Writing
Regifted
By Elliott Roberts-Fishman
There is a bat in the rafters of the barn. I have never seen it, for it does not care to introduce itself, but I know it is there. I know it is there because of the mark on the dog’s throat. I know it is there because I awoke this morning to the dog barking hysterically at the trees while sickly, eggshell-colored, foam bubbled up from somewhere deep in its throat. I know it is there because when the mastiff I raised from two weeks old heard the squeal of the screen door opening, and the sound of my boots hitting the termite-ridden porch, it turned on me. Its lips were pulled taught over its teeth, teeth that, until then, never looked so sharp.
I have never feared my dog. Even as I watched it lunge for my throat, even as I felt its teeth tear through the flesh and muscle of my shoulder, I felt nothing. It was not the beast's fault. Even the bat in the barn did not choose this. It was the disease that had wormed its way inside the creature's brain. Even the disease had no say in the matter. It was in its nature to spread, to continue the gift of contagious madness. Now, that horrid gift was mine.
Underneath
By Maya Faulstich
Love is such a complicated thing.
How can I say I truly love something when I don’t know anything about it
Sometimes I feel like I know something
Or maybe even
Everything
But I never do
When I turn my thoughts over, underneath
there are always insects crawling, where I couldn’t see them before
Decomposing all the glory I was desperately holding onto
But that’s life isn’t it
Decomposing everything, turning back to dirt and dust
to let the moss grow and the earth take over
returning back to where we came
old becoming new again
A filthy and magnificent rebirth
That’s what I’d truly love
Mistaken Soliloquy
By Estar Kline
The words were illegible off their tongue
To where I saw the snow of the static
Drifting from the television alit across the alley
Falling over my eyes to where I couldn’t understand
They wanted me to see their thoughts
Which they had ruminated under stress
As the tiss was counted and the cost was set
For people to dismay at as I remembered
The huge hunk of motorized wheels
Had slammed against my keratin walls
To twist and turn me like a maze
So that I might never bring another thought about
But my wails were sifted through
To find the sugar behind the bitter black ink
And so they could smell my memories
When they bathed me in light
The sheets feel like plaster strips
Holding me still as the words drift across my face
Up my body into the wall
Which vacuums up the noise so I can think
I wish I could still hear the blue and red
Because I miss my beautiful purple skin
And the fire is too dark
To encompass me the same way
When they see I do not get it
They distort their average face
To speak the next best way
And let their tongues lick my ears
I want to know what they see
Why their face is washed in sadness
Shampooed with worry
Dried with resignation
I hear the steady thump of time
It glides over my ears too
But I can see it, time, sitting on the clock
So I know what time I’ll end at
Painting the Past
By Maya Faulstich
she once slid down this slide
with her hands raised above her head
embraced this tree,
it was her best friend
you know, there was color back then
but I still imagine it in black and white
with lacy white socks and black schoolgirl shoes
stringy dark hair pulled back in braids
little faded teeth in her smile, gray rainclouds in the sky
she didn’t notice them there
years later, I too
race down this sunshine slide, tag you’re it
try to climb this tree, too thick with mossy green to get to the first branch
my best friends in the orange leaves high above me
maybe the world was dull and gray back then
but I still remember it painted in my brightest colors
with frizzy blonde, and brown, and maybe red? hair
rainbow rainboots
little bright white teeth in my smile, midnight purple rainclouds in the sky
I didn’t notice them there
how do we paint the past?
what colors do we call home?
if she were to paint me, would she know?
does the future glow, with electric pink
the same way our history pales with fading ink?
or is the future just as black and white,
and we can choose to color it
however we like?
Understood
I too am untranslatable.
I too am alone,
Lost.
Stranded in a sea of people trying to stay afloat.
As wave after wave tears us down.
Drowned
by the ever-lasting fear of being alone.
Walking through the darkly lit streets of life,
a ghost in society.
The ghost haunting everyone.
The ghost who just wants to be noticed.
Not one person understands YOU for YOU
except for your dreaded self.
The self that is barbaric, untamed, wild.
The self that is hiding under the table during the storm.
That fear of the storm will drive you insane.
The fear will inevitably
turn you into Lucifer himself.
Yet that same fear is your knight to protect
you against your greatest foe,
yourself.
A New Place
By Quinn Laymin
Walking through the foreign streets,
A place that I have never been,
Untranslatable sound
comes from the mouths
of people around me,
The untamed pigeon
seem the only being
That understand
My barbaric unknowing
Of the culture that surrounds me
It sounds out his yawp
As a sign of acceptance
In this new world
The Hotel
By Kevin Carr
Take a left on haven't you avenue,
and admire the stunning city lights.
Please adhere to our peculiar parking hours,
here at the 4-star resort we call life.
Embrace your nyctophilic tendencies,
and step bravely into the brightly lit night.
The staff are wearing their concert black.
They insist you mustn't revert back.
Super 8 cinema has rolled right off the track.
They were taken aback by your ever-ascending vinyl stack,
no doubt it's the best sound you've ever found.
Your room is number 616,
don't you dare investigate that scream.
I assure you the vibe here is quite intimate,
I hope you enjoy your visit.
Back in the Day
By Nathan Buchanan
I remember running down long hallways during our swimming lessons.
Not a worry in our mind, we were as close as could be.
When we were together, my smile was as bright as a red shoe, and when we weren’t, I was as sad as a broken dish.
Pre-school was the best together, building blocks and playing on the playground.
Now that we are older,
I moved to Yarmouth and you still live in Falmouth.
You and your eye can not hang out as much anymore.
It was almost as if our friendship fell off like a leaf during fall.
I wish I could go,
Go back in the day.
Middle-Class Animals
By Ella Cameron
Mrs. Squirrel said she’d move to the countryside to “get away from it all,”
but her great aunt’s home was recently renovated by a chainsaw,
and she said she’d help with the damages.
Besides,
her mother says Mrs.Squirrel would be abandoning her if she moved.
In times of significant stress such as these,
Mrs. Squirrel frequents the stash of acorns
she hid away from Mr. Squirrel just four Winters prior,
but that was chewed up by a tractor just the other week,
and the withdrawals were making her stomach turn into knots.
But maybe that was just the pesticides talking.
As of late,
not a single thing
Has gone Mrs.Squirrel’s way.
Mr. Pigeon took up residence in an office building along 5th Avenue five years ago.
Now he’s being evicted, and not so kindly.
The typical three week’s notice
Turned into anti-roosting spikes
– Constructed in just two hours, mind you–
Turned into homelessness
Turned into hopelessness.
Mr.Pigeon is a single father.
How is he supposed to provide for his two young, innocent squabs?
It was not their decision to live such a life.
None of this is to say that the office building was nice before the eviction.
Not by any means.
The competition for food was positively ridiculous
and bird poop littered the streets.
Now Mr. Pigeon pecks
at the white splotches on the pavement,
trying to find a crumb of food
For his two young squabs.
Mrs.Possum experienced death in her family for the 4th time this month.
Roadkill,
once again.
This time it was on her mother’s side.
Mr.Possum told his three boys not to play dead
if two bright lights
sped towards them
on those strips of barren land.
He lost his tail to such a mistake not 6 years ago,
on a hunt for berries.
The squished red pulp
Spread slowly across the asphalt.
The possum family could only lose so many.
If Mrs.Possum lost one of her sons,
she wouldn’t know what to do with herself.
She wouldn’t know how to live.
Could a living thing ever experience such sorrow?
Could a living thing ever
Be
So
Desperate?
Like A Fire
By Noor Samor
I fell in love with you,
I fell in love with that smile, those eyes, that laugh.
With such comfort,
that hug.
I love how you think, how you walk, and how you talk.
I love everything about you, against all odds.
You’re like a fire,
In my heart.
Making it burn,
More and more.
I want to put it out,
To claim a smokeless flame.
I want to forgive and forget,
I want to dance in the rain and fight all the pain.
You are not only in my heart but also in my brain.
I fell in love with you the first day I met you,
But you knew,
Because you fell in love too.
If I could do it all again,
I’d rewrite all the pages but one.
I want to have you as mine until the end of time.
Should I go back or shall I strive,
For a new beginning,
Better luck,
Maybe for someone who isn’t drunk.
To make a promise, and to keep it,
Will be the reason why my heart shattered in pieces.
I not only gave you my love but also my trust.
You betrayed both, not only one.
What should I have done,
I can’t run or hide,
My time is running out,
And I can’t seem to find you.
Not in front of me,
Or in the midst of the rain,
You are hidden and I’ve lost your tracks like a fast train,
You not only took yourself but my soul with you too.
Placid Lakes
By Ella Cameron
In the fog,
the kind you hear of only in fairytales,
and stories before being tucked away to bed,
Is a sort of pleasant solitude.
Where all is white,
and the wind bemoans its songs through barren trees.
Where across the water,
spirals of vapor flick along those placid lakes.
Where within the surface,
the color of that bleak sky refracts those low-hanging branches.
From above the creaking dock,
Where dew dampens the rotting wood,
You can see the silhouette of each bird that soars across the riverbeds,
And smell the wild lupine and fallen birch.
The pine needles that lay on the water's edge spiral infinitely downwards,
Ever leading to the bed of the lake
Where skipping stones become sand below the surface,
And fish, stomachs full of lost worms, swim in search of the next hook.
Where warm summers spent at the lake's edge
Have been forgotten on such lonesome days
Where nature has consumed many a vacation home
In the verdant moss and mist of fog
That swells across the lake.
Beginning to the End of Sanity
By Aunalicia Shalaby
From the darkest core born from a man, the seed of insanity, the forever beginning of a never-ending calamity. Driven by the great seven sins was born the great Supernatural, the great slot machine owned by a family, unnatural. Chaos emerged when the greed of money-making was done, beneath the surface, relationships were destroyed, one by one. From the sloth that would be born from the gluttony of power, and the envy of others, came the man reborn who would turn everyone into his suckers. The lust for power and the wrath that would lead to one’s end was quite grim. Who would’ve known that pride would create a bittersweet death for him? Then came four friends, looking for a way to bypass time. Their carelessness being their biggest crime. With an unfortunate encounter with Supernatural itself, grew the recklessness and foolhardiness of their actions. They played with, tampered with, and caused its destruction, soon to face and soon to feel a sense of their mentalities abduction. With the force of the machine's wrath, came the earth to quake. This would be the friend's most ignorant and worst mistake.
Beneath the Surface
By Aunalicia Shalaby
The Read Coat
By Ella Cameron
A quilted red coat, the result of many patchwork projects of colorful buttons and loose thread, has been hung atop a dingy blue swing set, soaked with rain and left to rot. Had these filthy clouds not dispersed across the sky and overtook the sun, this day would have been quite pleasant. Instead, rainwater ripples in a puddle gathered below the solitary swing set. The chains, rusted by many a rainy day, squeal eerily in the wind as a little girl adorned in red with features resembling that of a chipmunk stands tip-toe atop the slick seat of the swing. She wobbles back and forth in an attempt to retrieve the damp patchwork jacket. She had hazel eyes and two small braids reaching just above her shoulders. Had an onlooker gotten to know the young girl more, they’d know her mother cut her hair for her, but the young girl hated it. The girl was known to be stubborn. For context, a tall and lanky boy had stolen her quilted red coat of patchwork with buttons and loose thread during recess just three days ago. He was the owner of the scariest, meanest, most tiniest dog in the neighborhood. It was white and crusty and barked at anyone who passed by. The dog was not much unlike the boy. Since the theft of her coat, the boy’s friends had taunted and bullied the young girl and made jokes out of her obvious misery. On the cold and dreary day, slush filled the young girl's boots and the seat of the swing grew slick. A drop of rainwater landed in the reflective puddle below, where a smear of red rippled in the droplet’s wake. Then, a splash sounds out, loud and followed by quiet tears. The young girl is sprawled on the ground, soaking up rainwater and slush, the red jacket hung tauntingly above her.
Winter
By Maya Faulstich
Glitter
Not the microplastic kind, the kind that is made
by beams of sunshine
Reflecting off of prisms in the snow
I may shiver in the cold
but the chill invigorates me
Dust
Not the kind that sweeps from planes of sand, the kind that is made
by snow gathering itself in the trees
And when there comes a breeze,
It lifts and sprinkles all around me,
Shivery confetti
Let's throw a party
There’ll be pompoms of snow
Fortresses of snow
Tiny little masterpieces melting in a millisecond on my finger of snow
Adrenaline rush
or
Sit in the wonder
how it transforms the world around me
how it quiets
how it protects
If ever I am trapped inside my room
Trapped inside my house
Trapped inside my mind
I only have to look outside
Where the sky reaches far beyond my eye
Where little red berries scatter themselves
And little brown birds stop by
the world is stripped down to its barest state
For this short time
I am alive
Wings And Matches
By N. Amored
I’ve always floated with the wind
But fire pulls me in
You flicker in display of light
Take my oxygen
Willingly, I give in
I float my way to you
Knowing that I’ll end up burned
Like all the others do
When you’re a moth it’s hard to face
Don’t fall in love with fire
A magnet pull, then down you go
Next time I’ll just float higher
Hidden Love
By Reshma Jerosch
In the shadows, her love must dwell,
A secret boyfriend she can't unveil,
She hides her smile, her heart aglow,
Forbidden love in whispers low.
With every text, her heart takes flight,
A love kept hidden, out of sight,
Her family's eyes, they mustn't see,
The love that's meant to set her free.
Each message brings a stolen thrill,
A secret dance, a hidden skill,
Yet, beneath the joy, her heart does ache,
For the love, she can't openly partake.
In secrecy, her heart must reside,
A heavy burden she must confide,
A smile that masks the hidden flame,
A love that can't bear its true name.
She longs for a day when love's revealed,
When shadows lift, and hearts are healed,
For now, she hides but hopes one day,
Love's light will chase the dark away.
Mobutu Seseko Kukunbgendu WaZabanga
By Bakota Bolese
As I ran through the deep woods, I dropped my shoe
on the creaking bridge. I stopped to pursue,
amidst the chanting and cries, a sight unfolded:
an ivory necklace, adorned with stories untold.
Driven to a different realm it seemed,
where memories danced, realities gleamed:
a symbol of power and might
tainted with darkness, casting shadows in sight.
Molimo Mosanto, Molimo Mosanto. Echoed near.
A plea for liberation.
In the heart of the forest, where truth intertwines.
I discovered the secrets, the sins of past times.
Christ isn't here, his presence long gone,
but the limb of hope, it's ours to hold on.
In the face of corruption, we’ll rise and resist.
For justice and freedom, we firmly insist.
Gravity's force pulls us down to the ground,
but your legacy, Mobutu, is a burden profound.
A river of bodies, a symbol of loss,
yet you, in your riches, were spared from the cross.
Mobutu, the orchestrator of pain and despair,
Mobutu Seseko Kukunbgendu WaZabanga.
Your name etched in history, a burden we bear.
Your golden chariot left of trails of nightmares.
The bridge stands as witness, connecting our plight
but guiding us forward, into the realm of light.
With the ivory necklace as a reminder so clear,
of the strength within us as we conquer our fears.
Scared to Leave her Brothers
By Reshma Jerosch
A girl with courage, yet a heavy heart,
Afraid to drift too far apart
Afraid to leave them far behind,
In their presence, her fears subside,
She holds onto this cherished ride.
Yet the world beckons her to roam,
She'll venture out, and find her home,
With a brotherly bond so strong,
She'll face the change, and it won't be wrong.
Knowing her brothers' love is never gone.
Lover's Ride
By N. Amored
In a carriage I did wait
For someone to get in
In dismay passed your gate
But I could not reach within
So now I ride late at night
My carriage doors are open
If another entered I wouldn’t fight
But if you got in I’d close ‘em