The Bus StopJane came to an abrupt stop three feet away from the sheltered bus stop and stared at the strange boy tucked away in the far corner of the bench. His left knee was drawn up to his chest and his head was resting against it, but her view of his face was obscured by his arm. He was perfectly still, but the brilliant yellows and blues of his clothes made him stand out against the dull grey of the city. Jane swallowed and moved to sit down opposite of him. Once she was safely under the glass roof, she folded her umbrella carefully and set it down at her side. The boy took no notice of her.It was a rainy Monday morning and Jane was on her way to the diner downtown where she worked as a waitress. Each day she would wake up early and put on her rather plain looking uniform so that she could hike two miles to the bus stop. It was a rather boring and monotonous existence, but she couldn't quite recall a time when her life hadn't been that way. She didn't go out with friends. In fact, she didn't
A Mirror to BreakI know your name, And I see we're the sameBut in my anger, I'll put you in dangerThough I'm on a stage; Playing a part for every age; The one that's all the rageI know your name, And I see we're the sameYou're the mirror, And as I draw nearerIt's you I'll try to see, But I'll only find me, UnhappilyI know your name, And I see we're the sameThat's why, in my fear, I threw those rocks at that mirrorDenial I'd try, Making you die, But destruction was always, only, Mine.
The BulliesThrowing names at a young girl like knives,Cutting through her happy smile,Teasing, jeering the bullies rise,Laughing at the tears she cries.Shes scared to tell her teachers howThe bullies jeer and beat her,Her friends try to help but do not knowHow deep the wounds from the bullies words go.She tries to hold her tears at baySo the bullies cannot see howTheir knife like words cut into herAnd slowly, surely break her.At night she cries herself to sleepAnd dreams of being beaten up,She cannot escape the bullies grasp,For her to smile is too much to ask.They do not stop, until one day,The girl does not arrive at school,They discover the girl is dead,A suicide note left upon her bed.
The coin manThere is a man in the mountains who has a lot of money. Or it would likely seem a lot of money to you and me, but, given the unlikelihood that he'll ever spend any of it, the lot is less like a lot of money, and more like an enormous collection of coins. These coins are not particularly special; not to you and me; no particular countries of origin, no specific years, no arrangement, nothing unique.He just likes coins.He has a wooden house, but no beard to speak of, and he's had a wife- more than once. He doesn't spend a lot time around the town, but he usually has a smile and a wave at the ready.He is very, very satisfied.And he really has a lot of coins.
HosannaI kneel before the alterOvercome with wonderAt that sweet, sweet soundIn church halls resounds.All young and old,Dispelling winters coldWith my Daily BreadYou've given, then dead.You are the air I breathMy lungs finally relieved.