Writing

Ella Cameron, Serenity in the Quiet. 

A black void; nothingness. It melts, bearing into my vision like a flood light, corroding me as it seeps into my bloodline, my heart. My nightmares become me, slowly, painstakingly. 

The crashing wake rushes up to me, as hard and as fast as a floodgate releases its hold. My eyes flash open, as black viscous fluid, wretched as crude oil and smelling of putrid death, drowns me. 

At my moment of certain death, the dark water shimmers around me, basking itself in a light I will never again know. 

I sink below the surface, and my troubles follow me in, forever forgotten by the outside world. There is serenity in the quiet. In the bleak.

Ella Cameron, Cotton Candy Skies.

Sickly-sweet cotton candy attempts, in vain, to imitate the likeness of an ethereal sunset. Those with the sense to look up soon become entranced by the glittering blue and pink hues saturating the clouds which no artist could ever truly recreate. The saccharin fragrance of a sun-set carnival entices sticky-fingered children to play, powdered sugar across their reddened noses, and stuffed animals and candies and balloons in their tiny hands, almost too much to hold. Ponies, made of magic and chipping plastic, circle nearly unendingly, continuously rising and falling until all time stops- a stopwatch embedded in rich, rippling syrup. Couples kiss below this colored sky, in the primary-colored carriages of ferris wheels, isolated from the rest of the world. Kids blow raspberries at the cootie-ridden riders. The have not the sense to care. Heartbeats flutter, as do the gulls, be it a lover’s touch or the entirely breathtaking view. The dirty, cigarette-ridden ground seems so far from up so high. Everyone secretly knows that this marvelous wonder of a night must end- that the sweet will turn sour. But thinking of this will not improve the rest of the night. Ignorance is bliss. Too much contemplation is not good for the well-being of one’s mind. Better just to let the cool air blow across your face from the top of the highest ride. The final thrill ride should not be spent in sorrow, with the thought of ending, as the night has yet to have even concluded. Hold your child one last time, below the cotton candy sky, and remember all the times you had. Do this before the sun falls below the horizon- before the long and silent drive begins- before work in the morning. Do this before the taste of the night dissipates and leaves only memories.

An Empty Room

By Roland Kovacs

Here I sit in an empty room.

There are four walls, a ceiling, and a floor, all made of the same white concrete. All the walls are the exact same width and height, and the floor and ceiling are perfect squares. In the room, embedded into one of the walls, is a door. A plain, simple, white door. Behind it lies everything that the room is not. Other than that, there is nothing. It doesn’t matter how long I spend here, I will find nothing more.

I could leave the room. I could open the door and go someplace else. 

Perhaps I could go to a field, where I would frolic among the blades of grass, and pick some flowers while I listen to the birdsong.

No.

I would cut myself on a thorn, or perhaps get stung by a bee.

No.

I will not leave this empty room.

But, I could go somewhere different.

The woods, perhaps.

I could go see the trees and gaze in awe at their size. I could listen to the wind rustle their leaves, listen to them whisper, listen to their frantic, eager voices. I could listen to the birdsong once again, even grander this time, with the birds now plentiful, their song now even more intricate and full. I could look at the leaves that had fallen, see all their unique shapes, all their unique colors.

No.

I would get lost, out there in the woods. I would get lost, and then be found by some carnivorous predator.

No.

I will not leave this empty room.

Unless of course, I went somewhere safer, somewhere different.

Perhaps I could go to the lake. Yes, now that would be safe.

I could see the fish in the lake. I could see all of their colors, and all of their forms. I could watch their slow, elegant dance as they swam around in the lake. I could see the strange plants in the water, and how they slowly swayed in the soft current, joining the dance of the fish. I could see some new birds, some different birds, floating on the surface of the water, hunting for fish to consume. They would have strange, new calls, different from the birdsong I would have heard in the fields and the woods, yet just as beautiful. I could watch them take their fill, and then fly off to some distant place. Perhaps I could follow them.

No.

Knowing my foolishness, I would try to swim in the lake, and then inevitably drown. I would lose track of time, watching the lake, and then find myself in the dark, the cold, the night. I would follow the birds in my mindless trance, following them to a hostile, unknown world. I would-

No.

What point is there in all this?

How long have I sat here ruminating about these dreams, only to repeatedly recoil from them?

Why am I still in an empty room?

Should I be in an empty room?

No.

I should leave the room. The beasts, the dangers that lurk in the dark will find me, one way or another. Whether it be in this room or not, I will die. I will bleed. I will burn.

So why waste my time in this empty room?

What value is time if it is spent in an empty room?

I will leave this room. I will leave, and I will be struck, over and over, by all of life’s wonders. I will wander off, and find myself lost, forcing me to learn to survive. I will learn how to swim across the waters, I will learn how to utilize the sky. I will learn when to run, and I will learn when to fight. I will be cut, over and over, by thorns, by rocks, by talons, by teeth. I will have thousands of scars lining my body, all collectively telling such a wonderful story. A story of hardship and agony. A story of achievement and pride.

Here, in this empty room, there will be no hardship. There will be no agony. And there will be no achievement or pride.

Is there any reason to stay in this empty room?

No.

And yet I’m still here.

I’ve thought all of this before, haven’t I?

And yet I am still in an empty room.

I do not possess the courage to leave it.

Perhaps one day, either through boredom, tiredness, or just sheer stubbornness, I will be empowered to leave this empty room.

But that day is not today.

I know what is right, but my fear remains above me.

It remains my watchful, wrathful, unreasonable god.

And thus I sit in an empty room.

The Crow

By Roland Kovacs

High atop a grand, moon-lit evergreen,

A lone crow sat shrouded by a veil of night and leaves.

It stared down upon the earth, silently watching,

Its piercing gaze scoured the ground, searching for something.

Suddenly, it was filled with an immense desire,

To let out a cry and to interrupt the night’s choir,

To become louder than the crickets and the wind,

To show the forest that it did not tire.

And so it let out a resonant cry,

One that caused the night’s choir to petrify.

Suddenly, the crow’s heart was filled with fear,

What if its cry had caused danger to draw near?

In a panic, the crow raised its wings and flew off into the night,

Remaining in the leaf veil to avoid the betrayal of the moonlight.

Forget the rest

By Annabella Theodore Lyn Palmacci

my memories have been, stolen

all that remains are tattered pictures, 

pasted, over the peeling paint of my mind

an overflowing cereal bowl

leaking milk over the side,

as mickey mouse scrambles to hide

my memory flickers with fuzz

like our old tv buzzing and buzzing

in the background 

of late-night fights

my memory is muted

like my screams

through the palm plastered over my mouth

don't disturb mom

she's sleeping

she worked the night shift 

my memory

is manic like my 7-year-old breaths

slowly escaping 

scolded for leaking emotions like cereal milk

it's not so bad 

everyone hides like mickey mouse

i know he's mad

he says my name like a slur 

as he marches up the hardwood steps

my memory is matted

like my dirty blond hair 

and the scribbles in the corner of my homework

discarded 

with the trash

my memory is sweet

liker her smile

her lovely,

warm, smile

i can learn to smile

And forget the rest

Writing by Maya Faulstich

You tread water constantly, but the ocean spreads forever. Listen for anyone else near, but booming sounds echo around you everywhere. Try to keep your mouth above water but lifting your head is becoming harder and harder. Sing yourself a song to keep going but you can’t breathe enough to sing it. Prove to yourself that your arms are strong enough, again and again and again but you feel weakened by the persistent waves. You can’t be tired, you’re not allowed, and if you don’t push hard enough or if you slip up once, you start to drown. You try to swim forward, make progress, but your arms are weighted and your ears are flooding with water and you can’t feel the cold of your limbs and your eyes are stinging with salt… if you let go or release yourself just once, you sink down. You start to drown. Once you start to drown you can’t stop. 

The murky bottom greets you. You’re trapped but forever freed.

"From the Sky" by Cooper Israel

From the sky, I saw an angel fall

Blood on her wings, 

She was standing tall

I stayed in the graveyard,

And watched it all

Washed it all away,

In the cabin by the lake

Will you take me by the dead hand?

Give your soul to me,

And I'll die in the arms of you 

Angel from the sky,

May I ask if you’re alright?

We can see the stars tonight, 

If you’ll be mine for all time. 

I Owe This

by Maya Faulstich

I’m sorry, I lied

I owe you this

I told you I was “working on it, oh yes”

“I have a draft in progress”

“I’m still in the process”

I at least owe you this 

I told you I only had a “few more words,

a couple edits” left to it

I promised a page full of purpose

would emerge from the worst

It never did.

I at least owe you this

No, it’s not perfect

But then is it worthless?

Or can worth come from the imperfection of my words?

This book full of blank pages

Staring eyes, staring eyes,

“Oh I left it at home”

Quickly fabricating lies

When will I realize?

My own words are mine.

My voice is a vine

That starts in the dirt

But it grows and it climbs

I untangle my lies

Lay them out in a line

Weave them into a shrine

I owe myself this.

Encore By Kai Gallivan

A mountain of shattered dreams;

Reflected in a sea of swirling strife.

A laughing horseman,

Staring at your frozen life.

Clawing at the black well walls;

The silent parade is only heard by the unquestioning.

Fate breaks fate–

Times up, it’s a reckoning.

Two daggers for the slaughter,

O’ armor of night.

Two tears from the faithless;

Absorbed without light.

May eternity keep your flame lit bright,

my guardian of blight.

Submission by an anonymous student

the dye on my hands

the color on my head

marks the transition

between who i was and who i am

the hair on my floor 

and the hair on my head 

marks my growth

my efforts to let go

i still look the same 

i still wear the same glasses 

the same clothes

the change was internal

where obody knows 

it doesent matter what others see 

it matters how i feel

this is a new me one who is starting to heal

How Do You Perceive One's Self?

By Mira Snow

How do you perceive one’s self?

A question to be considered for sure. The perception of myself is one I honestly don’t know. I am told I have an old soul, that I have lived many lives, but if I truly don’t know myself have I even lived at all? 

A question to be considered for sure. 

How many lives can one person live before they don’t know who they are anymore? I suppose I have, the problem is that I don’t know the number.  

A question to be considered for sure.

I suppose some may say that I am wise, although I feel like I’m figuring things out along the way just the same as everyone else. 

But is anyone really the same? Or are all of us just as different as the flowers that bloom on the side of the road? 

A question to be considered for sure.

The road to destiny and dreams is one that is perplexing. How can one follow a road to destiny if destiny remains as ever-changing as our futures are ever-changing? 

A question to be considered for sure.

Until I Rot

By Elliott R.F.

It stood on the crest of a hill, its gray skin faintly illuminated in the light of the stars. It was evident by the shape of its skeleton that although the creature had once called itself a man, it was now far from it. It had come and gone from the earth's embrace one too many times and had now become her proxy.  It was a creature of rot— a being composed of over-ripe human meat and overturned earth. Its decayed flesh hung off its brittle sun-bleached bone, and there was no movement from the exposed muscle of its diaphragm, as the shriveled thing had no need to breathe. Instead, soil flowed freely through its deteriorating carcass. Mycelium grew through its skeleton, coiling its ever-spreading tendrils through the remains of the creature's chest cavity, engulfing each of its crumbling ribs, and stretching up into what was once the creature's throat. 

And yet, despite its steadily deteriorating body, it sought him. Its love. The man—who, unlike it, stood tall, his hair thick and skin flushed with diurnal life that the creature could not possess. The creature longed for the sound of the man's heartbeat as it urged the still vermillion blood through his veins. It somehow recalled, in some past life, that it had once pressed its head to the man's chest, feeling the heat of his skin against its cheek, and heeding to the steady drum of his heart. If only it found him, it could rest, then it could return to the embrace of someone other than the cold, cruel earth, and there would finally find its rest. 

 The creature did not know how it loved the man. And yet, Its heart, unbeating as it was, ached for its companion. So it roamed the earth, limbs outstretched and atrophied, looking only to hold its lost love at it had in life. It yearned to be held. to once again hear the beat of its lover's heart, and feel the heat of his skin against its own. It longed to gaze upon him, to brush strands of dark hair away from his temple and call him beautiful. 

But it cannot see. Its eyes had long since shriveled, leaving only decaying sinews. Whatever words it wanted to speak would never leave its blackened lips, it had no mind to craft sentences, and its tongue had been stolen by whatever beast had discovered its corpse first.  

 It will seek what it cannot have and blindly wandering as the weather batters its exposed bone until it erodes to dust. It will not find its lover, and cannot call out for him. A creature of rot and overturned earth, ill-fated to stagger across the carpeted earth as her proxy.

Poem by Cooper Israel 

I think I saw you in a dream last night

The most alive I felt in such a long time

I’ve convinced my friends that I’m alright

But I still can’t find any new insights

You 

I’m trying

To forget every 

Part 

Of 

You

I’m dying

But 

I 

Still 

See 

Every part of 

You 

I think I saw you in my dream last night

The worst I felt in a really long time

I wish I left you when I saw the signs

Now I’m fighting to get you out my mind

You

I’m trying

To forget every 

Part of 

You

I’m lying

When I said I met someone new

I’m dying

To forget 

Every 

Part 

Of 

You

The New Mothers

Claire Koskinen

Here, in this older world

we are the new mothers.

Here we have been,

here we have decided,

the space we divided.

Claws we clipped, angels we saved

The power, the glory we craved

Then shocked by the hell we raised

The wolves, they grieved

For their eyes as they swelled.

Our fingers pointed, we yelled

“Thieves, thieves, thieves.”

We are the new world.

We are the trees, the leaves.

Scraped the trees, cold and raw,

stripped the bark, down to the bone.

The great funeral they will hold someday

with our short-lived story scribbled on a stone.

By Ella Cameron 

Therein that Grand Piano there is a girl, crouched to fit its tiny wooden frame and pulling at the fraying strings. Melodious music vibrates from inside, much too loud for the little girl to enjoy.

Despite this, the girl keeps playing, for if someone outside her solidarity was listening, how could she deny them the pleasure? For she knew it was art that she was creating; knew it was beautiful, if not to its fullest extent. In truth, it would be worse for her to cave, and devolve to the ear-splitting noises silence could bring. 

For as long as she has ever been able to recall, the girl pondered what life would be out of the Piano’s frame. But escape could be disastrous, and the girl would not take the chance. In the box that confined her, the little girl knew of what would come each new day. Discovering herself lonely or cold or in another bout of claustrophobia was never unexpected. But if she left the confines of her own world, new evils awaited- ones she could not predict. Besides- it was unlikely she could leave even if she tried. 

Inside that deafening, incessant noise box, the girl is humming to herself, always humming. It is a melancholy song, one unheard by many ears. She hums with the purpose to hear a noise that is not the sound of hammers striking against the piercing cords. To hear a song not pounded with the sorrow of a little aching girl, stuck in a Grand Piano.

As she plays, the wires cut gouges into her fingertips and bruise her heart, piles of music sheets stained with dried and salted tears. She cries from her confinement but emits the exuberance a Grand Piano must. 

The little girl always wondered if the noise, the cacophony she released unto the world, would ever do any good for someone. Ever affect someone as it did her, driving her to the brink of madness? Or, instead, would it mend a broken heart? Would another find this piano and think to themselves, “How pleasant, how delightful a song to hear, how glad I am to listen to this Grand Piano’s song.”? It was out of her ability to know. If only she could. Wouldn’t it taste so sweet? So delectable? To peek out from the lid?

Instead, she would likely sit alone, in the flickering light of a pull-string lamp, wondering what life could be like if she only left.

Intuition is Our Greatest Gift

By Cooper Israel

I wished you were here, but you disappeared and 

What came true was exactly what I feared.

Weird girl and a strange man, listening to a jazzman,

Weird girl and a strange man, listening to a newsman,

Weird girl and a strange man, wine spilled on the floor and

Weird girl and a strange man, can’t escape this wasteland.

I couldn’t tell that you loved me, is this how it is? 

I might tell you a little story, maybe, about two kids,

They were in love, when they were young, 

She said too much, he never said enough,

They were in love, when they were young,

She said she hates his guts, and now they’re broken up.

She moved on, now he’s all alone,

But she thinks she’s grown because she goes out with another

Strange man except he’s not so dangerous,

A strange man, yet not an ignoramus, 

A strange man, yet he’s not so heinous.