Highway Lullaby

By: Hunter Towne

 

Silence makes a sound
don’t you think?
Sometimes I can’t sleep
because the silence is so loud.

There is something about the nothing,
the absolute emptiness of a place
like walking through a forest on a snowy night.

Silence scares me.

I grew up in town
close to the highway
and the constant hum of tires on tar
has sung me to sleep the past 15 years.

Sometimes we go to a farm
in New Hampshire.
It’s beautiful
and I treasure my time there.
But I have a hard time sleeping.

It is just
so
so
so
quiet,
yet, so
so
so
loud.

Silence has a sound
don’t you think?

Hunter Towne is 15 years old; she lives in Freeport, Maine.



The Red and White Campbell's Beef Noodle Soup Can

By: Andrew Li

The red and white Campbell’s Beef Noodle Soup can,

created by heavy, hurting, hands, in a faded factory,

sits, idly.

 

It has the same mellow, metallic, touch as others of its kind.

It has the same lackluster label as others of its kind.

 

It has the

same

soggy

soup

as others of its kind.

 

The price, nineteen cents, is printed boldly on the lid,

and the can is shipped off to a shop in Manhattan,

where a man comes everyday to buy it.

The man, Andy is his name,

whips out two dimes, grabs the can,

and tells the storekeeper to keep the change.

 

He returns to his easel in his studio

and opens the can

and takes in the boring bland aroma of the soup

and he consumes it like his mouth is a black hole

devouring the universe of beef, noodles, and soggy soup.

 

Yet it doesn’t deter him from buying another,

and another,

until twenty years have gone by.

 

Andrew Li, 18, Singapore

 

 

 

 

 


My Outspoken Mother

By: Chloe Basch

My Outspoken Mother

 

She gave me fear.

She gave me hate.

She eyed me with disgust.

She gave me strength.

 

The fire escaped her lungs

And the flood absconded with her brain.

She resides

Withered away,

A novel amongst stories.

She fell off the shelf,

She snapped.

The ink that was once forced onto the paper,

That yearned to paint the world a different color;

Instead her words painted the limited pages.

 

Her spine shatters

Her pages wrinkle.

Her cover fractures,

And her story is forgotten.

Gone.

 

Her story told the truth

And that is why she died.

We cannot know the truth,

For then the world would not be poverty stricken.

The world would not be

 

broken

 

If there were more stories like her.

 

They did it

They ripped her pages

Burnt her cover.

They silenced what couldn’t be heard.

They killed the spark of fire left

Because that spark caused a conflagration.

 

The fire consumed libraries

Because they told lies.

It spread to schools

And buried the ashes.

Because they told lies.

She didn’t fall.

She didn’t burn.

Her story wasn’t forgotten.

 

Forgotten like mine

Like my father’s

Like my sister’s.

 

Her infamous truth did not overpower the lies that are enforced.

It did not flood every library

Every school;

But it killed everything that made me fit in.

Everything that made me the same

 

Chloe Basch,11, NY,NY USA