There she sits, unreachable
To him. He is so imperfect.
She sits across the table,
But he still feels so wrecked.

There she sits, unreachable
To him. He just cannot reach,
This girl who means so much to him,
But he cannot form speech.

There she sits, unreachable
To him. He just needs some courage,
To get their friendship together again,
But he has extra baggage.

There she sits, unreachable
To him. Now he is walking over,
She will turn to smile at him,
And he has the luck of a four leaf clover.

Pale ochre light leaked out from half shut shades, lazily reflecting off the blackened brick walls of the ally to cast eerie, ever shifting patterns across the network of broken stones. She walked, or attempted to, as her legs begged to run, or at least jog through the horrid place to get into the suns fading light. Yet as frightened and quick as her little heart beat in her chest, she forcibly kept her pace to a quick step. This was not the first time walking through the scant, dirt encrusted area of town.

Glorious are weekly writing contests... but only if you can keep up. I had to call a hiatus for one week, then the next week I couldn't keep up with my own contest. So, this week, my best friend's contest was a little more managable: 

Condensing Thoughts   

In 200 words or less, you must ...   

~ explain the unique way a child was transported to another world (made up by you) to have an adventure;   

~ explain a fictional idea of how a custom or phrase came about, such as a story behind the name of something we use now;   

**Both short, though unrelated.**

{1} Untitled (and possibly unfinished?)

the girl up on the balcony—
it's so dark, she's a shadow, she's unseen
high up in the rafters
she can hear the coughing, she can hear the laughter
she can see the magic and she can see the actors.

she's like a stormcloud up there, waiting
look out, it just might start raining.

{2} "Nightmares"

“To tell the truth, I don’t know where to start. My fathers name is Ronertan and is a merchant ship captain, so he is gone pretty much all year long. That is his life and he loves it more than even family. Not that my father is selfish or mean he just loves his work.

‘Shadows crisscross, streets do too
Like delicate web interwoven
Around these young and searching two
The pattern it does show them.

And like a forest’s trees the stone
Rises up and skyward
Through the night the day has glowed
With the rising sun’s orange fire

From where the bell’s last echo fades
Time clicks and ticks and runs away
And there the little beggar’s gone
The sweet and lovely morning: Dawn’