It can’t be. No. Not him. But if it were true, would I tell someone? Would I tell mr. Sullivan, the Co ruler of the village, now turning into frenemies? Not frenemies, divided rulers? Oh god, marcello. You're an evil dinosaur genius. You and your big head. You want all the praise, more followers and less leaders. Is this the end…and the rise of an empire? Is this the rise of marcello?

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Emotionally I have never hated a place more than school. It makes me feel very stressed out to wake up at 6 am almost every single day to do 6 hours of work. We get assigned so much work and I am always so tired to be doing so much school work in the morning. I think that it is a waste of time most of the time. I hate this place so much. Some of my friends like coming here 5 days a week. One of my friends has told me that even though you are stressed out together we can make the dream work. Sometimes I believe that but even then I don't know how much I can work with that. I feel like we should start school a little later or maybe get less work so we aren’t so stressed out all the time. It would take so much stress off of us so if we work on this together we can make the dream work and make everyone happy.

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I am delirious unaware and fogged
Awake but asleep among the gods
I will perish in summer for it is raining in my heart
I can hear all the whispers
Still as can be
Delirious once again now
All I can hear nothing of sound
Sounds of clear sounds of wind
Mind in fog
Mind in calm