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Upon opening the door of 369,
The query was if anyone would survive.
Tables and chairs were all in disarray.
The lights were out; the feelings were bleak,
Christopher Sola’s tale gives a chilling awe,
As skulls burn in flames, smoke sting the eyes.
Letting out a breath of poison.
Darkening the edge of despair,
Once there were people,
Then those people weren’t there.
A cautionary tale for those who sit by the fire
Accepting melting chocolate.
Only to expire.
Matthew, gathers the rest of the class around
For Antha stirring story is sure to astound.
Her understanding of death is doubly bound,
Both ephemeral visions and concrete revulsions.
There are only memories of golden days.
So hope may never come again,
Where gray moths have risen,
The butterflies cannot go.
Talking crazy to the dead, an endless plateau
And far more gruesome than chocolate.
A fountain pen through the neck.
Quick, slick and slippery, by God how it drips.
Not to be outdone is her compatriot, Emily
On a cenote expedition to Mexico
Death comes in the form of a dark sinkhole.
One long deep breath,
And down the protagonist goes.
Resting below the bones of another,
He took a one-way trip to the unknown
Making his home in the Underworld.
But there is no hope for the wicked.
The class must go further with Tyrell,
And his tale of a buccaneer on a death spiral.
He almost killed himself, lost his wife and son.
All in the same bloody day.
Then he took a swim with the sharks
Got a leg cut off and became a pile of bones.
Sadly this adventure is one he shouldn’t have embarked.
The ground rumbles, and among the dead, the fire grows,
Hell’s supernatural influence, opens up and sets the tone.
Out come two demons thirsty for conversation.
They’re sweet, but they don’t do silly dog tricks,
Like, “Sit, Roll over and Play dead.”
Instead, they have the cadence of a politician,
And talent to get their way.
What if they both ran for office?
This might have been their whole plan.
Chanting mindless slogans and riding in black sedans.
Overhead the beams break away;
And the night rushes in,
“Thunderstruck! Thunderstruck!”
The power of God has rushed the demons out
Angelic teenage girls smoke robustly
Chatting over nothing at all,
They don’t disappear with chocolate,
Or fall into another sinkhole.
Their only fear is they won’t be home soon
Before dinner’s called.
Unlike George’s story Gunner Mounts,
Has the art of chilling down to a science,
With a taste of ghoulishness laced in,
He tells a gem in a mirror darkly.
Mixes the inky soul of sin.
Robs the character of much-needed sleep,
Then runs him wicked, depleted and meek.
The fellow would probably kill himself,
If he had the chance.
But he self-medicates,
Taking a hit from a weed pen.
Remains irritated, without a single friend,
For they are all hopelessly lost in the wind.
Taking a cruise with Chris, we hop from jazz club to jazz club;
Fighting the duality between the writer and protagonist.
One can leave it or take it, and the other downright loves it.
Maybe given time Chris could push the guy to his side.
But the time ran out, and the class was through.
Still, there is something to be said about sinkholes
Lunatics storming into buildings with a gun.
For the most lovable lunatic in class is Jonathan’s concoction.
He’d be a complete waste of a man with nowhere else to go,
How he holds it together, Can anyone possibly know?
Maybe they just are wasting time for his dismissal.
Even the people the Inspector works with hate his guts.
This mess of a man is circling the can.
Perhaps that is part of his charm.
Rotten breath in all we should ask him to clean up a bit.
But as sure as a gunshot he’ll only show a big fit.
A dystopia beyond repute.
A future awaiting the poor mortal souls.
Christine tops Jonathan in her dreadful bliss,
Towers of iceboxes can’t top factories of remiss.
A diabolical president, who found a way to live forever.
Turns Disneyland, the happiest place on earth,
Into a location that produces weapons of mass destruction.
With everything to win and nothing to loss,
Champions of peace must become terrorists.
Heroes have fallen, and there is only one chance,
To strike an everlasting blow to the presidency.
Corporates fall under the weight of cheers and dance,
When it comes time to throw in the final lance.
On a much smaller note and no less dear is Clay’s story,
A sweet flute of folly, desire and a touch of mania.
The protagonist gives his life away for a few bits,
Before the slow death in his academic bliss.
The experimental drug took his life for sure.
But at least he didn’t have much trouble with his exams.
“And died on a Thursday.”
The quick life span of a very sad man.
The night broke in the classroom; we thought it was the sun.
Lifting the scores of drugs, medications laced with disaster,
Futures that no one wanted to live, and demons that roamed.
But this was Linda’s star of brilliance possessed by a golden man.
Those that stormed in couldn’t doubt his stellar command.
Protesters were spurned with the madness of rabid dogs.
When the answers were spoken, ignorance was their dreamland.
It saddens the wizened, for the populace would be less than.
Lindsay’s “Anne, the witch,” has no title to cast spells.
What a maker of storms she is:
Conjuring blizzards that a classmate can hold.
We don’t know; this could be a hit or miss.
Power of the weather, a fashion of whether it will partake.
Be warned: never cross Anne in any way.
Mr. Lyric, the homeroom teacher, lets her leave school,
Any time of day.
Fearful questions of her eminence will be an awful demand.
Because she could juice a ruffian with about a trillion joules
With the touch of hand.
Locked in double space pages once more,
Fiery destruction of the classroom:
Broken, unstable and troubled characters.
That can never get away,
Forever digitized, stored and gone.
Imprisoned on a hard drive,
Where they cannot harm?
But to quote "Star Wars":
A movie is never finished,
Only abandoned.
~ George Lucas
So they might live on.
One final note:
Ideas not abandoned,
I could take a look,
And give my opinion.
Be it a poem, flash fiction or a book.
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