Writing From Roseau

And from Seraphina, Gracie, and Cayden.

Returning to Autumn
by Seraphna Johnstun

I step outside, shivering as the wind slaps me full in the face––

October is the warning of winter

My worn sneaker crunches on a bed of leaves

and suddenly I’m six year old again

running home from school, dumping my cares and backpack in the mudroom

and leaping into the diamond sky

collapsing on the colors of autumn

building my leafy palace––a bedroom here, the kitchen goes there––

and the breeze playing with my hair

As the sky deepens, 

I shove my palace into a heap

And leap one more time

landing in the present

I wonder why I can taste tears

It’s probably just because of the ferocious wind in my face

But even as I brush off the tears, and I hop onto the bus,

I can’t forget

The crunch of autumn leaves.

 

My Old Home
by Seraphina Johnstun

it was like this: 

a red-walled kitchen,

the dining room

where a four-year-old boy banged his head on the radiator (he still has the scar)

a pink bedroom fit for princesses

and then

there was the kingdom.

a rusty swingset, a sandbox that would spit splinters

and the best place of all: 

The Tree.

the one that had a ladder we’d all clamber up

the little playhouse handmade by my hardworking father

the one we painted painstakingly––yellow, white, gray, blue

the tree I’d scurry into when I was upset

and be comforted by its swaying trunks and branches

well, when you’re nine, you don’t really understand 

“moving.” 

when we left, I thought we’d come back.

we never did.

I saw that house again last summer. 

The Tree was gone.

the people who live there now much have cut it down. I guess

some of my childhood was cut down with it. 

 

WUA, my Car
By Gracie Drown

I have a free soul. I go as fast as I want. Make sharp turns, runover curbs.
I’m fairly old, don’t have cruise control, no spot for an aux cord. My AC doesn’t even work anymore, but windows can roll down.

 

Hunting
By Cayden Loken

Right there, through the cold air
Standing in the sweet field with chewy seeds
Birds chirping early in the morning
Window open, the gun out, finger
On the trigger, then they’re gone.
Next day, more than usual
Sun is setting just above the trees
And there, 50 yards out, then
A bang happens, there. Lying 50
yards out.

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