Jason stood before the iron door.
  What brought me here? he thought. Was it fate, or destiny...?
  A rough shove jerked him out of his thoughts.
  "What d'you want, soldier?" barked a voice.
  Jason stiffened involuntarily. Of course it would be Kantorek Raven, third-in-command, and one of the nastiest people around. He saluted, forcing himself to not look annoyed. "I needed to talk to you."

Robin

 The school year surprises Dillon with its swiftness, despite the lethargy and monotony of his classes.  Late fall comes, and with it comes Hayley.  She hasn't been in Dillon's apartment for two hours, and she is already begging to go to class with him.  Dillon had expected her to want to rest for a day or so, and is unprepared for the verbal attack.

"No, you're not coming," Dillon mumbles at her, throwing his textbooks into his backpack.

She leans on the table, her straight brown hair tumbling over her arms.  "Why not?" she demands, her eyes laughing at him.

Love is patient, love is kind. I does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. I always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails. 1 Corinthians 4-8.

(Another one of those poems I wrote for that thing my friends and I do where someone picks a word and we write a poem about, inspired by, and/or using that word. This time it was "stare".)

She stares at the stars
With a starry-eyed stare.
A bunch of small star flowers
Adorn her red hair.
In her new pale green dress,
All trimmed with fine lace,
She's perfectly lovely;
The picture of grace.
As she watches the stars,
He sits beside her and stares;
But it's not at the stars
That he's staring.

**Hello there! I haven't been on here enough lately and I haven't posted anything in far too long, no thanks to school, writer's block and feeling just generally uninspired. But here for you to hopefully enjoy is a little something I wrote a month or two ago when given the topic "poke".

"Me! Me! Listen to me!"

The voice in my head fairly screams.

"No, I, I! The better idea is mine."

It's the start of a cacophany

.

In comparison to the first

relatively quiet voice

the next onslaught

is devastating

My creativity, a kind of curse

to what sort of choice,

am I to be brought?

(though to listen in is fascinating!)

This idea, that idea,

what idea is the best?

This plan, that plot,

can you just give me a rest?