Frightfully frigid is my body under these sheets,
Albeit not in this dream.
Long streams of sweat gleam down my body with a glisten as I run from the unknown.
Longing and wishing to be free,
Inches from the edge of the cliff, and I breathe.
Not going to do it, I hesitate, but then I leap. Eyes wide open,
Glowing moonbeams glint through my window, and I awake to see them.
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Broken Glass
Of all the students Mr. Benedick expected to see in his office, he did not expect the boy who was sitting there. What grade was this one, he thought? He walked over to his desk, looked at the folder Ms. Diner had left out for him, and opened it. There was a photo inside of it, taken from last year’s picture day. Not much growth; not too different. The boy sitting in front of him had nothing strange or unusual in his file, if a child’s life defined by having “nothing disruptive or regretful” in it could be called fine. Mr. Benedick also realized that “life” was an anagram of “file,” and wondered where that thought came from as he stared at the boy in front of him. Benny Duncan. Grade Four. Beloved by all his teachers so far. He had seen the boy playing with the other boys his age in the school yard at recess. Four Square and foot hockey. A normal-looking kid. A normal kid… And here he was, after a very stupid moment with the fire alarm and a shoe.
By Kendall Defoe 7 days ago in Fiction
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