Lost and Found by Alyssa H

Her eyes were there

A puddled mess

But her soul was lost

Begging to be missed

My hands were there

A trembling wreck

But my heart was gone

Searching for a home

Her feet were there

An always ready escape

But her mind was muddled

Needing to be saved

You see, she and I

We were like the waves

We were in and out

Of our emotions

Like people walking in and out of caves

Excited when it starts

But then crumbling at the exit

Because the world is a scary place

And we have no choice

But to live in it

You see, she and I

We were like the sky

Bright in the morning

But by the time the night came

It was as though we had never smiled

Because we were so dark

The world thought us gone

You see, she and I

We’re a different kind

Built for tears

Broken hearts

And lost souls

Trapped behind words

That will never be ours to hold

You see, she and I

We’re both lost and found

Searching for ourselves

Even as we are held by each other

Even as the words breathed from our lips Say ‘yes, I am okay’

When in reality

What they mean to say

Is ‘I am full of heartbreak’

And ‘I am full of pain’

You see, in this world

We cannot say those things

Or think those things

We’re meant to be pretty girls

On a pedestal for other girls

To look at and be amazed

You see, she and I

Are both lost and found

In the hands of others

I cannot stand my ground

At the feet of the merciless

My heart is on the floor

A sunken treasure

But when I am beside her

My world comes to life

An ambition through the night

When all is dark

As my heart would be

If it were not for her

You see, with her I am found

With her I am whole

With her I am myself

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Group Short Story – The UCF Mystery

Each year, members of the club come together to write a short story. Below is the group short story from the 2017-2018 school year, written by 23 members of the club.

Read this year’s story HERE.

Thanks to everyone who contributed!

Red by Sofia H

What do you think of red?

Hitler and the Nazis?

An angry child?

A splitting headache?

A bullfighter’s taunting cape?

Red is like any color

It has a purpose and meaning

Just like you and me

It is a misunderstood color

This of it this way:

Anger most often comes from pain

From the red blood coursing through our veins

As it leaks out of an open wound

Emotions that strike the core of our very heart

Breakups and losses

But red dries to black

Grief, mourning, and sadness

The anger subsides

And we are worn

Tired

Sad

Member’s Choice Awards!

Vote for your favorites! Winners will be announced at our next meeting. You can read the pieces at the links below.

Poetry

Sofia C.  Soulmates

Kasey P.  Aftermath

Alyssa H.  Hurricane of Insanity

Grace T.  A Fallen King

 

Fiction

Crisit M.  Indiana

Ya’Mirah T.  2:05

Naomi A.  Will you be the Juliet to my Romeo?

Grace T.  Dance of the Eclipse

 

NonFiction

Mary-Kelly R.  Why reading is important to a writer

Grace R.  There’s Always Room For Improvement

Kaitlynn F.   What Makes a Writer

Mary-Kelly R.  Finding Poetry in Our Lives

Beautiful by Eshanie WH

Beautiful

I looked in the mirror

And told myself

“I am Beautiful”

Aftermath by Kasey P.

The stench.

The stench of death lay heavy on the land;

Like a thick blanket of fog.

The dead and the living lay side by side on the soft, but broken, grass.

The dead lay motionless, wounds stitched into their cold, pale skin like a collection of tattoos.

The living lay filled with pain, their words few but thoughts many;

Wallowing in their prolonged suffering.

The unscathed are few and scattered like leaves in the breeze;

Scurrying between the dead and alive alike, picking up anything salvageable.

Although some escaped the physical harm, War left its fingerprint on all;

No one would forget it, no one would forgive it.

Spring by Kaylee E

Spring is calling my name,
yet she doesn’t have much fame,
The flowers are blooming, and there is no rain,
Humming birds zooming, and bee’s are going insane.

Flowers are dancing,
With the wind that is racing,
And birds are singing,
The canaries are ranting.

No clouds in the sky,
The rain deer’s come out, to say “Hi”,
The birds fly high,
as well as the butterflies,
Pollen stops by,
And the flowers seem bright.

I will not lie,
I will not say this in vain,
I truly love spring, why?
She’s calling my name!

Meeting This Week!

Harks and alarms! Greetings and Salutations, Scribblers!

Our next meeting is this Thursday, May 10, 7-8pm EST.

During this meeting we will be having a lot of fun in a grab bag of writing topics. Remember our last meeting of the year is May 24th, where we will be celebrating the year and handing out awards!
If you’re not able to join us this week, I will send out information and the recording link.
Please sign in with your first and last name for attendance.

Open Mic
Want to read some of your writing at this week’s meeting or have someone else read it?
Open Mic Requirements:
-This is our last open mic of the year.
-You must email your piece by Wednesday, May 9.
-You can submit fiction, poetry, or non-fiction.
-Your piece or excerpt should be 500 words or less.
-Pieces must be school appropriate. Pieces should not be explicitly political, religious, or intimate.
-Pieces will be read on a first come, first served basis as time allows.

Note: We will no longer be taking any new blog submissions. If you already sent me something, it is in the queue and will be posted, but not new submissions will be accepted for the year.

Please let me know if you have any questions, and I hope to see you soon!

Why Do We Need It? By Gabrielle H.

Graduation requires volunteers
But what about my own fears?
School teaches I must help one another
But what about the warnings of my mother?
“There are many dangers”
But she also said “don’t talk to strangers”

They say it’s required
But I’m sheltered, what experience have I acquired?
They say volunteer work is assigned
But isn’t there a reason I do my schoolwork ONLINE?
I can’t communicate with others, I don’t speak publically, at school
I have OCD, people treat me like some mental fool!

Now another course asks me the same thing
But for me this is another sting
Another problem to stack
Another time to be looked and treated as a quack
But don’t they know, can’t they see;
It’s not the true me, it’s all my OCD?
Can’t they see
The “normal” person I’m trying to be?

Writing by Sarah B

Writing is so hard to control.
I can’t make the words stop,
I can’t make them go.
Everything I write turns out to be a flop.

I can’t write anything.
I can’t write poetry,
I can’t write fiction.
I can’t even make it realistic.
Oh, writer’s block does make my heart sting.

Writing’s much too hard, you see.

I can’t figure it out.
No, I just can’t do it.
Writing’s not for me.