You twitch in your sleep.
At first, your face is peaceful,
a swell of silence, a blank lullaby,
waiting, twiddling its thumbs for lyrics
written by Queen Mab's calligraphy.
Instead, the honest Puck
Sneaks up with dustings of tripped
Up fairy musk, curling up
Your nose with its more or less distasteful
Like an old dog twitching at a
Bad dream, you shoo away Hermia's
Irksome trouble, or at least, you try.
It frightens me a little, the way
Your body stutters, as if the
Weird Sisters are casting Macbeth's
Prophecies, and nights of
If I could, I would brush away
The spider beds, inked with dew and anxieties
From your head.
I love to see the lullaby when you sleep.
Chris Raschka had a monumental decision to make. He could either go to medical school, which would mean closing his sketch books for the next 10 years, or he could take a leap of faith into an art career.
Alfred strolled solemnly through the shallow waters of the river. With every step, wet sand oozed between his toes. The sun was setting slowly, its reflection stretching across the river's surface, a rippling semicircle of liquid heat.
My face hits something hard as I fall out from the mirror. There's a sickening crack and blood and bits of teeth fill my mouth, and I almost pass out from shock. I welcome the pain. It reminds me I'm real again.
Dim orange light reveals a row of toilet stalls. Guttural whisperings echo from the mirror.
"You've lost him."
"It doesn't matter."
"He was our best."
"We'll replace him."
I shrink back against the wall, become one with the shadows under the sink. Whatever their words, I know they'll come for me. They always do.
A story about a girl named Katniss Everdeen is taking the fiction world by storm. "The Hunger Games" is the first book in Suzanne Collins' trilogy, followed by "Catching Fire" and "Mockingjay."