A Stellar Flare of Young Adult Writing and Visual Art
Autumn Tales Through the red leaves, you can feel the chill of an oncoming winter, you can see a grey fox with silver eyes, chasing away warmth of a dying fire. You might notice a person, in a dark cape and with red hair in messy braids, standing still, ignoring all this, standing perfectly still. Holding a bow. You may focus on the noises of the waterfall behind black rocks or you may close your eyes and feel a light breeze on your cold skin. The breeze turns into wind, into a howling storm, tugging at your clothes but the person? Still, controlled arms, open posture, a staring gaze. What are they looking at? The noise of an arrow pierces the silence, cuts through the air, from the person to the target. A grey fox bleeds silver blood. Silver eyes turn grey.
empowerment i lay down on the forest ground, surrounded by dead leaves and moss. cool against pale skin. my mouth full of flowers and grass. growing through my cheeks into the fresh soil. grounding. refreshing. i close my eyes and feel raindrops like freckles on my skin. smell the storm clouds and shiver with anticipation like the trees. i take a breath through the mushrooms growing out of my lungs. deep. clean. i'm glowing, radiating freedom. the raindrops roll down like tears of joy. of relief. i stretch out my arms and where my fingertips touch, seeds start to sprout. new life. fresh beginnings. sprouts come out of my fingertips, fragile. soft leaves. i stretch out my legs on the moss and feel it growing into my skin, drawing water and nutrients. i let it. a slow give and take. the wind caresses me carelessly, blows some soil off my lips and sends the leaves to dance around me. i lay still, like the rocks. like dead tree trunks, rotting away in silence, not suffering but reveling in the integrity. to be part of a system where to die means to live. and i am in between. i am becoming one with the forest around me.
Scottish Fantasy I want to stand on wide plains of grass and dirt, seeing the sun desperately trying to crawl out between endless clouds. I want to look longingly into the distance and feel the calm, the serenity. I want to see a person standing on one of many hills, in the middle distance, not too near but not too far to see. They're standing there, determined but not disrupting the serenity. Barefoot in the grass. Their dress is moving like a dark omen. Calm and steady, ominously ambiguous. It's matching the red hair that's gracefully flowing in the storm. The sword is hoisted over their shoulder. A warning, a sleeping dragon, able to spit fire and wreak havoc but not quite awake. An "I could" and an "I would" but not an "I will". There's music coming out of nowhere now, the dress moving in time with the rhythm, the hair swimming on the harmonies. I move my feet, the sword falls to the ground, limp and unused. I don't dance, no, I start walking. The determination fills me and I know I must go. Not knowing where, not caring much either. I get the feeling of being watched but don't look back. The dress waves around my feet, not an omen now, more like foreshadowing. Not a "Something could happen." but a "Something will." And I let it.
Lucien is the pseudonym of Flora Hansen. She was born in Austria where she lives to this day. She is 17 years old.