Autumn Lee
First Place, Duane Stein Short Story Writing Contest
Senior, Brookfield Central High School
TAKE ME BACK
“Eep.“
“Hold still babe, hold still.”
“Sorry.”
A jolt from the van stirred the anxious passengers. The girls in the front seat giggled neurotically, using their hands to steady the clinking bottles nestled in the shadows. The back of the van was filled to the brim, with people dangling out of the windows, clutching unsteady hands against cracked glass as they cheered and crowed in the red streetlights, raising bottles to gods that they didn’t believe in. Those not challenging the names of fate were hunched over, praising their false IDsagainst the glow of the dying moon, testing their luck against a trained eye. The party held no bounds, and outside of the van people gathered on the charred pavement, dancing to the beat of their own drums.
He felt the plume of the brush kiss his tender cheek. Powder blossomed in the air, resting gently on his angled features. He took a breath, tasting the smell. A finger pressed against his cheek, cold and hard, the nail caressing his skin. He shivered, elegant lashes fluttering as his black eyes opened. Before him sat a beauty, of petite size, body barely covered by dazzling rags, hands cradling brushes of silver and gold, auburn hair covering her emerald green eyes, lips plump as a peach, turned slightly at the corners into a puzzled frown.
“Nervous?” Her silken voice hitched. Someone behind her, a man by the name of Charles, careened out of the window as if enraptured by a snake. Charles’s wayward hand, an involuntary action amidst his whoops of ecstasy, had knocked the side mirror askew.
Within the distorted glass, a reflection stared back at him with a judgemental silence. A quiet figure, tall and spindly, with dirty brown hair and dirty black eyes, dressed modestly in a suit and tie. A brimmed hat obscured his features, but the powder applied onto his cheeks sparkled in the waning light, turning orange under its scarlet gaze.
A woman leaned over from the back, breath and head heavy with alcohol. She slammed an empty bottle between them and the poor thing nearly shattered into rose-colored shards. She pointed a finger, encased in a swirling black snake that tittered at the sight. “You said you were immortal, eh?”
“Marianne, calm yourself!” a young boy—Danner—slurred from the back. The van convulsed with laughter.
He tipped his hat, stifling a heavy sigh.
“Awww, look at him, you made him sad!” the driver mocked, tilting the rearview mirror. Marianne’s eyes landed on her stunning lipgloss, and she gazed in awe at herself, puckering her lips to and fro, watching the glitter drip down her chin and decorate the drab chair in a glob of crystals.
“Hey, hey, hey, that means you went to like, a ton of parties, right?” Charles called.
“No,” He said.
“HuAuh?” Charles gave a woeful cry, throwing himself back into the van and thumping a fist against his chest. “For someone who’s immortal, yer boring!”
“Boring! B-o-r-i-ng!” Marianne sang. She lurched forward, fumbling with the stereo. The radio crackled in annoyance, searching frantically for something that would fit her neverending desires. Blythe, who was toying with the crowd of bottles in the passenger seat, slapped Marianne’s hand away, pumping up the music until the doors rattled and the locks clanged.
“MY FAVOriteee!” Danner called, but he was quickly stifled by the entrance of the chorus. Everyone burst into song, screaming out the windows and through the roof as the van thundered along thecramped street. The girl with auburn hair laughed, handing over a card. He took it with a gracious nod.
They chuttered onward underneath the neon lights.
As the song came to an end, the van came to a teetering stop, the sound of metal against concrete evident even above the frenzied party. The driver threw the van into park, hitching everyone off of their feet. The radio clicked off, drowning the group in a deafening silence. He gazed out of the windshield, trying to make out the city before him. But the grime, slithering to and fro across the glass, made it impossible to see.
“Out,” the driver growled. She pointed to the door. Whooping and singing in an unbothered daze, the people piled out of the car, washing up onto the sidewalk in a massive wave. They stepped along, feet like water that would not behave. A few formed a chain, dancing side to side as they stepped in puddles of light. He stepped out with a sober determination, hat pulled heavily over his brow. Around him, the world swam with colors and flashing lights. Old buildings, made of brick and stone, shuddered under the slightest movement. Billboards were torn and broken, their sparks only adding to the ambiance.
He had lost sight of the girl with auburn hair. No matter. He followed the group to a tiny house, painted a baby blue. It had a white porch on which three small potted plants sat, rattling slightly in their pitiful containers. The driver hastily outpaced the jovial crowd, placing a firm hand onto the handle of the door. A slew of swears rolled from her mouth as the knob rolled apologetically from underneath her palm and then off into the darkness. She wrenched open the door, brandishing her card. Without another word, she disappeared inside.
The others followed, a few bumping into the door frame before stumbling through. But they all managed to file inside. He was the last to come. He went to the door and pulled out his card. A man, big and bulky, with muscles of steel and eyes of coal, squinted at the tiny thing, arms crossed over his burly chest. He snorted and, with a meaty hand, emitted a silent welcome.
He went into the house. It was nice. A small wooden kitchen table, primly polished, stood in the center of a small clay kitchen. A few biscuits had been laid on the table, accompanied by two cold cups of tea. The other rooms were shrouded in darkness, doors closed and shut tight. The windows were heavily shuttered, blocking out the odd lights outside. Unwashed dishes were stacked in neat piles in the sink, and from the delicate faucet dripped two droplets of water.
Drip.
The ground shook, wriggling the drop from its spot.
Drop.
The ground shook again.
He looked to his left. A single door, painted white, stood before him. Between its cracks leaked lights of all colors, of blood-red to blinding white. A thunderous boom shook, threatening to topple the trembling wood from its rusting hinges. He walked to it, opening it with a swift swing of his arm and following the spiraling stairs into the basement of the home.
It was the song from before, the one that played in the car. Though this time it exploded from two massive golden gilded speakers, standing atop quartz plates, and controlled by an assortment of glowing buttons and vibrant discs. People gathered in one mass, waving glow sticks into the shimmering air and screaming at the tops of their lungs. Those who weren’t screaming were tearing at the floor, their voices hitching in rhythm with their bodies.
He walked in. Within an instant someone grabbed his shoulder, dragging him into the mob. Someone passed him a small cup filled with a vinegary liquid. Another placed a flower in his hat. Another offered earplugs. Another draped a necklace of heavy beads around his neck. Another took off his jacket and loosened his tie. All of them cried out hellos and welcomes, raising their hands in a silent salute.
Without another thought he leaned back his head, gulping the liquid. It burned his throat. His veins were filled with fire. His head felt fuzzy and his eyes widened. He threw down the cup. Someone thrust him deeper into the crowd. The music played. The people danced. The lights glowed. The world spun. And it was as if, for a second, the world slowed, stopping to savor the one moment of joy that would flicker in the time of a million years.
The chorus of the song blasted out once again, and he turned around, another plastic cup in hand to raise in cheers to his fellows. But his hand was not grasped around thin plastic. Rather, his worn fingers were curled around a small stone mug. The liquid was not the tonic of a drunkard. Rather, it smelled of aromatic tea.
He wasn’t in the basement either. He was standing on top of a staircase made of stone. Around him stood valleys and mountains, piercing darkened skies encased in lazy white clouds. The moon shone high, accompanied by its gossiping stars. A temple stood to his right, the red paint chipping as a healthy gust rustled its tiles.
Below were lanterns, golden and glowing, that tugged sadly against their tethers. People milled about below, mitigating the heat of summer with bamboo fans. They were adorned in simple attire, golden tunics draped delicately over netted shirts and baggy ripped pants. A few bore masks painted red and white. Others simply adorned themselves in golden necklaces that illuminated like the sun. And the rest hid their status behind showers of golden lilacs that gave the mountain air a heavy haze.
“Hello!” a girl with auburn hair flitted by, smiling. She was petite, her body decorated with a deep purple robe, her emerald eyes glittering as she twirled a fan in her hands.
“Nervous?”
He shook his head.
She pointed to his fan. “Nice fan. I’ve always liked the color pink.”
Without another word, she waved goodbye and jogged down the stairs. He turned, spinning his fan. His broad rice hat obscured his eyes, and the tassels that fell from it jingled gently as he moved. He moved slowly, careful not to trip over his long robes. His mask, painted a delicate pink from a well-trained hand, tapped against his cheek. He passed by a group of friends, huddled underneath a light, studying little slips of paper bearing fortunes for the new year. He walked by a woman admiring herself in a large mirror, giggling as her friends teased her red lipstick made from the cherries of a nearby tree. He sidled by a man thumping his chest, showing off his woodcutter muscles to a quartet of awe-struck ladies.
He could hear a song playing in the distance. He wandered over, his feet leading him toward the noise. It was loud, with wavering tones and thumping drums. The closer he got, the more crowded it became, and soon he found himself encased in a sea of bodies, all laughing and calling out to one another as the party commenced. People, young and old, drunk and sober,foreign and familiar, gathered each other in their arms, letting the cries of the night consume their bodies under a moonlit glow.
Within an instant someone grabbed his shoulder, dragging him into the mob. Someone passed him a small cup filled with a sweet liquid. Another placed a lilac in his hat. Another offered cotton for his ears. Another draped a necklace of golden beads around his neck. Another took off his robe and closed his fan. All of them cried out hellos and welcomes, raising their hands in a silent greeting.
He stared at his cup. He was in a memory. He knew.
It wasn’t often he had memories. A life of solitude had condemned him to forget. He had never remembered anything. He didn’t need to. With a life of infinite years, it wasn’t worth it to remember. Days passed like seconds, weeks like minutes, years like hours, centuries like days, millennials like weeks. He had seen things. He usually would want to forget them. But keeping track was like counting hay in a haystack. After a while, he simply learned to only forget. It was easier that way.
But this?
This he remembered.
He had felt happy. It was simple. This had made him feel alive.
And he remembered it.
A single party in a single place in the vast world. Like a droplet in the ocean. A blade of grass in a prairie. A speck of dust in the air. A single second in a universe. A single memory in a million years of forgetting.
He opened his mouth.
With a raucous roar of the chorus, the memory was blown away, tucked once again into the back of his mind. He leaned forward, screaming at the top of his lungs, as the lyrics swarmed his head. The crowd screamed with him, grasping him at the shoulders and calling out for more. He let himself go, the feeling of happy bliss swamping his forgetful mind of millions of years. It sat down next to his old memory, placing a comforting arm over the sad fantasy of what had been.
He raised a fist.
And he remembered.
THE END
Adia Yoeckel
Second Place, Duane Stein Short Story Writing Contest
Junior, Waukesha North High School
She Used To Be Flying
She used to be flying, but something else had come over her, now she was a dying bird, thrashing around in a net that she had never seen until it snagged her wings and she watched them fold in all the wrong ways beneath her.
Calla’s grandma had sat her down at the splintering kitchen table, fingering leftover fabrics for new trousers, a variety of browns and greens. Her mother had taught her the rules of the forest over hot buns of rye with lard. Calla had been on her mat, lying eyes pretending to be closed every night as her father came home and slipped a coin into a pocket on the underside of his mat.
Calla hadn’t known why.
Calla hadn’t cared why.
Hadn’t questioned, wondered, asked.
Now she didn’t care what direction she ran.
Leaves crunched beneath her boots as the bird with broken wings flew staggering through the trees.
New trousers that lined her legs protected them from the thorns, while the bread and coins lightly bumped against her thigh.
Light filtering through the trees glanced at her face as she ran, creating stripes of light on the brown speckled tan. The leaves were a rainbow of warmth as small yet strong hands tore them off of their branches before they had a chance to fall. Little pieces of yellow and red and orange fell from her palms – shredded – before more replaced them; ripped from their branches before Calla sank to her knees in defeat, the last pieces of the leaves sticking to the sweat on her palms. The last pieces of home hidden with her as she curled up under the base of a great maple and re-watched what she willed her mind to disintegrate into a blanket of nothing.
————————
“Calla, come here daughter.” Her father sat at the table on a chair that he had made himself – just like everything else in their home – cut out of a once great oak that had fallen from a strike of fire from the heavens.
Calla shifted the plate she was scrubbing to the other hand and glanced over to see what awaited her there. Seeing no scolding eyes or anything to fear, the plate was dropped back into the suds with a splash and bare feet transported her to her father’s lap where he hugged her to his chest, smelling of wood and mud. She played with the ends of his beard until he nudged her hands away, and then she slid them to her lap to stay there as she sat in the stillness of home.
Calla spoke, feeling old, pondering the future, “Daddy, do you think that perhaps when I’m older I’ll still wash the dishes, or will Jasper?”
At the sound of his name Jasper’s little face abandoned his wooden dragonflies for a moment, and peaked out from under the quilt. Calla smiled at him (still feeling eager for approval) and then up at her Daddy to see if he had picked up on this.
“First let’s work on the dishes a little more. Don’t deliver the plates back to the dirty water!” His dark eyes twinkled in the way they did when he was being silly, and she giggled, eyes flitting back to where she had just been standing by the buckets.
“But Calla, you know that sometimes things change, right?”
Calla nodded eagerly, glad to understand, glad to be done with the dishes, but for some reason her fathers expression dampened with her recognition.
Her eyebrows scrunched together. “What’s changing?”
A hurried smile visited his face as he assured her, “Nothing.” But her grandmother’s eyes were scanning the ceiling, and everyone went quiet as they had been the last few days (besides baby Jasper of course, and currently her mother who was hammering boards back into place outside) so Calla stood up and practiced her skipping over to the dishes.
Her toes could feel tiny hammer vibrations, and Calla pretended it was an earthquake that she could only survive by washing. Then she pictured the rumbling, the ground splitting open with a great loud boom, and Calla and her family running away, in any direction but the forest.
She couldn’t go to the forest. It wasn’t just that it was not allowed, although she preferred to avoid being scolded by her father’s disappointed voice. Toward the towering oaks and maples there was something that Mommy and Daddy had taught her to be afraid of – and eventually Jasper would be also. They weren’t oaks that produced acorn flour; yummy in grain mush, or maples that gave sweet maple sugar; sticky on one’s fingers. They made you forget.
And Calla was happy, she didn’t want to forget, so she pictured them running away from the forest, accidentally dropping the plate back in the water, wiping suds off her cheek.
————————
The ground was hard beneath her hands, bits of dust sticking to them now, caking into her trousers, blending with the brown fabric someone had somehow quilted. Blood was metalic in her throat as she panted, sobbing, head curled to her knees, willing them out of her mind.
Coins jingled in a pocket with her shaking. Someone had given her those coins. Someone who had been more than coins to her.
A pounding started in Calla’s head, pulsing and pushing.
No, the coins had always been there. The person who had given them to her hadn’t been more than these coins. No, that couldn’t be right.
But she had come home… had come from some place… after collecting the traps one day, the day someone – or perhaps a few someones – forced her to take the coins and the bread and the trousers with her. And when she came back to a place she called home –
The pulsing got worse even though the sobs had stopped with the memory.
The girl struggled to push home out of her mind, imagining shoving it away with mental hands over and over; because now that they were gone it was easier not to remember. If you don’t remember when they were there, you won’t remember…
The trees smelled so sweet, the scent wafted up her nostrils and clouded the girl’s head as she crawled to the base of a great maple, throwing herself down by some mossy roots that had fought their way up from the ground. Her eyes became heavy and fluttered as the bread flattened beneath her, and the coins settled in her pocket in the pair of patch work trousers. Who would have thought of making trousers out of patches? What a silly idea!
The tree shaded the girl, and she scrubbed her damp eyes before letting herself slip away into oblivion.
————————
The light came after a time. The girl struggled to her feet, legs aching, and blinked away the sleep before examining her scratched hands, pondering what could’ve brought about the few red lines.
The girl was in the woods.
The girl was by a great maple.
The girl was happy.
There was something foggy in the back of her mind, but it didn’t really matter.
Nothing really did.
She sighed happily and began to walk. She passed great trees, branches reaching down towards her, the light that got through the leaves dancing on her lashes.
She giggled, and began to run, black hair flowing uneasily behind her.
Something flowed through her mind, some fragment of something that she didn’t know. “Don’t run to the woods…”
A green leaf was plucked from its stem and torn apart in frustration trying to decode this phrase. Then a red one, then a yellow. Her feet carried her faster now, over to a pine that she pushed through the needles of; to the trunk, and climbed to her height, stomach grumbling in displeasure as she fingered the rough bark. Something was pressed against her leg, so a grubby hand pulled out a mauled piece of rye bread with lard. The lard had left a stain that soaked through the pocket of a pair of patch work pants.
The girl was in a pine tree, hair shining in the morning light.
The girl was wearing patchwork trousers with coins in a pocket and smashed bread in another.
The girl was hungry.
The girl was tired.
The rye bread tasted rich and yummy. The girl’s fingers played with her hair, twirling it around as she ate greedily, crumbs falling down in her haste. She didn’t make the bread, and did not like not knowing where it came from, so she shoved the last of it back into the stained green pocket, and hopped down from her branch. Her feet landed on the dusted needley ground, but she heard a rip, discovering with displeasure that her trousers had gotten hooked on a branch and torn. Her mind began to race, she didn’t like that they had torn, but she didn’t know why they mattered so much to her. Realization came, she loved them. Just as she loved the roll. And what was in this pocket? Coins. She loved the coins, so she fingered them as she continued walking, mind working faster and faster until it became hard to breathe.
The girl wanted to know how they had gotten there. Someone’s hands had sewn the pants, and kneaded the dough, and been given the coins before her. Something pulled in her chest and her eyes got glassy again. She wanted to know these people. They were not here, oh why were they not here?
She passed a great maple she vaguely remembered from a while ago, mossy roots were spider-webbing over the ground.
She remembered the maple.
She remembered hands.
Remembered work.
Remembered a good feeling inside, deep, deep down.
And she wanted to find it again, must’ve had it sometime before, now wanted it back. The girl was not happy. She wanted to know about them, who they were, how they got there.
Calla passed the great maple, leaning up against it and holding in tears. She would find in her mind the memories of the maker of the trousers, the bread and the coins. She couldn’t fly. No, not again. But she could walk, wade through her mind; find them in the process. Calla wanted to remember, even if those in the memory were not destined to be found again.
THE END
Paige Weber
Second Place, Duane Stein Short Story Writing Contest
Sophomore, Slinger High School
The Boy Called E
The bleeding yolk of the Sun, infects the sky with it’s ochre. Blotted out by clouds no wispier than a balding man’s last hairs, something brews beneath the net of the city’s smog, feet kicking cans with sneakers much too beaten. In lilted, childlike voices, they whisper of a dangerous game, of a boy sitting upon the tracks of the noon train. Like a toddler mid-tantrum he sits spread eagle, pouring water upon the dirt, only to watch it muddy then dry.
Parallel to him is a bag, squatting upon the grass like a dog that needs relief, thread-bare, and water stained, a pencil having protruded from the corner. His ears gain tints of pink, his face of purple, as bile tickles the back of his throat, but written in the goosebumps on his skin is the belief that he must wait.
He must wait until his teeth can kiss the metallic chrome of the train’s grill, until his tongue can taste the iron, and his eyes can read over every ding and chip– the story of the train’s journey formulating in his mind.
It’s in his ears, a clock winding down, the whistle of the train near. He hates the sound of Mama’s watch, yet he puts it beneath his pillow; as a reminder that days are only hours, and hours only minutes. However, at this moment, time stands still.
His past follows him, similar to a puppy nipping at his heels, tugging at the hem of his pants, only to bow in front of him as if to play; scratching at the door the boy of 15 refuses to open.
The Sun is a dial, lowering with time, hiding in the recesses of the horizon, and the boy is a tree taking root, unmoving as the wind robs him of his hat, revealing hair finger- pulled and inky. He sits in the silence too long, he sits on the track whose cold metal bites, and he sits in the place that scares him the most. For there is a looming shadow of death here, and it lingers, blessing him with it’s scythe, shaving the hair from his nape. You can see Death in the space between the rails, one shoe, a permanent reminder of the day the train came too close. It’s a ghost seared on his eyelids, a name that bleeds his tongue–the snake writhing in his gullet.
He may be fifteen, but once he was eight.
Skim-milk skinned, he ran with the fire of his Mother’s wrath licking at his feet. He was to come home as the street lights awakened; city fireflies atop their steel posts. Ethan had been an eleven to his eight, with honeyed hair and a sugared tongue; he was the child grandparents loved and teachers hated. Collecting bruises like a Girl Scout collecting badges, Ethan was as much barbarian as he was a boy.
He was the kid who viewed life as a toy.
Slowdown, downturn, standstill, there is a sense of inactivity in a town with four retirement homes in two blocks. A pause that lingers longer than lemon on the tongue, a taste of bitterness to the air.
He was the boy called E.
Cry by cry, caught in the tangles and tension of true distress, E’s Mother walked as if it were a burden to keep her shoulders upright; yet, in the darkest moments, she would bow forward again, only to sink her head between her knees.
Speaking as if reading from a teleprompter, she spoke with eyes glassy and unwinking, sometimes preaching only to chasms of empty air.
She was a childless Mother—
the boy on the tracks, a brotherless blood brother.
One morning, when greeted by a dose of rare clarity, she had gone to his grave and walked round and round the only stone without moss or lichen, and screamed as if to serenade any passerby, humiliating tears watering roses, brown and shedding. With great care, she sat in the sudden and awkward silence, whispering in a voice so shrill even the crows were silenced,” I’m trying E.”
The train comes at noon, but once it came early; teetering on the tracks’ grave edge, defying the gravity of falling— untouched by time. The boy on the tracks has fallen like dust from rafters, the mesh of grief changing perspectives, making memories two-tones darker. There is a gully in one’s gullet that twists when wrong, but he must push through it. It is a mockery for the Sun to rise in spite— for the clouds to fly, for all motion to stop, yet the boy still feels himself breathing.
The end of this tale is not one of woe, but understanding. For, he himself may not know many things, but he knows what his brother felt as the train approached. It is a fear so deep it cuts the bone, leaving the engravement of its name.
For his brother, he will face that everyday.
THE END
Harper Pugh
First Place, Century Fence Middle and High School Poetry Contest
Freshman, Waukesha West High School
Free Transportation
With a stroke of a pen, the touch to a keyboard,
I simply marvel over a tempest of words.
Beautiful princesses with flowy dresses
match perfect pitch with cartoon bluebirds.
When reading a good book
I often feel transported.
My realities meet fantasies
and my mind is oddly distorted.
I walk into the Milwaukee Public Market
as the smell of freshly baked coconut cake wafts through the air.
immediately my eyes open and
now I’m standing there:
horrified with the realization
that another woman’s clothes lay on his floor.
Soon I drift back to my own life
back behind my bedroom door.
The mythical wonders of Harry Potter take me from magical classrooms to enchanted forests
all with the turn of a page.
Even crazy fire breathing dragons will all seem real to me
while their breaths of fire reek of rage.
Sometimes I prefer Stan Lee’s superheroes
who do tricks and flips and always save the day.
and other times I like to fall in love
with the characters on a tropical getaway.
I could be walking downtown
across the smoothly paved roads
and then my mind will transport
to a tired town named Maycomb.
My nostrils flare
with a sharp scent of smoke
Soon my neck tightens up
and in my throat, I begin to choke.
The fire blazing
from Miss Maudie’s house gets brighter.
Very, very later
arrive the brave firefighters.
A man appears behind me
and wraps me in a tight embrace.
Soon my arms and legs are warm though my heart
begins
to
pace.
His pasty white skin
is hard to see within the darkness.
Yet somehow his family
is still presumed heartless.
Reading can take me to a place
whilst I am still sitting down,
the 1900’s lingo
could never make me frown.
Without a passport, or a plane ticket
we can travel anywhere we like.
I know it seems crazy,
but you don’t always need a 6AM flight.
Why crack open my wallet
when I can crack open a book?
With a little faith, trust and pixie dust,
I only need a quick look
A page can brighten my smile,
stream tears down my cheeks,
Perch me on the edge of my seat,
or keep me thinking for weeks.
Even take me back to fourth grade reading,
clenching my jaw, biting my nails.
Trying to stop the tears from falling
a tearjerker never fails.
Despite my elementary efforts,
the tears still come in waves.
They skip the paperback in my lap,
landing on Old Dan and Little Ann’s graves.
I’m standing alone in the woods,
then atop the beautiful hillsides
Snapped back by my teacher’s comforting words
and all the sadness subsides.
As a red fern emerges
from the deep ground full of sorrow
I slowly bring myself back to my classroom
but melancholy stays until tomorrow
So lose yourself in fiction.
Learn to dodge the lightsaber blows.
Travel the galaxy in the privacy of your mind
it might come in handy-who knows?
The End
Frankie Bartelt
Second Place, Century Fence Middle and High School Student Poetry Contest
Freshman, Kettle Moraine High School
Letters, Words, Stories
Letters on a page
Leading to worlds unknown
They show you a new age
One you’ve never been
Letters forming words
Describing a galaxy unknown
They show you things you’ve never seen
Places you’ve never been
Letters turning into Words
Making universes unknown
They show you people you’ve never known
People you’ve never met
Letters
Lead me to new worlds
Describe a galaxy for me to explore
Make universes for me to live in
I never know where they will take me next,
Words on a page
Leading to worlds unknown
They show you a new age
One you’ve never been
Words forming stories
Describing a galaxy unknown
They show you things you’ve never seen
Places you’ve never been
Words turning into stories
Making universes unknown
They show you people you’ve never known
People you’ve never met
Words
Lead me to new worlds
Describe a galaxy for me to explore
Make universes for me to live in
I never know where they will take me next,
Stories on a page
Leading to worlds unknown
They show you a new age
One you’ve never been
Stories forming life
Describing a galaxy unknown
They show you things you’ve never seen
Places you’ve never been
Stories turning into life
Making universes unknown
They show you people you’ve never known
People you’ve never met
Stories
Lead me to new worlds
Describe a galaxy for me to explore
Make universes for me to live in
I never know where they will take me next,
Letters turn into words
Words turn into stories
Stories turn into life
Where will they take me next..?
The letters will take me to a new world
The words will take me to a new galaxy
The stories will take me to a new universe
The Letters, Words, Stories, will take me to a new life.
The End
