The Quiet One

The quiet one stares,
at nothing in particular.
The loud one sings,
with verbosity and goodness,
but the timing is unclear,
and the fans of love,
dance lightly to a devil’s beat.
So the quiet one speaks,
barely above a whisper,
“What is the song?”
But it may or may not be there.
If it’s either in the cumbersome of my head,
Or the ambiance of the night,
There exists no harmony,
Unless noticed by both,
So the loud one weeps,
But the quiet one stares,
At nothing in particular.

Dispatches from Depression

So there is no tomorrow after all.

Everything just stays the same as if time has ceased to turn. Of course, I will grow old and die, but my depression is a self-fulfilling prophecy. Maybe I have made a mistake. Maybe I am the mistake.

Maybe. . .

The wind and the trees tell me they know something I don’t know. They mock me with their beauty as does the stranger’s smile. Have I forgotten the lost? Have I forgotten death? Have I forgotten life itself?

Still, the cigarette in between my fingers burns away and I’m forced to steel myself against my hated enemy: love.

While the clock ticks my life away and I swim in an ocean of self perpetuated misery.

Diary of Lauren Baskovitch Part 2

Dear Diary,

I think they took Ahmed away.

I haven’t seen him in class all week and I don’t think he’s sick. Yesterday, I watched the TV with Dad where these men in suits talked about ending the ‘terrorist problem’ and now he’s gone. Where did Ahmed go? When is he coming back? Why did they take him away? I want to do something but what can I do? I’m just a 12 year old girl. I have no power. I wish I was a wizard like Harry Potter who would protect the world from evil, and could’ve protected Ahmed. But I’m not. All I can do is cry.

I will let you know what happens.


Lauren Baskovitch

Diary of Lauren Baskovitch Part 1

Part 1 of at least 3

Dear diary,

I have a feeling we are going to be spending a lot more time together so let me introduce myself: I’m Lauren Bakovitch and I’m 12 years old.

I live in a small, boring town a little bit outside of New York City. I was given this diary by my uncle who says that it will take me places I never dreamed possible. I’m not sure exactly what it means, but I’m beginning to understanding a little more now that I’m starting to write. You see, I want to be a writer more than anything else. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be a great writer, haven’t not given it much thought in the past until I read Harry Potter. I guess that’s why I never considered a diary before, but it’s nice to have a place to put my thoughts and shelve them away somewhere for later use.

I met a boy named Ahmed today and had the most interesting conversation. He bought me a diet soda and said he wanted to travel the world and write. He wore glasses, but he was so nice. I would really like to hang out with him, but I don’t want to tell my parents because he’s Muslim.

You see—diary—I’m not prejudiced. It’s just that they are sending them away to internment camps. I don’t know if you have any knowledge of what lies beyond my own writing, but I’m just an ordinary girl who knows a little bit about the holocaust. Mr. McNalty was telling me the stories in class, about how this man named Hitler didn’t like certain kinds of people and tried to kill them all. But recently there was another terrorist attack. People are scared—so am I—but could fear drive us to make the same mistakes? I’m not sure.

My mom’s calling. I have to run.


Lauren Baskovitch

Cretin Heaven

The words left softly from the end of the stick. There was no honor in losing to the fools anymore. It had to end here.

Still, time moved on and nothing changed. When the Ramones played and the crowd started jumping, I fell back into the men’s room and did a line of redemption. Because the count was low and the par was high.

I needed what little bit of satisfaction only a power stimulant can give.

Then Social Distortion plays, and I’m trying to catch the eye of a pretty Sheena; a glorious tribute to curves and my mind’s perception of the truth–which was limited to the imagination.

I follow the crowd toward the stage and the world is spinning, just like Moses only with punk rockers and skinheads, and I drag my head around the unfortunate reality of my hopeless endeavor–spoken with enough verboseness to leave even the smallest bit of fortitude; my lack of will or understanding.

And the high permanently fades.

I’m floating down toward the last fragments of understanding. It ends just as it begins, with the Cretin Hop. I float on the crowd toward Cretin Heaven.

Does the Red Rose sing?


When I saw it, with its red petals and prickly thorns, I reacted most unexpectedly.

The truth is, I picked it up by the thorn and smelled the petals that brushed against my half-shaven face. It felt as if God himself were touching my body, and I knew then that things would never be the same for me.

I stood there a long time, trying to figure out the nature of this rose and why I could hold it without bleeding and who gave it to me and why. In the end, it seemed a positively undue thing to hold the rose accountable for the pricks. I was deciphering the vastness of feeling which it gave me.
So I stuck to the end of the road and held onto it for dear life and I merrily chanted an Irish ballad, then an American one, and then one that I made up. I skipped all the way down to the grocery store, and gave the clerk five dollars for four potatoes and skipped down toward town to buy cigarettes that I knew would kill me but I didn’t care because I had this moment at least; this moment of triumph where the rose bellowed out a song so beautiful, that tears ran down my face.

I picked up the rose where my heart left off and left town in search of adventure.