Change

On the working class tube filled with out-of-work laborers, gangs and students, Reyva hugged her backpack on her lap and gazed at the ads above her head. 

“Change your Life! Travel with Distant Horizons!” 

She ditched her unfinished schoolwork and went. 

At Distant Horizons, she lied about her age. She wasn’t afraid to make adult choices.

They strapped her to a table. Fear gripped her, but they stripped it away. Gave her a new body, a new purpose.

Within the storms of Thacyline, she rode the winds on golden wings and avoided looking towards Earth. 

She could never go back.

From Guest Contributor Tyrean Martinson

At The Lake

Sitting in the sun with her friends at the lake, she hoped for Cannon Stevens to notice her, she hoped her mother wouldn’t notice her tan line, and she hoped she didn’t get burned.

Water hit her legs and she jumped up and ran towards Cannon who stood laughing in the shallows. Scooping water up with her hands, she splashed him and he grabbed her hands, his laugh turning into a silly grin.

That night, her mom flipped, “Bikini lines! Not on my daughter!”

Aloe couldn’t heal the cigarette burns on her stomach.

The lake water and Cannon’s touch did.

From Guest Contributor Tyrean Martinson

Tyrean is a daydreamer, believer, and writer who lives in the Northwest.

Worries In The Sand

I write my worries in the sand. They stretch across the beach, one after another. I shake as I write them – the pain intense. Finally, I finish. I walk away from them and sit down on the dry sand above the tide line to wait. The waves rush in, lapping over the words, washing them away. The tension leaves my shoulders as the sand smooths out, but the pain is still there. Will death wash away aches like the tide waters? Will I become smooth like the sand as I wash out into the eternal sea of the next horizon?

From Guest Contributor Tyrean Martinson

Tyrean is a daydreamer, believer, and writer from the Pacific Northwest.

Rain Vigil

Worn wooden arms hold me as I rock in my grandma’s rocking chair on the front porch of her old house. My grandma’s quilt keeps me warm in the cool fall air. It’s the first day it hasn’t rained in weeks. A mist of water rises over the treetops, and the grass is wet. I can’t stay here long. The house is already sold. All the rooms are empty. All that’s left is the rocking chair, the quilt, and me. I’ve kept vigil with the sorrowing rain. I pack up these last moments, get behind the wheel, and drive away.From Guest Contributor Tyrean Martinson

Tyrean is a writer, daydreamer, and believer at http://tyreanswritingspot.blogspot.com