The Author's Unspoken Words (MGS Writings)

      A Quick Note from the Author: The Saint Islet Famine is entirely a work of fiction. While the desperation for melted cheese, tacos, and extra guacamole is a very real human emotion, the characters (including Kakia, Mary Bam, Samuel, and the heroic faculty of Saint Islet High School) are entirely products of the author's imagination. This story is written strictly for fictional fun, entertainment, and a good laugh. Any resemblance to actual high schools, real-life school districts, existing organizations, or real principal-led food truck syndicates is purely coincidental. No school cafeterias or industrial circuit breakers were intentionally harmed or targeted in the making of this story! Enjoy the read! *** ----------------------------------------------------------------------- Part 1 Friday's Famine The morning bell at Saint Islet High School had never felt so long, mostly because Friday was pizza and taco bar day, complete with watermelon for dessert. (the ultimat...

I never dreamed of being a writer. I just fell in love with words. I didn't seek a title, or praise, or fame; I simply learned to listen when they called my name. I feel them…  Their longing to be seen, Their begging to be written. Like ghosts waiting for a body, Like seeds waiting for the rain, I feel every single one of them. They do not want to be trapped in the throat, They want to be embraced by the page. And that’s what I did. I gave them life.  

A writer lost in thought, I wander far Beneath a cold and empty evening star. My shadow stretches down the lonely street, Where faded dreams and heavy footsteps meet, And all the vibrant colors turn to gray. My weeping pen, in silence and despair, Now traces lines of grief into the air. It bleeds the heavy truths that deeply lie, Beneath the gaze of my defeated eye, As every joyful memory slips away. To those with hearts of anger, I am low, A shattered mirror in the winter snow. They only see the flaws upon my face, A broken thing devoid of any grace, A hollow ghost of who I used to be. The eyes of love I seek are long since gone, Leaving me stranded in a bitter dawn. No tender arms are left to hold me tight, No gentle voice to guide me through the night; I fade into the dark, where none can see.

The water rises higher than the roof, A town submerged, of broken dreams the proof. No food to eat, no shelter from the rain, Cold shivering bodies carrying their pain. We look across the dark and drowning sea, And wonder if the leaders see what we see. Are we forgotten in this deep despair? Does anyone in high authority care? Oh chosen leaders, whom we proudly chose, Look down upon your people's heavy woes! Open your ears and hear the mournful cry, Before the remaining hopes we carry die. We gave our votes, we trusted in your name, Now in our darkest hour, we do the same. Extend your hands, come rescue us from fear, And wipe away the flooding and the tears.

In the quiet bustle of morning bright, I stand before my eager, teary eyes, A canvas blank, a world in sight, With dreams to weave and hopes to rise, Each lesson crafted, a labor of love, Words like seeds in fertile ground. I nurture, like stars above, In every heart, a spark is found. Through trials faced, I stand my ground, For every tear, a smile will bloom, In laughter shared, my soul is bound, In this noble profession I chose, Here I am with open hands, I’d lay my life, my heart, my soul, For every child who dares to dream, To guide them gently toward their goal, To help them find their own bright beam. For I am a vessel with light to flow, For teaching is the path I chose to be.    

  Waking up with so many things on my mind is truly overwhelming. After saying a short prayer, I pick up my pen and start to write. I still use pen and paper by choice, not because I lack a laptop or a computer. I purposefully choose not to write directly on a screen because I want my mind and my hands to work together as a team. I want to create without consulting or involving any hybrid machines from the internet. Later on, of course, I will use my computer and Wi-Fi to share my finished writing on social media but the birth of my thoughts always happens on paper.  Nostalgia Pain  It remains clear in my memory why I chose to leave. I used to frequently compare our home to the loudest prison; A sanctuary, it seemed, for storms that brought heavy blows to my soul, For it was inherently a dungeon of words I desperately wished to escape. The news that no one enters this house anymore has not faded from my mind, Which is why I decided to return and dissect every room, pi...