L’Appel Du Vide, Letter to a Stray Cat, Different

By Skye Kuppig

L’Appel Du Vide

Image © Christopher Read (https://www.flickr.com/photos/rategoodpopularculture/6029117259)

Image © Christopher Read (https://www.flickr.com/photos/rategoodpopularculture/6029117259)

A white
placed on the edge of the table,
a semi-circle ring jutting over the precipice.
Coffee sitting stagnant in its belly,
tasting colder,
with each sip.
Leaving a stained rim on the virgin white
where it has receded.
It sits there, inches away from my hand.
Nails bitten down,
wrinkles beginning to show.
I watch,
from the corner of my eye.
The mug.
So brittle.
Already lines
in the places I know it
would break
if it fell.
When it fell.
My hand heavy on the table,
turned lead with the power
of possibility,
the what if.
The I could.
I see the liquid
spreading across the tiles,
seeping out from between sharp edges
of ceramic shards.
Spreading still,
down tracks of grout.
Until a faceless person
lays down a rag and sops the mess up.
Sweeps the stained-ivory pieces aside,
throws the whole deal in a trash can
to be driven away
the next morning.
But my hand has not moved yet,
and still,
the mug sits,
with a semi-circle of rim jutting over the precipice,
and my hand tensed,
and watching

Letter to a Stray Cat

The night we met,
the ice made lace on the frozen ground.
The snow blushed a frostbitten blue,
and moonbeams fought the winter-starved shadows
that surrounded us in wait.
I remember your eyes,
how they watched me as I approached.
The way they flashed citrus in the black.
I thought you would run
when I shattered crystal with my steps,
but you only stared.
And when I came close enough
to finally touch you,
to know that you were not the silhouette of a dream,
you were gone,
dissolved like ink into the night.

Image courtesy of @Doug88888 (flickr.com)

Image courtesy of @Doug88888 (flickr.com)



Sitting in the back of the room,
The new kid.
He has his head hung low,
Back hunched,
As if ashamed of his existence.
He should be.

Doesn’t he realize he’s different?
Doesn’t he realize that no one wants him here?
Doesn’t he understand the looks the other kids give him?
Doesn’t he know why he’s never called on?

And so-
I hate him.
I hate his hunched back.
I hate his sorrowful eyes.
I hate his deep brown skin.
Because my friends do.
Because my parents do.
And what I hate most of all
Is that I don’t even know his name.

Skye KuppigSkye Kuppig is a junior at Sturgis Charter Highschool on Cape Cod. She’s loved writing since she can remember, and writes poetry and short stories. Her sophomore year in high school she started the school’s literary magazine and since then has been working to build a vibrant writing community at her school. Apart from writing, she likes to sail, paint, play the alto saxophone, and travel. This past year she’s been to Spain, France, and Italy, and hopes to attend university abroad.

Subscribe / Share

It's very calm over here, why not leave a comment?

Leave a Reply

What Is YARN?

It's a brilliant thing to have a place where you can read fresh original short stories by both seasoned YA authors and aspiring teens. YARN is a great tool box for growing up writing. - Cecil Castellucci

Imagine. Envision. Write. Revise. Submit. Read.

YARN is an award-winning literary journal that publishes outstanding original short fiction, poetry, and essays for Young Adult readers, written by the writers you know and love, as well as fresh new voices...including teens.

We also believe in feedback, which is why we encourage readers to post comments on pieces that inspire thought, emotion, laughter...or whatever.

So. What's your YARN?

Publication Archive