Past Pieces of the Week
This is a collection of all the past pieces that have been chosen for Piece of the Week.
Writing
Haematology
by Nathan Brahmstadt
The liquid life squirms silently.
His heart is racing violently.
The circular path it’s traveling.
Delivering necessities almost instantly.
We take this all for granted.
It’s molecularly miraculous.
It’s amazing what keeps us
So alive.
What would we do without it?
It’s such an invention, why do people doubt that?
When obviously it’s a plan for greater purpose.
With consistent proof all around us…
But an inner drought causes death.
This is it…
One last breath.
Adventure
by Paige Ferry
I want to be in the hands of an artist
Painting frozen and forgotten fields
Exploring the strong salty seas
Relaxing next to babbling brooks
I want to feel the paper transform before me
To hear lead whisper quietly
That soft "shhh" "shhh" "shhh" that creates
Grey and white patterns across crisp paper
To watch the story bloom like a flower at my fingertips
I want to jump in to a book,
Go on an adventure with castles and dragons
Make someone's dream come true,
Always have the happy ending
I want it to come alive with imagery
By writing about grandma's cooking
The savory smell of hearty soup waft from paper
Cinnamon and apples from fresh baked crisp glide over your tongue
Hear the sound of grandpa snoring in the next room over
And feel the well worn carpet and that very reliable couch
I want a meaningful life
To show people places no one has heard of
Never erasing a moment because
mistakes are worth the space
I want to cause all of this.
But my life is short lived
Because I run out of lead
Toss me in the trash
And grab a new pencil.
Observers
By Morgan Prinzing
you watched as we were killed
onlookers
bystanders
selfish people
only looking to protect themselves
gun shots
name-less people
only recognized by their face
motionless
scattered
you stood
lingered
relieved it wasn't you
or your family
repeated daily
watching
looking
you didn't hold the gun
or pull the trigger
but you're as much to blame
silence kills
by Paige Ferry
I want to be in the hands of an artist
Painting frozen and forgotten fields
Exploring the strong salty seas
Relaxing next to babbling brooks
I want to feel the paper transform before me
To hear lead whisper quietly
That soft "shhh" "shhh" "shhh" that creates
Grey and white patterns across crisp paper
To watch the story bloom like a flower at my fingertips
I want to jump in to a book,
Go on an adventure with castles and dragons
Make someone's dream come true,
Always have the happy ending
I want it to come alive with imagery
By writing about grandma's cooking
The savory smell of hearty soup waft from paper
Cinnamon and apples from fresh baked crisp glide over your tongue
Hear the sound of grandpa snoring in the next room over
And feel the well worn carpet and that very reliable couch
I want a meaningful life
To show people places no one has heard of
Never erasing a moment because
mistakes are worth the space
I want to cause all of this.
But my life is short lived
Because I run out of lead
Toss me in the trash
And grab a new pencil.
Observers
By Morgan Prinzing
you watched as we were killed
onlookers
bystanders
selfish people
only looking to protect themselves
gun shots
name-less people
only recognized by their face
motionless
scattered
you stood
lingered
relieved it wasn't you
or your family
repeated daily
watching
looking
you didn't hold the gun
or pull the trigger
but you're as much to blame
silence kills
Transfixed
by Kevin Phoung
My thoughts lock me away,
but my imagination takes me
in spirals,
circles
I guess I see myself
in every eye that catches mine
every time I pass
you by,
My soul is freed
and this structure
and my mind
Is left behind ever further
All I can say is
That I love the feeling
you bring to me
But I'm scared of where
This might take us
It's the feeling I get
When I look
In the bathroom mirror
Fogged to the point of obscurity
Before the water wipes it away
My thoughts lock me away,
but my imagination takes me
in spirals,
circles
I guess I see myself
in every eye that catches mine
every time I pass
you by,
My soul is freed
and this structure
and my mind
Is left behind ever further
All I can say is
That I love the feeling
you bring to me
But I'm scared of where
This might take us
It's the feeling I get
When I look
In the bathroom mirror
Fogged to the point of obscurity
Before the water wipes it away
Fusilamientos
By John Stewart
English Teacher
Asst. Girls Basketball Coach
Rebelde
We bare ourselves before them-
mirrors that mix shadow and light
as oils on a palette,
and we are brilliant.
They are faceless.
They cannot see how slowly
the sparrow builds her nest,
nor the perfection of her eggs,
because their ulcerous eyes
drip with the darkness of take.
“Remember whom you owe,”
they wail, and we will only
tell them that we are firebirds
at this twilight pyre.
That as we explode and shatter
they will see the sun reflected
in our numberless upturned eyes,
and they will look and
not turn away.
Luz
Hear me.
In the beginning there was
not light and dark;
only everything.
Did you think
that it was different?
“No me salgas!” you
scratch into the night,
but you are not abandoned.
When you chose day
I made you like glowworms
in deep grass,
crawling the lit road
left by those before you,
and I read in your books
that I had placed you
on a sacrificial platter
for the beetles and birds
to feast upon:
and I had.
Hear me:
For the sake of ten
I have saved hundreds.
I have brought a lamp
so that they may find your heart;
but I have brought a lamp for you
so that they must see your faces.
Inspired by Francisco de Goya’s Fusilamientos del Tres de Mayo (oil on canvas)
The Downside of Public Transportation
By Cassidy Scott
We were going downtown, my friend, and her family and friends. We were all relatively amateur at riding the MAX train in Portland, and consequently avoiding any eye contact with strangers. We kept our purses on our laps too. The train was pretty small, at about 90 feet long with two cars. It had yellow poles to hold onto, and the blue seats we sat in were marked with countless transporters.
After about 20 minutes of incident free riding, he got on the train. The man wore a heavy, long army jacket and scruff crowned his chin. He wore brown tennis shoes and jeans permanently stained with dirt. There was no doubt this man had done time on the streets of Portland. His nails were black with layers of dirt encrusted beneath them, and his hands were cracked and flushed red. As he shuffled closer to where I was sitting, his smell emanated my way. It was mostly of alcohol, stale cigarette smoke, dirt, and grime. Homeless, cold, and desperate, he asked everyone for money. The answer was always a stern look and a head turn to the window.
He got the same response from me.
My friend, busy with her new camera, didn’t even look up.
The man moved on, but his bloodshot eyes were wide, like large spotlights searching, etched with agitation and anxiety. Immediately, at the next stop, he hustled off to avoid the security man checking tickets. He walked with a hurried briskness, like a dog was snapping at his heels.
I felt a pang of worry, and then went back to staring out the window
Solar Deforestation
by Dalton Krajewski
The thermometer brings bad news.
For another day the sun will hide its face,
Painting the world that dreary blue And we will stay blue, too.
Just once I wish the sun would step out
to steal center stage.
What would happen then?
It’s been so long, I can only hazard a guess.
The trees would fall deep into the earth
And reveal the inviting horizon.
The clouds would crack apart.
Like golden yolks,
Raindrops would dot the sparkling fields,
warmly dusting it all.
Then from the dunes sand would rise,
Distant mesas draped in August hues, Standing tall like gates into the nostalgic void.
The people would shield their eyes
And treat the warm sun’s smile with discomfort.
So there the sun shyly sits,
Sulking behind stormy seas.
Saved by Delaney Fonken
I was born in the dirt. Specifically, on the side of the road in Pune, India. I was abandoned on November 4th, 1995 before I was even able to open my eyes.
I’m not sure who my biological mother was, or why she left me, but I do know that I was rescued for a reason. That was to live. I had been newly born and for some reason, I was found quietly sucking my thumb in a corner of dirt by a policeman. First off, he named me Neisha and took me away to a doctor, recognizing I hadn’t been properly taken care of. I was so sick, the hospital had probably already set my death bed up for me. I weighed two pounds at only a few days old, and I don’t think they were too sure of what to do with me and my red hair. Certainly, I was unhealthy, but there would be no point in being the lucky one picked out of a corner only to die a few days later. So I survived.
The next step was an orphanage where hopefully parents would see me and want me. During my time at the orphanage, I claimed a balcony, where I and only I could see a little bit of the big world waiting for me. I protected my balcony with everything I had and no baby was allowed past me.
Sometimes I have visions of myself there and I’m not sure if they’re real or not.
Little did I know, while defending my property, another family from across the world prayed for me on November 4th, 1995, and would become my family.
I was adopted at 19 months and raised in Oregon. My name was changed to Delaney, meaning light – as opposed to Neisha, meaning dark. Just by this I know firsthand they had good intentions for me. I connected with my dad and brother David, who were the ones who flew across the world to get me. My mom stayed home with my other brothers, Dale and Boomer. I was distrustful, poking my mom in the eyes and struggling when she held me. She was the only one who stay up all night with me though. Finally, one night, I relaxed and slept for the first time. I believe that was the beginning of a new and special life.
I’m alive for a reason, and I’ve always been a fighter. I’ll push through anything. I knew what I was doing when I decided not to die, and I’m ever grateful for that policeman. If only I could thank him.
I’m not sure who my biological mother was, or why she left me, but I do know that I was rescued for a reason. That was to live. I had been newly born and for some reason, I was found quietly sucking my thumb in a corner of dirt by a policeman. First off, he named me Neisha and took me away to a doctor, recognizing I hadn’t been properly taken care of. I was so sick, the hospital had probably already set my death bed up for me. I weighed two pounds at only a few days old, and I don’t think they were too sure of what to do with me and my red hair. Certainly, I was unhealthy, but there would be no point in being the lucky one picked out of a corner only to die a few days later. So I survived.
The next step was an orphanage where hopefully parents would see me and want me. During my time at the orphanage, I claimed a balcony, where I and only I could see a little bit of the big world waiting for me. I protected my balcony with everything I had and no baby was allowed past me.
Sometimes I have visions of myself there and I’m not sure if they’re real or not.
Little did I know, while defending my property, another family from across the world prayed for me on November 4th, 1995, and would become my family.
I was adopted at 19 months and raised in Oregon. My name was changed to Delaney, meaning light – as opposed to Neisha, meaning dark. Just by this I know firsthand they had good intentions for me. I connected with my dad and brother David, who were the ones who flew across the world to get me. My mom stayed home with my other brothers, Dale and Boomer. I was distrustful, poking my mom in the eyes and struggling when she held me. She was the only one who stay up all night with me though. Finally, one night, I relaxed and slept for the first time. I believe that was the beginning of a new and special life.
I’m alive for a reason, and I’ve always been a fighter. I’ll push through anything. I knew what I was doing when I decided not to die, and I’m ever grateful for that policeman. If only I could thank him.
A Writer's Block by Alan Johnston
I guess I can't get enough of this old burden.
I haul it with me on each and every departure.
I struggle, true. It pulls me down and around.
I must be Atlas. I must have done something.
I must deserve this abuse that comes from me.
I am a herald of this force. I am its new host.
I'll admit, I feel important, if a little restrained.
Every writer gets this dread experience, true,
But... I never thought it would happen to me.
Where do I go from here? There's no proper
Conclusion. There's no end in sight. I am a
Writer. This is my cage, my wall, my block.
I guess I can't get enough of this old burden.
I haul it with me on each and every departure.
I struggle, true. It pulls me down and around.
I must be Atlas. I must have done something.
I must deserve this abuse that comes from me.
I am a herald of this force. I am its new host.
I'll admit, I feel important, if a little restrained.
Every writer gets this dread experience, true,
But... I never thought it would happen to me.
Where do I go from here? There's no proper
Conclusion. There's no end in sight. I am a
Writer. This is my cage, my wall, my block.
Art
Texture and Repetition by Marina Meyers
Untitled by Christine Nguyen
Untitled by Gabriella McKenzie
Nimes by Emily Webb
Untitled by Karissa Wheeler
Lone Traveler by Tyler Feague