Author: Cobin H

Although it was late September, the sun was warm and the paths dry. Having walked this trail a hundred times, the boy could easily recall the scenery each new turn brought. He and his father were on their way to see their mother, as they did every Sunday. But today was different; today they came bearing gifts. His father carried a picnic basket full with fruits and sandwiches, and the boy held some flowers that he had picked from their garden back home. It was his mother’s birthday, and the family planned to have dinner and watch the sunset together. After a few minutes, the boy spotted the hill where his mother lay. “Hurry along” the father called to the boy, as they crept up the hill. Once they reached the top the father pulled a blanket from the basket and stretched it across the overgrown grass. The boy walked over to greet his mother “Happy birthday mother” he whispered as he propped the flowers against her gravestone. Then the boys sat down and ate their sandwiches, enjoying each other’s company in silence, as the sun receded past the horizon.

The man begins digging a hole and dumps trash in it. A park activist comes up to him and says “why would you dig a hole if not for a plant”? The man would change the environment by moving and destroying the plants “why would you change something that is already perfect?” the park activist said. The man would change the park’s fresh and crisp smell to one of rancid and foul “why would you ruin the park’s wonderful smell?” the park activist said. The man would grab his shovel and hit the activist. The loud bang hitting the activist’s skull echoes throughout the empty park. “Why would you do this to me!?” the park activist shouted. The repeated blows to the skull soon killed the activist. The man would put the victim’s body in a bag. The man begins digging a hole and dumps trash in it. A park activist comes up to him and says…

I walk alone through the highland forest with beautiful Coast Redwood surrounding me. As I walked I came across a patch of wild blueberries “Oh thank god,” I thought. On the brink of starvation, I ran up to the bush and started shoveling them by handfuls into my mouth, I cleaned off the entire bush in 10 minutes. I was about to start walking away I noticed one tiny little blueberry hanging in the front of the bush, “Huh I thought I cleared the entire bush might as well” I thought as I popped it into my mouth, closed my eyes enjoying the last taste of the sweet juicy blueberry, when I opened my eyes it was like everything around me grew tenfold, but all I know is that I was surrounded by huge leaves and human-sized ants making their way towards me. As the giant ants wandered toward me, their intentions unclear, I felt a strange numbness creeping through me. The sweet taste of the blueberry turned bitter, and my surroundings blurred into darkness. The forest’s charm, once inviting, now became the blanket that concealed my final moments. The world faded away, leaving only the echo of the wilderness.

Dizzy endless spinning stars.
All too small to shine brighter.
Should one get too big, it soon collapses and loses its shine.
Its death in a firey explosion only to be met with the greatest darkness.
The blades of grass, so rough yet soft, together make a carpet of green to lay my head upon.
Should they cover me up and drag me under, I will lay in the dirt all the same.
Nature’s cycles all flowing like the river.
Balance attempting to regain footing.
The death of something old;
The life of something new.
Dizzy again.
Always so dizzy.
Oblivion is so close and yet too far.
For those cursed without death, all you can do is close your eyes.
Simple comforts for those with no end in sight.
No way to close the book they are forced to read.
It is such a cruel joke, for all those who wish for it out of fear of the unknown.
If only I had known this sooner.
I will wait until every star goes dark.
Maybe that will provide me with the comfort I crave.
All things end for a reason.
I wish I had learned that sooner.

Under the blanket of night, Mary wakes from her warm bed and tiptoes across the floor. As she patters to the tiny door in the wall, she feels herself shrink and shrink. With her now dewdrop-sized fist, she knocks. The door cracks open to reveal a little mouse dressed in a taffy wrapper tutu. “Hello!” she squeaks. “We’ve never had a guest like you,” pipes a wrinkled-looking mouse from behind the first, “please come in.” Gratefully, Mary shuffles into the foyer and peaks around. In the center of the room sits a table fashioned from a crayon box, surrounded by cotton ball seats. The tutu-wearing mouse excitedly leads her to sit. Cheeses atop bottle caps are set on the table, along with a blue, flower-shaped something on a poker chip. Sensing her confusion, the mouse explains, “It’s a special cake Dad found!” The mice and Mary eat and talk for hours, only stopping when the littlest mouse sicks up a dark fluid and feints. It’s chaos as the mice scrabble and squeal. Mary watches with horror as they drop, one after another. A wave of boiling nausea hits her, and Mary follows her friends into oblivion.

The Palestinian boy with a paper bird welcomes Israel with open arms. “What if we take over the land and leave a strip?” Israel asks. The Palestinian boy moved to a place surrounded with walls and is unable to leave. He doesn’t complain though, as his voice will not be heard. In fact, it may cost him his life. “What if we block aid, and leave them stranded with no help?” Israel asks. The Palestinian boy struggles to survive, as he is being followed by gunshots and false hope. There is no escape, no home left. “What if we kill them all?” Israel asks as the Palestinian boy lays still watching his home turn into dust and flames. Holding on to his paper bird, begging to see one in the sky.

Writing is my least favorite thing. Everytime I get in front of a keyboard to reply to questions or write an essay, I can feel my confidence shrink. Everytime I get frustrated over a prompt or essay, I feel myself die a bit inside and try to shrink away from the world around me and hope everyone will look away or disappear. I turn back into a child as I hear my fathers open threats of “I’ll give you something to cry about”. I struggle with writing because there is technically no one answer, and it makes me feel extremely small when I cannot even think of one. I am often praised for my writing skill and told to share it with the world, but when I hear it, I only feel disappointed. It makes me want to shrink away from everyone who reads my work because it makes me feel like a fraud. If I could shrink away from the crowd or disappear from the writing community, only then could I actually feel free and not suffocate from the growing shame I feel as I continue to shrink away in the empty words I lay on the empty page.

“One more!” says the coach. The players struggle to stand as that seems to be the only thing the coach knows. “Get up!” says the coach, as the players’ heads are ringing and dazed. “Just do it!” as the players start to question the coaches effectiveness. “Stop looking so sad!” while the players start to lose the love for the game. The players seek help from home but come back with the message “Give the coach a chance, he’ll grow on you”. The players start seeking a way out of the coach while the coach says “Be a man!”. As his best player gets a crucial injury, the coach says “you’re fine, keep playing!”. The player finds out his playing days are over, and looks to the coach for answers. Coach turns away and says “Who’s next!”.

I’m sorry to my mamita for being insolent and mouthy to her when I was younger. I was naïve and thought I knew everything there was to know about life. I doubted her cuando ella ya fue, vino y yo voy. I’m sorry for thinking she never loved me when all she’s doing is protecting and teaching me the ways of life. I’m sorry for not seeing her as human before, for not wanting to know who she was. Susana, mí mamita was a normal being too before she became a mother who gives unconditional love and devotes her life to us, putting us before herself. She accepted something instructions are not included in, and gave maternal love when she, herself did not know what it was or felt like. Being a mother is not easy they have hard days too, I didn’t see it when I was younger, but I can affirm they shed tears too. My heart squeezes when I see her cry in silence facing away almost embarrassed. Today I’m who I am, Considering I learned from the strongest and bravest person. Susana, mí mamita linda, the one I truly love with my whole heart.

He moved his finger against the inner surface of the sheet and made a six with it, and then an eight. This was his go-to when the nightmares woke him up, which lately was all the time. He’d always felt comfort from the numbers six and eight, ever since he was a boy. He knows to most it sounds silly, but he believes he has a connection to them. He was born in the sixth month of the year, on the eighth day, and grew up to have six freckles across his right arm and eight across his face. He was number sixty-eight on every sports team by coincidence, and his younger brother is exactly six years and eight months younger than him. He sighs, taking a deep breath. His mom had just gotten into a car crash, and all he can see when he closes his eyes is her face laying in a hospital bed. He’d even begun attempting to stay up all night just to avoid the horror of what awaits him when sleep arrives. He takes six deep breaths and traces another six and eight into his bedsheet before sighing and attempting to battle sleep once again.