Lyman C. Hunt Middle School

The Dream Test

By Louis Sullivan
Lyman C. Hunt Middle School, Grade 8

The cold seat beneath me
The cruel test before me.
No sleep at all last night
No concentration now.

“You may begin now!” She says.
The words echo around the room
As I bend over the desk.
I blink once and suddenly
My world goes haywire.

The numbers and letters lift upwards
Elongating and growing until
The classroom is filled with dancing forms
Filled with the utter nonsense of dreams.

The figures all dance
To the sound of pens
And the hopeless cries.
Now I stand with them
With fear in my eyes.
The room seems to melt
Melt into nothing
and I am falling
Falling into darkness.

“Pencils down everybody!”
I bolt at the sudden sound
To see all of my laughing
Merrymaking classmates.
I stare hopelessly downward
At my unfinished test
And I sigh.

The dark street is full of people, and they all look the same. They look beaten and secluded.
I walk past, escorted by a police officer; cautiously looking into the faces of those huddled around bins of fire, the flickering glow revealing their hawk-like eyes glaring at me out of blood-stained dirty faces, some grasping an L-shaped bundle of rags. Those glares all say one thing: fresh meat.

The Closet of Nightmares

By Louis Sullivan
Lyman C. Hunt Middle School

It’s there before me now; it waits for me; like the alligator waits for its prey. Only a few feet remain between me and my doom.
They said it had to be done; I had to clean out my closet. It won’t kill you, they said.

Power

By Louis Sullivan
Lyman C. Hunt Middle School, Grade 8

Dreams end abruptly as my eyes flick open. Something’s wrong but I can’t put my finger on it just yet. I’ve got a headache, that’s it, a splitting headache. Why?

Darkness... That’s what filled Alex’s room as he opened his eyes. The only light came from the faint glow of a street lamp down the street. The next thing he realized was that he was drenched in sweat. Looked like another 90 degree night. The air was still, despite the small fan producing a faint hum in the corner. Alex had never been able to sleep peacefully in hot weather.

Suppositious
That’s what you are
Traditions
That’s what you do
Don’t sound so alarmed
You knew I was armed
With this Age comes information
With this Information comes age
Don’t try and put me in your ignorant cage
Bottle up my rage
And send it
Far away, labor shops work ‘till the end of the day
Maybe not so far away
You pay Wall*Mart, fill your shopping cart

Our Farm
Emily Gieselman
Lyman C. Hunt Middle School, Grade 8

The whispers of the past sing sweetly in my ear.
The creaking stairs show me our way, the way that so many walked before me.
The old kitchen is still filled with lady bugs and peanut butter cookies.