Night breathes slowly here sighs as it wraps around the marble stones rounded edges softened by so much time.

The wind is patient as it rustles through the ivy that climbs the iron gates and brushes the names etched deep, each letter a song once sung but now silent.

An owl calls out from an oak curious lullaby, its echoes wrapping around the branches where shadows fall asleep.

You touch the stone of an old angel, her wings smooth, worn by rain, hands folded in forever prayer.

The night sky spills stars like seeds and you feel them almost planting themselves in your open palms.

The moon lingers a bit longer, the silver light pools at your feet, and the breeze brushes by, carrying only the scent of lilacs blooming even now.

“Hey, bro.”

“Hey”

“You guys wanna come to the beach with me?”

“Sure man”

“Heck yeah”

“You know it”

at the beach

“Looks pretty busy my guy”

“C’mon then”

“Wait a sec”

“Wait now dude?”

“They’re naked bro”

“Where are your binoculars I need to see them”

“Here you go bro”

“Thanks”

“I didn’t know it was a nude beach”

“Hot diggitty damn”

“What?”

“These girls are hot as heck”

“Girls? I wanna see MEN!”

The old man’s heart stoped beating All alone he died in bed For not a soul cared he was dead With all the sins he was condemned

The Angel picked his soul up And lifted him from all that’s painful Before he would reach his fate He whispered, “dance with me Angel.”

The man was not a pure human He was a sinner in his soul And the Angel knew all that The Angel saw the broken man as a whole

But the Angel danced with him Forgetting all the mans sins And they dances up top the clouds With no thought of coming down.

The Angels feet were as quick as rain As the Angel span his mortal hands Heavens music lightly played Like an angelic marching band.

For eternity they danced On the cloud he had a chance To be at peace with all he’d done In the Angels perfect trance.

It's warm, bordering on almost too warm. But, you know fall is encroaching, and that makes the sun all the more welcome on your skin. You can move to the shade of any number of large trees if you choose.

The view is expansive, mountains in the distance beckon to be explored, when you are ready. The small lake across from you reflects the blue sky. There are other people around, but they are only characters in a book.

You can passively watch them, make up stories in your head, and let them go. You are just an observer here, soaking up the late summer sun.

The dappling of the light under the trees is almost hypnotic, and would be easy to drift into a light doze on your blanket. You don't have to be anywhere to be, and the dog is snoring peacefully next to you.

So today I had an English Language Paper 1, Question 5 to do. And the thing for the story was ‘something turns out unexpectedly’.

So naturally I wrote about mermaids. Because why not?

There’s a good reason I don’t do description questions, because I’m not that brilliant at them. Still, I used the title in mine to basically describe this underwater trench where the former king’s body was dumped, and the water’s been turned white with his blood.

I… I have been struggling with ideas for today’s writing, alright?

The community pool is my favorite place to hang out, especially if I’m the only one swimming laps. Morning usually is a good time for me. I just do the backstroke for maybe a half hour, letting the motion of my arms create a zen. I like how the sunshine warms the pool and quiet surroundings because most people have gone to work. This environment clears my mind of confusion and worry, and I am able to contemplate with no interruptions to my train of thought. Solutions and answers creep in to my consciousness when I am in this state of tranquility. The repetitive motion coupled with refreshing coolness of the water on my skin refreshes my mind and emotions as well.

She looked around the small prison cell that had become her home. Below her, the cement floors were beginning to reveal small cracks in their foundation. On the walls of the small space that had been assigned to her, she had decided to take a cue from Anne Frank, during her days in captivity, and as decor, she hung posters of her favorite actresses on the wall.

As she sat on her bed, looking at the posters on the otherwise bare, white walls, she felt immensely disheartened. All throughout her life, she had been surrounded by so many women that she had the opportunity to learn from. She had been exposed, through literature, film, and media outlets, to women that encouraged young people to prioritize themselves and their educations. And yet, there she was, laying on a twin size bed, with only a thin white comforter covering her legs, looking longingly at the actresses that stared back at her.

She had researched them, of course. She had utilized her time in the prison library to develop a greater understanding of how they had not fallen prey to some of the situations that she had. Now, of course, that was all behind her. Now, of course, she was living with the consequences of her actions, while the actresses that adorned the otherwise boring walls, were living their lives to the fullest, excelling for not making the same decisions she had.

She thought back to the life she had lived prior to her confinement to a prison cell, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Gone was the chaos that had once overstimulated her mind, preventing her from thinking for herself. Gone was the madness that had once enveloped her life. Gone. It was all gone.

She crossed her legs and assumed a comfortable position on her bed, before opening her book to read. Of course, she had not made peace with her decisions. Instead, she found peace and tranquility away from turmoil.

The ground is cool beneath my feet With the heat of the day rising into the air. Glancing at the setting sun, my eyes linger up towards the dark clouds; Noticing that each one has metamorphosed into the day’s struggles. But this darkness is a part of my life that I can accept, Even if it’s out of my control. The colors beneath the clouds cascade through the sky; The beauty of which is captured in a perfect mix of Red, orange, yellow, pink, and blue. I sit back enjoying the feel of the earth beneath me But laugh as the serene moment is broken by the creatures of the night. Birds begin to touch down by the water lapping at my feet; Frogs make themselves known with a hoarse croak. I take a deep breath and place my shoes back on Knowing I’ll be here again to bask in the setting sun.

There is a place. It is a place in my dreams. The place is just down the road, probably off the corner of Walnut and 14 mile. It's always off a corner, never adjacent. The place is in the woods, or rather, it is the woods. It’s close but it “contains multitudes” (to quote Whitman, or better yet, Bobby D). I have entered it off Walnut and emerged near Bent-tree, Bennett Park, and even upstate Washington. (These places aren’t near each other.) I’ve wandered The Place and discovered friends from grade school, likewise wandering. Sometimes they’re my age, sometimes they don’t age. Sometimes they’re long dead. But not in The Place. In The Place, they are fishing. Or building a tree fort. Or sword fighting with sticks — very much alive. One time there was a dinosaur. I was four and terrified. That’s how long I've visited this place. Describing the place overlooks its importance. Because The Place is not a place. I mean, obviously, it is a place, otherwise why the name? But the place is also a person. He is my dad, and he’s almost always with me there. The whole purpose of The Place is to spend time with dad. Sometimes we are cutting and gathering wood. Sometimes we’re hunting. Sometimes we say we’re hunting but we’re just walking with no guns. (It’s funny how in dreams we can forget something important but act like nothing’s wrong.) One time we entered off Walnut and discovered an illegal lumber operation — logging, cutting, and storing lumber. It was illegal because The Place is always public land — either state or federally owned. We helped ourselves to some firewood and fucked off home. We could hear the trucks and skidders and harvesters beeping and grinding in the background. Machines are not welcome in The Place because their cacophony disrupts the natural sound of the forest. My dad passed recently and I’ve looked forward to visiting him again in The Place. That’s the corner of my subconscious he dwells. It’s a safe and quiet place where we can share coffee from a thermos and catch up. But I haven’t been back since that day. I’ve meant to, but I haven’t managed to find myself there. It’s free to visit, but I bought a ticket anyway. And it's been burning a hole in my pocket ever since.

Walking barefoot with my sleeping baby wrapped to my chest, I hunt for flowers and leaves with my four year old son, Jayce. It’s late morning and the sky is crystal clear and welcoming as if to greet us on this beautiful new day. Honeysuckle flowers fill the air with their sweet, earthy scent-one of my favorites at this time of year. As I listen to the birds serenading each other in the tree tops, I soak in the sun and silently thank Mother Nature for all she has selflessly given to us. The gentle summer breeze lifts the bottom of my skirt, the hem dancing along the grass. “Look, Mommy!”, Jayce says. “Look what I found!”. I smile at him and kneel down to get a closer look at his new treasure. “That’s a dandelion”, I tell him. “Close your eyes and make a wish, then blow on it as hard as you can”. He shuts his eyes for a moment before exhaling with a comically exaggerated blow. The little white wisps got carried away by the wind as Jayce giggles and tries to catch them with his hands.