by Clarissa

Mica Scales - by Clarissa

Low tide.
Miles of radiant silica.

Breathless,

breezeless.

I feel a dry rasping tongue
running up the shore

like a desiccating dragon -

End of Summer.

by Thomas

Bull - by Thomas

They're fake.

Look how green his face is.

Fake frogs.

Not even breathing.

On a real farm,

right?

they go and plant

fake frogs

by the pond.

Wait.

He blinked.

Did he?

C'mon frog,

blink again.

Blink.

Friggin' frog, blink.

He's not blinking.

He's fake.

Fake frog.

Look how green he is.

Fake.

He blinked!

He's real!

He's real!

He's--

gone.

by Thalia!

Hello, said the ghostly visage of the author...

Taking this week off, since I have just returned from the SCBWI conference in Los Angeles and am zooped out.

Tune in next Sunday...

by Philip

I Wanna Be Back In Oregon - by Philip


My first visit to Uncle Craig's.

So cool, SoCal! I thought.

But we walked
two concrete miles
to find the Pacific,

and there it was,
pacifically laying there
flat as the pavement shore,

with the rumble of traffic
instead of the sound of surf,

all the freeway
at 30 mph,
looking at my
skinny white chest.