The moon is bright The stars are light Is anyone else Looking upon them tonight? Or am I just a lonely soul Gazing upon the void Looking for meaning Or for something to fill this hole My body shivers But my heart is still Though the darkness is quiet It does not kill The voice inside my head A loud silence A trail of empty thoughts That seek to be said
Though my mind wanders My eyes remained fixed Upon the wonders of the sky That captivate me so I see the answer now It lies up above the clouds In Him who rules the night Who crafted the starry lights My heart is at peace As I fixate on the universe He who made tonight Sees me and my plight I no longer need to fear But trust in Him The Author of The beauty of the night
somewhere else
By Peyton Bell
somewhere else
we lay close together and talk about stars.
we converse about philosophy and children,
about hometowns and school and dancing,
and all along is this glimmering hope that
the two of us, here, are going to matter somehow
in the great, unwinding structure of this world.
we do not belong to that place but I want you to know
I have lived a dream with you in these few short weeks
and if I could make it a lifetime, I would.
Enchanted Slumber in the Midnight Room
By Emma Totaro
Emerald stars stuck on the ceiling glow green when it’s time for bed. Lack of lamplight allows moonbeams to peek through the shades, awakening the stickers’ powers. The midnight room’s shooting stars put the young boy to sleep under the pale nightlight. With no telescope, these celestial beings hover close, finding an orbit that surrounds him for nighttime comfort. The stars eternally catch his dreams, their green glow burning forever.
Stars Watch
By Abigail Lopez
Stars watch bleak space.
Where darkness has no golden light.
Stars watch bleak space.
Where there is nothing to embrace.
There is darkness richer than night.
For here, there is never moonlight.
Stars watch bleak space.
Dusk Falls
by Sandra Hughes
Prose - 2024 CBU Alumni Creative Writing Contest - Honorable Mention
There was no moon on this planet. No stars. When the sun was down, there was no light of any kind provided by the heavens. This was one of the reasons why the sensory helmets were so important. Sure, humans had figured out how to leave their home planet, but they hadn't counted on their bodies not being able to handle the differences.
"The bones of the old house shift and settle, its groans mingling with the wind’s high-pitched screams..."
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Night Owl
By Kaci Rigney
Up past midnight,
Devouring books.
Just five more minutes. . .
Tho’ school calls in the morning.
Slapping, she hits the snooze.
Just five more minutes. . .
Racing to class,
Tho’ sluggish inside.
Just five more minutes!
Heading to the ladies’ dorms,
Yawning, she takes a nap.
Just five more minutes.
School books piled high.
Homework almost done.
Just five more minutes.
Up past midnight,
Devouring books.
Just five more minutes. . .
Sweet Saint Tecolote sets a scene within the bounds of dreamless horror:
Midnight solstice,
Supernatural,
Clairvoyance,
She'll bring death with each click of her boots
Dressed in black and mystical elegance
I remember the reflection of my face in a puddle near high school
I remember the look on my face as I started to fade
I had a place in the sun, but now only the moon speaks my name
I only exist between the space of oblivion and the highest form of Justice
When I come back down to the sound of vinyls,
And the dullness of life hits
And I need something stronger than my reflection to get off the ground
To thrash around and Be holy again
Midnight is the time when I and the divine can coexist.
The sounds and smells of a fresh movement
The feeling of freedom and wisdom in every lyric on display
Screech like owls as “The man” presses his boot in your face
Thrashing around in the Moshpit
Her blasphemest form of Worship
The familiar, comforting taste of blood and pavement
Getting jiggy with danger
Paling around and grooving with jeopardy
Like the moon, The punks only know my name
Sweet Tecolote, Saint of Midnight, and The Punk Scene
Patron of Rebellion and child of Nyx, Steal me away!
And when the moon starts to set, promise me you’ll chase the day away.
Because she commands, “The highest form of existence is in between the night and day.”
The Saint of Midnight and The Punk Scene
By Angelina Cisneros
by Sydney Aguas
Framed in moonshine
Feathers folded against the cold
Nightingale--my only companion
In the agony of my soul
Only you, nightingale, will
With undimmed fervor and heart
Throw your voice into night so still
Singing as you shatter apart
I deny the canary, thrush, and lark
Whose spirits only thrive in light
I’d rather break my spirit in the dark
As I sit with you here in the night
My pain is greater than words will allow
And the night stretches on everlong
Give voice to my sorrows now
Remembering them forever in your song
Nightingale
Lighthouse on Bayside Drive
by Alyssa White
At the lighthouse
where the blackened waves
crush into rocks shaped like spears,
where the seagulls morph into vultures
and search for an evening sea-side meal,
a bloated body floats on the water’s surface.
Ships alight with booze and good cheer dock
for the evening, and don’t notice the mystery
in the water beneath.
The island’s myths say the killer is a Siren,
those ancient witches with songs of lust
and taunting and temptation.
Others fear the spirit of a young girl
torments the sea she drowned in,
hungry to claim anyone who enters.
At the lighthouse,
the waves conceal the truth and bury proof
Under their weight, she waits for another.
3 a.m. Thirst
by Emma Totaro
Throat grating thirst
steals sound sleep.
Lungs about to burst,
blankets in a heap.
The glass beside my bed lies
empty, not even a d
r
o
p
to ease anguish away.
I need the dryness to stop.
Frigid floorboards groan
as I tiptoe
down
the
hall.
The distance left to water unknown,
darkness, my only pitfall.
The screech of the sink
shivers down my spine,
but this holy drink
introduces me to the divine.
Eyes droop,
drifting fast.
My bed tells me to hurry.
Catching up on dreams passed,
the empty glass no longer a worry.
Song of a Quiet Humanity
by Andrew Banks
What’s the sound of the middle of nowhere?
It’s not just the wind through the branches of creosote bushes,
pine needles whirling to the soil,
or the screeches and wing-flaps of a hawk,
the squawks of a murder of crows pecking at a hare’s carcass;
It’s the grinding of a backyard bandsaw,
chuckling between two old men,
the coffee slurps and pencil scratches of a high school history teacher,
whirs of the neighbor’s car up the street,
the warnings of parents to their firstborn
two acres over.
Music, voices, glass clinks, and footsteps in the dirt and gravel:
the song of a quiet Humanity.
Here, for us, by Andrew Banks
Streetlamps hover over concrete,
lighting the way for the clacks of skateboards
gliding over the pavement perfections.
White light bulbs radiate through black
branches of landscaped trees
with overgrown roots
bulging through sidewalks stamped
1952.
Green kentucky bluegrass
turns purple in the astral glow,
painting houses with crawl spaces in shades
only moonlight can make.
Freeway overpasses,
some miles away,
twinkle with headlights, fireflies,
thousands upon thousands,
gridlocked to the horizon.
Here, for us,
far from earth’s womb,
the mating calls of birds
are the car horns of angry drivers;
the whistles of a breeze through pine needles
are the hums of tires gripping asphalt;
and a city park,
the closest thing we have
to freedom.
I hear her cry, that piercing screech, And sigh and curl up in my sheets, Willing her to tuck her head Beneath her wings and go to bed. But no. She is a night owl. I follow her screeches to her hollow, A tight and protective nest with pillow. She stops her cries when she sees my face— Her dimples light the midnight space. My wide-awake night owl.
I dry her skin, so feather-soft, Exchange her diaper for one that’s washed. I wrap and swaddle in light of moon, She flies on my shoulder throughout the rooms.
My cheerful, sweet night owl We rock in the chair by the woodstove’s glare, Her eyes begin to blink and stare, Her eyelids droop as I nurse her to sleep. Her claws go soft and breath turns deep. I burp my milk-drunk owl. I place her back into her hollow, Hoping if I tuck her pillow, She will shut her bright and blue round eyes To wake in sunlight, calm and wise. Stay asleep, my sweet night owl.
I curl again in downy sheets, Drifting out my thoughts to sleep. Just in time to hear her screech. And I reach again to lift my sheets. My wide-awake night owl.
Night Feedings
by Sandra Hughes
The Brownie's New Home
by Clarissa McLaughlin
A hush fell over the tiny flat as night descended. Moonlight cascaded in through locked windows. Crickets chirped on the sidewalk below, occasionally drowned out by a passing car. The air in the flat was cool, perfect for snuggling under thick blankets, which the residents did happily as they tottered off to bed to dream of wonders. The brownie emerged from the folds of shadows to begin his work.
A Cry from Magdala
by Josh Fullman
Are these the feet that I have bathed,
these—drenched with hair and tears and scent,
stood in between my sin and stones,
held firm when his eyes met my own,
saw past my past,
my errors waived?
Are these the feet that I have chased
across the mountains, lake towns, storms,
and deserts, caked with family soil—
who silenced demons, handled boils,
passed supper plates,
with angels raced?
Are these the feet that I have kissed,
now torn by gravel, birch, and stake?
No matter: I would kiss again,
taste blood and dust, reclaim my sin—
just not to part
as souls dismissed.
Are those the feet of him made whole—
brought peace to all but not for me?
You gave mother, son, your dear Beholds.
Have you no words that I might hold?
“Don’t cling too close”
still wraiths my soul.
The sun danced between
the leaves of the carrotwood tree as a barely perceptible breeze failed to keep the heat at bay. But Quinn didn’t mind. The warmth made her feel free. She knelt on the dirt of her front yard and fished a smooth rock out of the soil. She tossed it in her pocket and brushed the dirt off her denim shorts. Quinn then continued scouring her front yard for sticks, leaves, bits of wood, and blades of grass.
Fairy Houses
by Clarissa McLaughin
Prose - 2024 CBU Alumni Creative Writing Contest Winner - Second Place
“You have to like, text me and stuff, okay?
I don’t want to be those siblings that leave home and never talk anymore.”
“Don’t worry. It’s not like I’ll leave and cut ties, alright?
Besides, I’ll only be an hour away, so I think we’ll be fine.”
"Looking Towards the Stars"
Rebecca Harrel
Consuming Fire Sydney Aguas
Poetry - 2024 Alumni Creative Writing Contest Winner - First Place
I was taught terror In the shadow of cathedral spires Under the glowering gaze of immortal saints Of the judgement impending Wrath--bright, brazen, burning Reserved for the doubting, debauched, depraved Destined for a lake that flames Body, mind, and soul--in the end, consumed.
I was shown truth In the light of sacred presence From the wondrous words of a gentle, ancient voice Of forgiveness unending Love--bold, brilliant, blazing Offered to the hurting, hungry, hopeless Pursued with a devotion that flames Body, mind, and soul--in the end, consumed.
Imposter Syndrome Lisa Hernandez
In every group of friends, there is one who thinks he is the funniest. He speaks loudly. He laughs at his own jokes. He demands all the attention. He knows he is not funny.
In every car, there is one who knows the way. She says turn left, now right. She says one more mile. She says go there. She is lost.
In every gym, there is one who acts the strongest. He plays all the sports. He masters all the machines. He loves leg day. He feels weak.
In every class, there is one who believes she is the smartest. She raises her hand. She answers the questions. She earns the highest score, a 95. She thinks she has failed.
In every job, there is one who insists they are in charge. They make the schedules. They give the raises. They set the agenda. They worry they will be fired.
In every crowd, There is one who claims she belongs. She is always included. She is always invited. She is always surrounded. She is alone.
Carrie and I explored every abandoned place we could find. This time was different. Icy pinpricks traced their way down my spine. I wanted to look away, but my eyes remained glued to the empty void before me. It felt like there were hundreds of eyes watching me from the shadows.
Do Dreams Have Meaning?
By Tirza Bustrum
Dreams have meaning
Until I dream of home-invading dinosaurs
Who wear my jewelry and lipstick
A glammed-up T-rex marches into war
Against turtles who carry bricks
I talk strategy with a manatee
And watch the devastation through a monocle
As we sip shrimp-flavored tea
Dreams have meaning
When I dream of walking down the chip aisle
With a Coke in hand
And an odd man shoots me a smile
As he carries a jar of sand
And that morning, I crave a soda pop
And I’m out of chips in my house
So I see the man with sand in my local shop
Dreams have meaning
Until I dream of finding you
Your dark eyes and half-blurred face
And I wish the dream were true
Because you made my heart race
And you brought me coffee and a kiss
When I told you I needed caffeine
But I woke up before I could drink in bliss
Dreams have meaning
Until I dream of finding you
Your dark eyes and half-blurred face
And I wish the dream were true
Because you made my heart race
And you brought me coffee and a kiss
When I told you I needed caffeine
But I woke up before I could drink in bliss
