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The Lonely Sofa By Christal Valentine Soft is the sofa on which the green moth lands, attracted by the floral pattern bands. The colors are faded and the fabric is worn, The middles and unders and edges are torn. The stuffing protrudes from gaping holes, and springs have thrust from the cushions' rolls. Thunder groans in the distance as the clouds tumble in, And lightning forks amongst the rumbling din. A single droplet soaks into the colored cloth, disturbing the previously-contented moth. The sofa is once again standing alone, On top of the trash heap it calls home.

Our Special Place By Christal Valentine Once upon a summer’s day, my friend and I went out to play. We travelled to the woods nearby, to find a place where we could hide. We crossed a stream and hopped on rocks, drenched our shoes and soaked our socks. On a hill we found a tree, and scaled the slope so we could see. We focused on the world around, listening close to every sound. The woods, lit with shafts of light, truly was a wondrous sight. The sun was warm and we grew tired, the kind of weather I admired . We picked a root where we could sit, and sat down to rest a bit. I leaned on him; he leaned on me, on the root, of