high school artifacts

I was cleaning out my edweb account and found an artifact worth sharing. Freshman year in my rhetoric and composition class, we had 'creativity day.' We were supposed to bring in something we've written or come talk about something we liked. I brought in some creative writing I did in high school back when I had emotions. These were originally stored on a hard drive that failed long ago, taking with it all of the ridiculous shit I had done in high school (thank god), but now, a little of it is back, and is posted below for your enjoyment. It is very high school.

Also, I was pleasantly surprised to find my astronaut motif pop up even though it's in a completely different context.



Flush

Oh Jack of hearts,
Take it from a friend,
You’re value does not surpass the king,
And the lady plays to win,

Oh Nine, I know,
But isn’t there a way,
The lady, she is easily met,
But her suit is not easily swayed,

The king of clubs does not lose his bets,
And he knows Jack, he knows,
Get back in the deck,
It’s your only hope,
She can not love you,

I envy you, Nine,
Your spades serve you straight,
You have no deception of your value,
No illusion of your state,

Jack, I know your tragedy,
You can never be any more,
Than a precursor to your obsession,
Pray they play twenty-one,
She might flirt with you a little,
But just for a bit of fun,
The lady belongs to her man,

She fucks the ace,
I’ve seen them, Nine,
Your spades must know it too,
She lusts for him,
Despite the king,
Why can’t I be her lover,
Tell me the truth,

My dear jack,
Your only eye has left you ignorant,
You’re a victim of your condition,
One that no card envies,
But no card lacks,

Don’t bullshit me, Nine,
I don’t want a friend’s lies,
I want a liar’s facts,

Fine then Jack, here it is,

Your face gives you confidence,
But your hearts do you no good,
A queen needs to be overlooked,
Overlooked and misunderstood,

Here’s your problem, Jack,
You’re just too easy for a lady as black as the queen of hearts is good,


Untitled

Mr. Frisky’s father died in the twilight of an October evening. He left behind a water bowl, and an unsettling mixture of feelings. The clouds were warm and violet, just the way he would have liked. I can still see him looking into the air, and smiling into the light. At night, he’d sometimes stray away, but he always returned by the eighth hour of the very next Thursday. The time is 12:57 on a Saturday afternoon, and the only sign we have of him is his first-born, pure-bred son. Mr. Frisky is looking up to me, his eyes screaming, “Where has my father gone?”
From that moment on, Timmy never trusted God. He died in 1987 when his helicopter ran out of gas somewhere over Minnesota.


The End of an Astronaut

“Oh God! What is this place and how did I arrive?” asked Dr. Tracey.

Dr. Tracy stands amongst his comrades in an aged crater. All around him are prisms suspended by unseen forces dispersed amongst stalagmites of incredible height. Tracy’s companions do not stir, so he presumes them dead. He proceeds to walk about. Voices are coming from everywhere. None are discernable. Dr. Tracy’s head begins to ache as the weight of the air infiltrates his mind. He stumbles. The voices grow louder. The prisms blur. He looks up to find that they have begun to melt into pools of silvery reflections. Dr. Tracy falls on his side, his face half buried in dirt. The melted prisms begin to creep around his cheek and mouth. They are cold and sting his face. Dr. Tracy hears a shuffling behind his back. He strains his neck, but is unable to turn his head. Five sets of teeth grip the flesh on his legs. To Dr. Tracy’s surprise, his companions are not dead.