Sweat. Tears. Saliva. Pain. Pleasure. Ecstasy. Tension building. Muscles pulsing. Hearts racing. Bodies about to give out. In particular, Sandra and David. The couple’s usual spot, the House from Hell, Sandra and David are and have been frequenting since the day they first met. A commonplace for the pair, though others don’t dare visit considering the name. Especially intense, the House from Hell was built to torment people and put their minds and bodies to the test. 

Sandra and David always love to come back, as the intensity increases and spices up their relationship each time. Because of their constant returns, Sandra and David have an exclusive membership that gives them unlimited access to any room of the House of Hell. For this moment, they’ve got a three hour window to do whatever they want in the exclusive back room.

The House of Hell is equipped with all kinds of toys and technology, suitable to anyone and everyone’s needs regardless of background and orientation. ‘There’s no discrimination here, thought Sandra, ‘as long as you tell your friends about us and bring them along for the ride.’ By the time Sandra finished the House’s motto in her mind, David was already undressed down to his shorts and ready to party.

“Ready babe?” David asked Sandra as she got down to her bra and boxers.

“Ready as always, you maniac,” she remarks with a smirk and a lustful yet determined look in her eyes. This is her favorite part of the day: Sandra loves to out-time and surpass David in their affairs. 

Not a second later, Sandra is in front of David, almost pressed completely into his lap. They heave heavy, huffing and puffing from forcing their bodies to work so rough and so fast in the seconds that have passed. Sandra starts to moan, her legs not used to the build up of intensity, but she’s determined not to come last to David. David, falling for Sandra’s trick, begins to moan and feel his legs start to give up.

“Come on, baby. You’re not done already, are you?” Sandra teases her boyfriend’s struggle.

“No way. It takes two to tango, woman” David retorts, frustrated with how quickly he succumbs to Sandra’s wit each time they go to the House from Hell.

“Keep going, baby, I’m so close!” Sandra teases again. Despite the music that fills the room, Sandra and David get louder and drown out Hey Baby (Drop it to the Floor) by T-Pain and Pitbull. 

“I can’t take it anymore!” Sandra lets out with a final moan and a gasp of air that sounds close to an orgasm. She lets her body give out on her and release all of her built up tension; her limbs falling limp and slouching into David.

“Guess you couldn’t beat me this time, love,” David is proud of himself for surpassing Sandra for once in their couple’s workout for the day.

“I can’t believe I let you out-pedal me this time,” Sandra sighs, still slouching on the Peloton’s newest tandem bicycle. David gets up off the bike seat and begins to squeegee the sweat off his chiseled chest.

“Better luck next time, babe,” David taunts his collapsed girlfriend. Sandra eventually gets up and wipes off the sweat with her towel.

As the couple walks out the main doors to the House from Hell, Sandra stops to tie her shoe. Whilst this she asks David, “So, will you marry me now?”

“Yes, but only because you let me kick your ass on the bike,” David laughs. 

Once her shoe is tied, Sandra gets up and locks hands with David as the couple walk home, to prepare for another intense session at the House from Hell a day later.

It was a gloomy afternoon. Clouds filled the sky and you can almost feel the precipitation in the air. The floor was wet from the previous hours of non-stop rain. That didn’t stop me from doing what I was passionate about. You couldn’t tell me that I wasn’t going to play basketball after school because I would simply laugh and run to the courts. At least that’s what I did when my mom told me I couldn’t. I would run off and greet my friends with a jump shot. Clank. I wasn’t always the best but I most definitely wasn’t the worse.

“Yo, Hasib, Chris and Tim! Let’s play a two versus two.” I shouted across the court.

Chris yelled back, “Bet, me and Tim versus you guys. Your ball first.” Him and Tim were best friends as they lived just a street away from each other.

They game started and we simply had a great time like any other fifth graders getting ready to graduate. Jump shots, crazy layups, flashy passes. We were doing it all.

”I can’t wait to get to 6th grade man, so we could all join the team!” Tim said.

”Same dude, we’re going to be all stars.” Hasib said.

Still playing, I decided it was time to get my fair share of buckets.

“Give me the ball.”

Jump shot from beyond the arc. Good

Another one. Good

“Hold up, move out my way. I’m going to try something” I asked.

As I got the basketball, I stared at the rim for a good 10 seconds. I run towards the rim and jump and attempt a 360 degree layup. My body contorts and I release the ball. Good. However, as I land, I end up on my back. Unable to move.

”HEYYYYYYY, YOU DID IT!” Hasib yelled, trying to pick me up.

I couldn’t move, nor speak.

“What’s wrong, Raiyan?” Chris asked.

I couldn’t answer. I looked up at the sky and thought, “God, my time has come already?” Like a fool.

I looked over to the other side of the park insinuating where to go get my mom. She was talking to the other parents. Tim runs over to her and grabs and her to lure her to me.

“Oh my goodness. My son. Get up, get up, get up.” My mother cried.

It was as if I was half- paralyzed. That was until she picked me up and held me in her arms. That was all I needed to attempt to move. A parents loving. That’s how much my mother means to me. I will attempt anything if it was about her. I slowly get up as I hold her with my left arm wrapped around her arm and my right around Chris. I motion wit my hands to get something to drink and out my mothers purse she pulls out a water. Gulp.

“Ahhh. That was a close one. “

”You’re not coming back,” she said.

“Ma, you are out of your mind.”

As Michael walks the silent streets, he wonders what is occurring. Michael just arrived from his long trip from Spain he has not been around for about 20 years. He left his neighborhood when he was a small child his parents took him to have a better education.

As he came back to the neighborhood, he walked around to remember the places he use to play in. But as he walked around he did not see people not even a car wondering.

He asked himself, “Where is everyone? Where did they go?”

As he walked back home he had so many questions in mind. He arrived at his house and went straight to his room. He began his research about his neighborhood, Hamlet Cherry. His computer started to pop out with articles, newspapers, and blogs. There was so much about Hamlet Cherry.

He was surprised by all the information that was being told about Hamlet Cherry. But what surprised him the most was one of his childhood friends’ names was also in the news, Eric Montgaremy.

” What is Eric Montgaremy’s name doing on newspapers?”

He kept on researching and trying to figure things out but he found the main one that could answer all his questions.

As he read the article from a news reporter. It was all a shock. But he just continued to read and read more of the article.

We’ve all been told to report to our local underground bunkers where food and supplies wait for us. I held on tight to my small rag doll mama had made for me the previous year for my birthday. The sky was painted this crimson red. The scent of sulfur threatened to invade my nose past the cotton rag Mama had tied around the bottom half of my face. Houses across the neighborhood boarded up and you could still hear the constant hammering ringing down the streets. I made sure to wave goodbye to every house I could see.

I do pray that the sun comes out soon. I miss running through the fields our house used to be nearby. Laying down in a bed of flowers and just let the sun beat on my exposed skin. Mama would always scream at me when I’d come home beet-red and burnt. She tells me that it’ll be a short while before I can run around and be free again. One of the last things she grabbed from the house was a rosary and she’d been clutching that pretty hard ever since we got here. Papa hasn’t said a word. He’s just been walking around like a zombie. Head held low and eyes like a deer in headlights. We all walked in unison toward what would eventually become our new home. I hope I’d be able to make new friends there. I could show off my betty doll!

~

They’ve all left me here. I’ve lost count of the days that have passed. My skin had become pale and flaccid. My nails had grown jagged and long, with dirt-caked underneath. I fear to open my mouth lest another tooth comes tumbling out. The clothes I came in here with had become rags after everything that had happened. Sadly, I had to burn my doll in the fire. Mama said we’d freeze to death if I didn’t. Maybe that fate is better than the life I’d been stuck with.

God has left us, or at least that’s what Mama kept rambling on about. She finally let go of that rosary once she got tired of waiting for food, just like the others. One believes in the lord until they’ve been dragged through the very depths of hell itself.

Papa did eventually speak, but I couldn’t understand him between his exasperated screams and howls. I think he pleaded for me to help but I just ran as fast as my calloused feet could take me.

I found shelter inside some empty shipment container at the end of the camp. I thought I was safe in there but Mama found me one day. Her eyes were dark, not a shimmer of light left. I think she held some pieces of Papa.

I never go to see the sun again.

8:45 AM.

I ran out the door running late for school.

Hopped on my tinted green trusty bike and wheeled away.

As I was riding, I started to wonder about-

And then I fell down.

My palms scrapped, but not bloody.

I dusted the pebbles off my palms first and then onto my knees.

I slowly get up and realize-

My bike blew flat.

I checked my wheels and a thumbtack, right in the tire.

A thumbtack.

The only thing standing between me and school is a stupid thumbtack.

So I left my bike deserted, lonely, on the ground.

I had like 5 blocks left.

Block 5- I ran full speed. I ran into the night that was actually day. I passed so many trees, and although I was running, I could see the tree colors and how I remembered the green leaves and how we are in autumn. Now we have yellow, orange and brown, and it is the most amazing thing. The tan tint giving a crunch sound when they hit the rusty floor, stomping on the leaves as I run to school. It’s so cold and the wind started picking up like crazy.

Block 4- I was more tired and I could not even run anymore. I had to reach into my backpack and get my inhaler because I felt as though I would collapse. With the weather now and me running, I couldn’t do it any longer. I’m not a runner, but I am late.

Block 3- I walked, I could not even begin to think of how much trouble I would be in when I step into the halls of hell that is school.

Block 2- I see MaryAnn, the old lady from the right side of the tracks, watering her plants. I stop by near her white picket fence and shout out, “Hello MaryAnn”.

She greets me with a warm smile. I try not to stay for a while because MaryAnn is a sweetheart but a chatterbox. With my luck, I’ll never get to school on time. “I would love to stay and chat but I gotta run, I’m late for school.” I side skip away while looking back, my shoes click as I try to escape her approaching me.

Before she knew it I was gone.

Block 1- I can see the school, but it’s a blur, I’m so tired. I give all my power into full speed but as I approach more, I do a jog. Am I hallucinating right now? Am I dreaming? Why are there chains on the school gate? How am I going to get in?

I run around the corner to the other side of the school to see a crossing guard and I ask how to get inside the school. 

She replies, “Son, it’s Saturday.”

My heart dropped, I can feel my pulse racing. No way did I travel all the way here for a Saturday.

I begin to walk home in sorrow.

My legs droop to the floor in agony and I feel uneasy.

I walk all the way to block 5 and see my bike. My trusty bike. Dragging it all the way back home I just had one thought in my head.

Why is it Saturday and why did my bike have a stupid thumbtack still!

If I rode my bike I would have saved a lot of my energy and I would have found out sooner than now that school was closed.

Maybe if I had checked the calendar?

Maybe if I had checked my phone?

Maybe if I had realized sooner that not many people are outside because Saturday is a sleeping-in day?

Stupid damn not-so-trusty bike.

10:57 AM

They say he died peacefully in his sleep— a heart attack. I had hoped his demise would be long and agonizing— that intolerable old man.

His lawyer gave me the key to his home and three days to remove “sentimental items” before the estate sellers arrived Monday morning.

The large oak door of my old room offered the sound of neglect. A resounding creak shuddered through the hall. Within its walls, I found the remnants of a bitter childhood— the unswept air resting on the back of the tongue. I reserved a moment for my eyes to wander. In the corner of the room, on a short pine shelf with golden trim, lie my collection of feminist novels hidden between copies of Dostoevsky and Shakespeare. In high school, my teacher asked us to write a persuasive letter to anyone we wished. I wrote a letter to my father, quoting Virginia Woolf and Sylvia Plath, requesting he allow me to attend the senior prom on account of my autonomy as a young woman. I never gave him the letter, only imagining the outrage it would provoke. My teacher gave me an A.

Kneeling beside the short wooden shelf, I reached for the thin copy of A Room of One’s Own I stole from the library when I was 12. My fingers, now worn by nearly thirty years of motherhood and ambition, shook with the lingering spirit of resentment. I tightened my grip around the paper spine and set the book down in the cardboard box labeled “keep,” sitting on the rose-printed duvet beside me.

Downstairs I unlocked the door to my father’s study— the first time I’d held the key without him towering behind my shoulder. I was overcome by the smell of whiskey breath and fresh cigars. I closed my eyes, and suddenly I was six, sitting on my father’s knee, trying to read the documents he was signing on his desk. My back was warm from my father’s chest and the fireplace glowing behind us. I looked up at his face, admiring the wrinkles of concentration burrowing into his forehead. “Daddy, I want to be a writer when I grow up.”

“Now why on earth would you do that Elsie,” his voice was rigid; his eyes remained fixed on the documents. I remembered him muttering, “what an obnoxious idea,” as he returned to his work.

When I opened my eyes, I was staring at the red leather chair shoved beneath his desk. I began searching through the wide drawers on each side. From the bottom left drawer, I removed a pile of tax documents, the deed to the house, and my mother’s death certificate. Two sheets of paper fell from behind the stack. I crouched down and picked them up from the cold wooden floor. The first was a letter I had not seen in 27 years. It began, “Dear Father,” with a large red “A” inscribed on the top-right corner of the page. The paper was worn by the oil of fingertips and palms, grasping to read and reread. On the second paper— a letter— addressed to me in my father’s script. I caught only the last line before warm tears flooded the edges of my vision, “And all you wanted to do was dance.”

Jeremy and Lily spent the majority of their days together roaming 14th street and 8th avenue. Jeremy took the G train from Greenpoint, and transferred to the L train, taking it all the way to 1st avenue every Friday. After having to deal with his withering baking internship every week, his weekly retreats to Lily’s East Village apartment acted as a remedy. Oftentimes, It was really the only thing that helped him get through the week. Lily awaited his arrival every Friday- and always had an iced matcha latte prepared for him. She may not have shown it, but Jeremy was also the only thing getting her through the week too after having to deal with the quarrels of her strenuous situation-ship. Jeremy may be gay, and Lily may be a lesbian. But in a way, they were made for each other. They were soulmates. Or soul friends, whatever you may want to call it. 

Jeremy grabbed his Strand tote bag that Lily grabbed for him during the previous summer when they took classes together at Columbia University. He quickly searched for his brown leather wallet. It may have only had twenty dollars and his vaccination card, but he knew he was in for one hell of a weekend. Usually, his encounters with Lily were limited to Friday nights. But this time, Lily’s parents were away for the weekend, meaning they could do whatever they wanted. “Jeremy, make sure to bring the bag with the blue anchors on them, that way we can carry all of our stuff”, Lily texted him. Jeremy packed a backpack and two tote bags full of clothes and hygiene products. He planned to stay the whole weekend. Lily was fine with this. In fact, she was hoping he would. She was deathly afraid of being alone at home in her 5 story walk-up apartment, even though she lived at the very top. She always felt unsafe. Even though she strolled through the village at 2 AM every Friday with cheap diner iced coffee. 

This time Lily hadn’t prepared Jeremy’s iced matcha. Instead, she was preparing a weekend itinerary for the ages. First on the agenda, getting a tattoo. And she was making sure Jeremy was doing it with her. Jeremy had no idea what was coming.

When I was ten my father sent me out to the well in the backwoods of our home to fetch water. It was winter, and the snow burned my bare feet. The neighbors kept hounds in their back stables for hunting in the spring and summer, but every year they seemed to forget about them, and in moments of desperation the poor things would break from their lockups and roam our forest for the last skinny scraps of meat that weren’t able to hide away for the winter. One set its sights upon me and gouged the flesh from my neck and that’s how I ended up here.

I watched from that ethereal place above where everything you touch just barely escapes your grasp, like dandelion seeds in the breeze. I watched as the sun fell behind the white mountains and rose again in the east and still my carcass lay in the snow, the wetness keeping the blood fresh and the frost glistening on my skin like marble. I imagined my family’s search party must have taken all night. Indeed, when my father finally came it was with our own hunting dog, and when he saw the patch of red in the snow he shrieked and fell backwards. Then he came for me with frantic, open arms. I stood and opened mine back but he passed right through me and took my body in his arms and carried me home.

My mother and sister shed their tears silently as they washed me and covered me in a shroud of our warmest blankets. My father had dug a small grave at the base of the evergreen in our backyard, and slowly, like he was carrying a sheet of the most precious silk, he picked me up and laid me in it and buried me in the snow.

It was at this point that passersby had begun to crowd around our home, inquiring about the whole ordeal. I fluttered among them like the shadow of a butterfly, going here and there and hearing this and that. The heavenly veil that separated us warped their sound, and I strained to hear. When someone asked who had died, one old man shook his head.

“Wicked thing,” he said, and spat on the ground. He gestured to the grand old house at the end of the road. It stood tall and black against the snowfall.

“The Baron?” someone said.

He nodded. “Set his hounds on his own slave girl, the one whose parents died last winter. I tell you, must’ve been hard for the poor thing. No family and all.”

What

I don’t’ understand the need for a rule in poetry

I hate poetry

We have rules in poetry

I don’t understand poetry

Art is beautiful so let it be free

I love poetry

So many rules 

It lights up a fuel

I just went on rhymezone 

So I can find a word that rhymes with fuel

Did I Just Break a Rule?

I guess this isn’t creative 

I dislike poetry 

This is the stuff I may give 

I beg of you to give me a grade

I’ll find a way to be Persuasive

Looking at a rubric 

A bad grade will box me like a cube did

Music

Fabric

I will rhyme pubic with I need an acoustic to make music

So many rhymes

Not enough time

This thing of a poem is a crime

Sometimes

I wanna rhyme without a doc telling me to

This is my view 

Sorry to disappoint you

I’ll go over it at the review

So many rules

Is this a poem?

thud, thud

the deafening pulse of the train at 3 am

mimics the throbbing surge of solicitude within me.

lavender moonlight ebbs onto the darkest of eyes

eyes as dark as her demons

demons that linger patiently in her head.

cotton sheets, milky white and thick, but

the walls are drenched in black tears

so there on the bed I lie,

to myself.

Based on the album cover made by Sam McKinniss for the album “Melodrama” by Lorde

The artwork has no name