It was pitch black, the movie projector’s fan hummed, as
Moving pictures flickered to a faraway place
And other lives, to be followed by a quiz.
The air inside was steamy, like the Amazon.
Paul was the first.
Armed with a straw and several balls of wadded paper and spit,
He aimed, first high, and then low,
Inspiring an increasing barrage from the flanks.
Silent and swift, we fired at that elusive tribe.
There would be no prisoners.
We had banded together.
The evidence lay strewn across the slick tile.
It rested in ponytails,
Shirt collars, desktops, and
Dotted the screen.
Several mounds were on her desk.
As the first fluorescent light lit, even
Ellen, the teacher’s pet, understood
There would be
No recess that day.
1/29/26
Published by
C. S. De Dona
Author, Poet, Photographer, domestic violence survivor, and naturalized immigrant, Cornelia is currently an Arts and Letters member of The Southwest Florida Branch of The National League Of American Pen Women.
Cornelia lived in Kaneohe, Hawaii, for thirty-six years. Also, seven years in the Mid-Hudson Valley of New York. She now resides in North Fort Myers, Florida.
Her poems and photography are published in print, online, and in Rain Bird, a literary and art journal of the University of Hawaii's Windward Community College (2008-2013).
In 2013, Cornelia received Rain Bird's Kolokolea Poetry Prize for her poem, "Speaking French."
In 2016, her chapbook "Hawaiian Time," entered in the National League of American Pen Women's Vinnie Ream contest, was awarded third place in their inaugural multi-discipline category.
View all posts by C. S. De Dona
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