"Hmm…fascinating…"

Strolling along the far end of the junkyard that passed as the RS 59 playground, Eustace poured over Hilda's most prized possession; the 600-page spiral-bound purple notebook in which she did most of her writing. Up to today, hers had been the only eyes that knew word for word what had been etched within. With baited breath, the girl watched as Eustace reached the final page before rendering a final verdict.

"I must say, points for imagery. And you really seem to have a knack for haikus, particularly about our fellow classmates-"

"Yeah, I can crank 'em out like vomit." Hilda said clearing her throat. "'Suave and collected, are his hands that hold the tales of this one-horse town.'"

"Kid."

"'Her tubes of lipstick. Scarlet as the ladybugs that cause her to scream.'"

"Noreen to a T."

"'Cheerless lad in black. How can he with such good luck, view life with sorrow?'"

"Ah, yes. Lucky Eustace." The boy in black chuckles wistfully, taking no offence to how she assessed him in her triad of short verses. "But luck is a funny mistress is she not? By one flick of her wrist, one finds little fortunes here and there but surely there must be some nameless sap who by her name pays for…oh look, a penny."

What happened next was an event as quick as it was random. Almost from out of nowhere came Gerard in pursuit of a football he and Kid had been tossing around. As Eustace kneeled over to collect the coin, the paranoid child in red leapt into the air bypassing his fellow student and avoiding a collision in the process. But this display of aerodynamic fortune proved itself in vain as Gerard found himself clashing instead with the class bully Shanna and her prissy compadre Noreen.

"What'ya know? 1896." Eustace said sliding the coin into his pants pocket while he and Hilda slinked away from the scene of Gerard getting the smackdown of his life.

"AAAAH! I LANDED IN DIRT! Ew. Ew. Ew. Ew. Ew. Ew..."

"Boy Howdy! I'm in pain!"

"Not yet you're not you little weasel!"

Once in safer territory, Eustace continued his assessment.

"Still though. As far as weaknesses, I'd say you rely all too heavily on that insipid lovey-dovey moon, June, spoon, crap especially as far as that Arnie Longfellow is concerned. Seriously! Every non-haiku work of yours is something about him. And I wouldn't mind it if they possessed something raw and passionate to it, but you play it far too safe. After a while, it's all some samey-sounding, chaste and syrupy dreck; like you're some lovesick little girl writing for Hallmark…O most luminous orb in Indigo Sky, looketh you upon my ideal guy. O all-knowing lunar sphere, taunting from above. Wilst thou never guide me to my one true love? I mean, what is that?"

"Yeah, a little something that just came to me in a dream once." She said with a shrug. "It was weird, I was looking at the moon outside the Odeon, when all of a sudden I bump into Arnie's cousin in the city who embodied everything I ever wanted to see in him. Weird right?"

"What did you see in Arnie? Or…hoped to seeing as how-"

"Maybe I wanted to see something deeper in him y'know? Like how his offbeat fetish for lint is some fuzzy diary of the human spirit: every little fiber having its own background/origin, looking and feeling different yet coming together to form a whole (or dare one say, a family). Or, how his desire to read every ingredient is his secret and quirky way of imagining stories that no pen and paper can ever be worthy of recounting. But no. What you see with Arnie is what you get. And like a fat spoiled kid on a pony, so too do I chafe and struggle under the weight of that stupid and tired saying as it sits on my conscience, egging me on in pitiless glee. But yet, my only respite is knowing that past the pain of him ripping the wings off my feelings and defecating on them as they writhe before embarking on that eternal slumber is that deep down, he's not mean, just…careless. Love (or any emotion while we're at it) is as lost on him as the beauty and wonder of a rainbow is to a dog."

Were Eustace not sitting, he would have fainted. His normally dour disposition turned to that of shock and wonder and his jaw hung precariously like a prisoner from the gallows; almost swaying in the wind. With a hearty blink and shake of his head, the gloomy goth boy suddenly found himself reacquainted with his voice.

"Oh boy. Wow…I tell you what, wow. Wrangle that into verse and I'm sure the MYOPEs would kill for it."

"The what now?

"Montana Youth Oriented Poetry Expose. Every year, a revolving door of stuffed shirt English professor types from all the state colleges hold a gathering and give an award to a middle schooler whose work best reflects the current state of childhood. I send in my work every year-"

"Which I guess never got considered."

"'Too dark', 'too bleak', 'for God's sake, see a therapist'." Eustace replied mockingly. "But at least it's not a uniform rejection. Nonetheless, the one person I would love to see my work is Anushka Epitashvilli."

"God bless you." Hilda replied flatly.

"No that's her name. She's the lead singer of my favorite band, N'sydeOut Pupp13z."

"Inside-out puppies?"

"Yeah, this Alt-Nu Metal band made up of Georgian Americans in New York City. You got Anushka on lead vocals and electric violin. Her cousin, Guga Devdariani, on backup vocals and Bass. Twin brothers Sabbas and Levan Kapanadze play organ and guitar respectively, while Eduard Jelia rounds everything out on drums. They write a lot about war, history, politics and crime from Georgia and much of the former Soviet Union. All their stuff is good but if I had to pick a song or two for the uninitiated, I'd say start with Greetings from Mezhevoy Lane and Komsomol Christmas."

As Hilda jotted down the titles, the shrill cry of the recess bell filled the air. With a groan, the two of them arose and joined their classmates in the sluggish and despondent shuffle back through the doors and into their school. But as Hilda took a sip of water, she couldn't help but notice the paper hung to the fountain's left bearing the following message:

ARE YOU AN ASPIRING WRITER AGE 11-17?

DO YOU HAVE A PULSE ON THE ISSUES FACING THE YOUTH OF TODAY?

IS POETRY YOUR PASSION?

THE MONTANA YOUTH ORIENTED POETRY EXPOSE IS SEEKING SUBMISSIONS FROM MIDDLE AND HIGH SCHOOL AGE WRITERS LIKE YOU. WE INVITE THOSE INTERESTED TO SUBMIT YOUR POEM ALONG WITH YOUR NAME, AGE, SCHOOL AND GRADE TO PROFESSOR GAVIN LINDROTH OF MONTANA STATE UNIVERSITY'S ENGLISH DEPARTMENT.

IMPORTANT DATES!

ALL ELIGIBLE SUBMISSIONS MUST BE POSTMARKED BY AUGUST 25th

FINALIST ANNOUNCEMENTS: OCTOBER 18TH

WINNER ANNOUNCED: NOVEMBER 18TH

WINNER WILL HAVE POEM PUBLISHED IN OUR DEPARTMENT NEWSLETTER.

With her creative juices pulsating violently, Hilda ripped the paper off the wall with zeal and tucked it into her notebook before opening the door to her homeroom.