Adaptable Art: by Lexy Yocom
The words are being spilled onto this page as red paint on a blank canvas. Do the eyes reading these sentences perceive it as such, though? Or do they just scan over the meaning and dread the effort of looking from left to right? The appreciation of literature has been erased from society, and the art form has faded to yet another daily activity that we put upon ourselves. If we taught each other to care about the written and spoken word, then society’s eyes would open not only to a new fantasy, but a new reality.
The paint is the blood running through my veins and the thoughts draining out of my mind through the pencil. The paintbrush is my pencil carefully crafting out the endless colors of my thoughts. The canvas is the paper where my thoughts are shown to the rest of the world. It’s an art just as sculptures, paintings, drawings, or photography may be. Why does creative writing get looked over by the eyes of the majority, then? What causes people to dread the act of reading?
Learning to be thankful for the art of literature should start to be taught from an early age and be promoted there on. Without writing, you would not be able to understand the most beautiful things in life. My paint is running out now, though. Maybe you can go grab your own paintbrush and your own color paint, and tell me a story though a piece of art.
Drive Down Memory Lane: by Griffin Adams
It’s twelve o’clock a.m., midnight, and I’m driving my old Jeep Grand Cherokee down a long empty dirt road in upstate New York. The hum of the engine gives me a comforting feeling that no one else could. I hear the wheels dragging through the dirt and kicking up dirt like a bull before a charge. I press my foot on the gas pedal and watch the speedometer rapidly increase from 25 miles per hour to 60 miles per hour. I look to the passenger seat expecting to see him, but he is not here. I press my foot on clutch and grab the stick shift and put the car into fourth gear and start to accelerate the car some more. I flip the high beams on and see the ever-growing road fall before me. A deer runs out in front of me and I press my foot on the brake and slam my hand on the car horn releasing a loud scream from the car.
I drove down that road with my brother. Watching the sun skip through each of the trees as we passed by. It was autumn. All the leaves were changing to crimsons and sunglow and covering the ground like a Bob Ross painting. The road seemed to draw on forever since my brother and I were not talking. He suddenly asked me when we were going to make it to our mother’s house and I replied saying that we were almost there. We were listening to the Moonshine Bandits, Dive Bar Beauty Queen, a song that we both loved to laugh at and sing to. We both began to sin along and I took my eyes off the road. I didn’t see the rusted broken hubcap sitting in the road. I ran it over as we were singing along to the chorus. The front right tire blew open with the hubcap sticking out of it. The car spun and slammed into a tree on the passenger side. The horn suddenly started beeping and refused to stop. The airbags burst into our face and I quickly deflated them to reach my brother. My brother was impaled in the leg by the concave car door. I jumped out of the car and dragged out my brother. His right leg had been ripped open and he was bleeding out. I placed his head on my lap and stroked his hair out of his face. He looked up at me and said, “I love you, brudder. I know you didn’t mean it,” and then his body went cold as his eyes slowly closed.
The car stops and the deer runs off. I began to start driving again, watching the leaves fall from the trees and hit the ground. Watching the high beams shift and hide behind the trees like a ghost floating through walls as I pass by. I turn on the radio and hear the beat of the Moonshine Bandits. I start to sing along and laugh. I look to my right expecting to see him there, but he is not. My eyes begin to water as I mourn my brother’s death at my hands. I begin to cry and not paying attention I hit a sharp piece of shrapnel and pop one of my tires, sending me sliding into a tree with the driver side. The airbag bursts into my face and cuts my left eyebrow. I try to open the car door with my hand, but it is blocked by the tree. I take the keys out of the ignition and look down at my leg; it has been impaled by the door. I sit in my car alone and look to the left. I see my brother wave and smile at me. He reaches out his hand. I go to grab it, but he disappears and I am left alone once more bleeding, crying, and dying. I close my eyes and see my brother smiling at me. I open them and see blackness all around me. I accept my fate. Close my eyes for good and go see my brother.