Micah Park Biffle

 A Painters  Tragedy   Mia was an "outcast,"  an individual of different ideas and perception of life. She wore clothes that never accentuated her figure. Most were dark, baggy, and plain. She never took time to draw attention to herself. Yet attention would find her, laughter from the snarky jocks would round themselves about her.   Prodding fun of her looks, her choice of clothing and how she spoke. She spoke shyly, stuttering with unprecedented anxiety. Her eyes would dart wildly as tears would silently fall during the pressures of unwanted attention.  Their laughter would echo throughout the day in her head. Over and over she would replay the horrible moments between her and the rude abilities of bullies. Every morning she would do her best to dart to her classroom.  Scrunching herself into the smallest shape possible while hugging her books tightly. But not matter how small she made herself, no matter how dark of clothes she wore, even...

   The Choice of History  There lies an entrance, a red door to a place far different from any other. Where magic is real, time is alive, but love is dead. It is a place of desolation and pain. A place where blood flows from rivers and mountains are built of death.   It is a place so horrible, the door has been sealed shut. Locked for all eternity, a place once flourished with bountiful colors, a place where ever growing thoughts and wonder once pranced like dear through meadows. But like anything, there comes a time of destruction.   Where city floors were leveled, trees were chopped, and hope was a lost. A time when everything ran its course and something new must take its place. A time when death lives and life is but a drip of water falling from a distant cloud.   But not all is lost, though the entrance is locked, hidden from the eyes. It can be found by the heart, by the vision of faith. It can be brought from its slumbering chambers if on...

Spared from Death  It was our last meal, I remember it well. It was the meal before everything changed. It was the meal  that tasted so sweet yet so bitter. I remember what it was to this day. It was rice, beans, and a packet of salt. We were given water that had run stale from sitting in horse troughs.  The air was cold that day, the fog was dense. The clouds were low and hovered with authority.  They were of a darkly color, as dark as rising smoke from burning tires. I remember Looking up at them as I ate my food in a huddled crowd of others, I remember they gave me an ominous feel.  But they also gave me comfort. Like a wet coat in the rain, it may not completely protect you from the rain, but it is better than not having it. As I was eating my food, I remember feeling an elderly man, probably fifty years older than me shivering wildly.  His eyes were dark, circled in depression and misery. His skin wrinkled like an old rag. His breath was sh...

A Family Day  It's another beautiful day with the Morins family. Their usually weekend adventures has just begun. The sun is high, the birds are chirping from the edge of the woods. Everything is in perfect condition for the perfect family outing. The daughter of the family, Molly, is swinging between her parents as they hold her up. She counts how many seconds she stays in the air. "1...2....3.." Every time she lands on the ground a great big smile passes over her face. Followed by a contagious giggle that is accompanied by the smiles of her parents. Today she woke up excited, for today is the first time she gets to go to the zoo. The zoo, being only a few blocks down the road they decided to walk there as a family. They are all anticipating a wonderful day. Spending time with each other is the best thing they enjoy. Nothing beats the goofy moments between the three of them. Everything is excellent toady. Everyone is happy, the sun is coasting gently abov...

A Fading Mind Does she remember, oh does she remember? Does she remember my face, my voice, the mornings she cooked us breakfast before eight? Doe she remember the late night snacks and the laughter between our late day naps? Doe she remember me at all? I think not, her face is distant her, voice is subtle. Her memories are the repetition of years gone and years I was not around. I have grown, maybe that is it? Oh but no, for I can see it in her eyes, slightly nervous, confused of my presence. Who is this man she may be thinking? As I stare at her as if she is a stranger as well. An awkward separation of two that were once close. How strange a mind can lose what was once a fondness for us both. Frail her bones her posture odd. Her appetite weak and her friends, her friends I don't think know they are friends. It is an odd place for me, for us to be. No common ground but the soft sounds of Christmas in the background. She sings and I see her humor and joy have mad...

 The Blue Wolves Are Coming  Tonight I write from my friends chambers in haste. The dogs are barking and the whistles are blowing. The fog has settled densely upon the streets, allowing me temporary escape. It will only be a few moments before I am ravaged by the jaws of canines or thrown to the ground and shackled for the remainder of my life.  I am part of a secret society, some call us "resistors," we merely call our self free people. We are freethinkers, we have been watching the world degrade into a child's toy. Adults no longer observe their emotions and take thought. Rather, they act now with a stasis of belligerent obsession of identity.  Calloused to logic they bore tunnels of fantasy building lies that suit their tongues. Blaming their surroundings for their harsh reality. They bring no responsibility to their character, but force the world to shift as they do.  Many of us now clothed in the color of red, to signify they are workers of pri...

The Forgotten Many, 1865  We are often forgotten, many of us forced from the memories of our loved ones and the ever spinning earth. We were once breathing fathers and sons but now we lay silent beneath the soils. Quietly whispering through the trees, the brush, and all oceans of our coasts.  Caressing the hearts of those that walk among us. Silent we may be, but as a whole, we are never truly forgotten. Merely, we lack importance to many as time spans further. We become pictures with faces but no names. We become a corpse marked in an endless counting.  Our families become new, losing their roots as they forget or misplace us in their hearts. We stood face to face with our brothers and called them our enemies. Sons died by their fathers and fathers by their fathers.  Hell found home among our wicked needs. Curating a slow brew of chaos to swell our flesh. We became cross eyed to the vision of our lands. Many fought with no wish to be, while others fought...