Creative Writing Corner
These are some of the creative works from Ms. Kelton Enich’s creative writing class at Kellogg High School.
Honeysuckle Seas
Madisen Hawkins
(Senior)
I am from Russian Tea
and rachis trees
blanched with snow.
From my capsized heart,
lent to my Great Grandma’s piano keys.
From lullabies of Amazing Grace
and from Earth’s morning dew.
From mountain peaks and huckleberries,
the sound of cheeseburger birds chirping.
From my dad’s whistling hymns to bedtime stories.
I am from rocking chairs,
cradled within my mother's arms.
Riding my bike down the hill
and picking my scabbed knees.
I am from winding rivers
and cold breeze staggering across my face.
From Cutthroat trout, and their vibrant color of fall leaves,
the roar of my dad's truck engine.
I am from callused hands covered in unshakable dirt,
followed by a kiss on the forehead.
I am from my grandmother's fruitful garden,
rhubarb sticks filling my cheeks.
From rope swings and tree forts,
from being so dizzy that I can’t stand.
From neighborhood friends and catchable snakes
over and over again.
I am from a Gulch,
from the nectar of a honeysuckle sea
stretched out beyond me.
The Rifle
Alex Watson
(Senior)
The walnut stock is firm
in the pocket of my shoulder.
The safety is on
but the click of it switching off.
My finger slowly squeezes the trigger,
the rifle shoots blamelessly,
and smoke flows from the barrel.
I hear a crackle through the sky,
A loud BOOM when it goes off.
The brass bullet spins thousands
of feet per second,
and life slows down.
I watch through the scope,
and hear the thud of the cold, hard,
pressed metal hit.
Intense like war,
it guards you from the shadows
and the possibility of death.
The rifle brings the after life.
The smell of gunpowder
ejects the shell,
the brass casing hits the rocks,
and sounds like a wind chime
in slow motion.
Forever Lost Flower
Kristin Ellison
(Freshman)
A dandelion comes up, forces its way through dirt,
like hands pushing through earth.
Almost as stunning as a lily up close,
with it’s velvet petals and vibrant green stem,
and seemingly unblemished from afar,
because you can’t see the ruffles
and tears the blossom holds.
Some are buried, while others sprawl
through graded hills
like babies learning to crawl.
It is as graceful as a rose,
but unlike a rose, a dandelion is never picked,
but left to watch and bloom.
A child will clip it in her hair
and mothers call them beauty,
but as it withers and wilts
people will abandon the lost weed.
The Wallpaper Just So Happened To Be Yellow
Lydia Hanan
(Senior)
candlelight gleams softly off walls,
glowing in warm, round, spheres,
along masses of peeling yellow paint and molding walls.
the pattern of the paper is odd,
ever changing, starting and ending.
in morning it starts at the top,
and starts from the bottom at night.
the disfigurement, too far to be repaired,
and the room was dwarfed by its former self,
like an aging woman thinking back upon her life.
it was, as far as anyone could tell, old-fashioned,
and on the elm wood floor lay, piles of splintered fragments,
of a once illustrious chandelier,
that once lit up the whole chamber,
but now through fragments of chipped, flawed crystalline,
a mirror replica of the room is seen,
she realizes, eyes widening, pulse quickening,
that the scars on her body match the gashes on the wall,
and that the chandelier was her love,
which was crushed with disease,
and this room had become her.