To us, patchwork in a metaphorical sense is many different small things coming together as one. Like friendships, moments, and people. In the literal sense, patchwork is a quilt, a blanket made from different bits and pieces of extra fabric that would otherwise be worthless. Patchwork can be ugly. There’s always a chance the threads do not hold and the blanket rips or falls apart. But maybe that’s what makes it interesting. In choosing this theme, we aimed to evoke feelings and memories derived from the patchwork of our lives as writers. In a way, we thought spotlight was just like patchwork. Not necessarily like a blanket that falls apart, but a community of writers coming together to create a quilt of art developed from fragments of poems, stories, pictures, and paintings.
Enjoy.
Banner photo by Jenna Mihalchan
Enjoy.
Banner photo by Jenna Mihalchan
Patches by Emma Bretonevery person is a patch,
unique in pattern, fabric, style arrays of blue, red and yellow our lives are covered with such contrast. each thread is meticulously placed connecting us to those who matter most, each laugh that brought us closer each moment where our thread got stronger there are some patches that won’t last, some will tear and break and disappear they cause rips in your patch and an empty space beside you but another one will take their place, another one will fill your emptiness, another one will heal you, stitch by stitch, you’ll become whole once more. |
Patch me Up by Braelyn CheerPatch me up
Put my pieces back together Pierce my still-beating heart with your needle Draw beads of scarlet Let silver drip red Patch me up Untitled by Harjan Sidhuthe morning sky seemed to melt into itself
the clouds cleared and the sun peeked over the horizon pinks and purples blended together creating poetry in the sky and you weren’t my first thought you were still there somewhere in the back of my mind but you weren’t my first thought the music had filled all the empty patches of my soul and left you somewhere along the way |
Buoyant by Victoria NoonHe was too far out in his mind,
doing laps around the things he thought were familiar. Pondering the types of thoughts and memories he knew wouldn’t make the difference. He became a swimmer. floating turned to sinking, although it doesn't look much different, and the blue patchwork thoughts weighed him down. Things became more anonymous there. |
Photo and art by Braelyn Cheer
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A Beautiful Mess by Christwell Ogedengbea beautiful mess
together we were one, a beautiful mess. bond together by our memories made with love and laughter i thought it would last forever but ever so slowly our colors began to fade the thread began to weaken and we were ripped apart our beautiful mess who could’ve have imagined i’d have to let you go patchwork by Zevida GermainShe had known from a very young age that she was something very important. Well others seemed to have been stitched together hastily like patchwork, messy and full of imperfections, she was created with the utmost care, every inch of her treated like a masterpiece. Though the end result was pure perfection, most people still seemed unable to accept it. They shunned her, their selfish eyes refusing to see the flawless creature that stood in front of them. She never did blame them though, as some people just have a hard time accepting the charity of others. Besides, it's not like messy patchwork stays as one piece for very long, so really she had nothing to worry about.
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The Needleworkers by Rowen SchofieldThe needles knocked against each other as they moved
Making a faint clicking sound They slid through the fabric Weaving in and out Patching together the quilt Look into it See the story of the earth See all that has come and all that will The three fates They spin the fabric of life Measure its length And cut it Each sting holds a lifeline They weave in and out of each other They hold the rest of the world in one Some are long and golden Others are short and grey And at the very end They all stop And the quilt is as dark as it was in the beginning Piece by Piece by Charlotte RasmussenJust like the quilt, stitched together piece by piece, our love is only growing, memory by memory.
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Lies... and Quilts by Katelyn Topshee
You were, to put it lightly, the worst person I’ve ever met. To call you manipulative would be an understatement. And I knew all this when I met you. I didn’t want to admit it, but I knew. So for years I pretended to be unphased, which I’m sure you pretended to care about. When I thought back, I didn’t think I would ever forgive you, and I don’t know if I have yet.
But I’m getting there.
You used to make quilts, so I made one out of you. In my mind I sew together every piece of our relationship. Every lie, in every conversation, in every memory. I documented it to try and understand it. But if I’m being honest it didn’t help. I still hated you. I still didn’t understand.
Though eventually, somehow, it clicked.
You made quilts because you needed stability. You needed something to keep your mind busy. Your own life was so chaotic that you tried to make mine the same. Everyone around you when you treated them badly hated you. But not me. I still liked you, without fail. So you tried to test that system. Seeing how far you could go, where I would still choose to be friends with you. Evidently, it went really far. I don’t think you’d ever admit that to me if I asked. I don’t know if you’ve even admitted it to yourself.
Every once and a while your name will pop up. On social media or through word of mouth. I’ll hear about the terrible decisions you’re making, just like always. I’ll hear about how everyone that use to be your friend has ditched you. About how they all realized the way you treated them was terrible, just like I did. And I’ll feel bad. I’ll feel sorry that you were born into a crappy life. I’ll feel sorry that nobody sat you down and had a real conversation with you, tried to understand why you didn’t care.
But I don’t feel as bad as I could. Because you really were, the worst.
But I’m getting there.
You used to make quilts, so I made one out of you. In my mind I sew together every piece of our relationship. Every lie, in every conversation, in every memory. I documented it to try and understand it. But if I’m being honest it didn’t help. I still hated you. I still didn’t understand.
Though eventually, somehow, it clicked.
You made quilts because you needed stability. You needed something to keep your mind busy. Your own life was so chaotic that you tried to make mine the same. Everyone around you when you treated them badly hated you. But not me. I still liked you, without fail. So you tried to test that system. Seeing how far you could go, where I would still choose to be friends with you. Evidently, it went really far. I don’t think you’d ever admit that to me if I asked. I don’t know if you’ve even admitted it to yourself.
Every once and a while your name will pop up. On social media or through word of mouth. I’ll hear about the terrible decisions you’re making, just like always. I’ll hear about how everyone that use to be your friend has ditched you. About how they all realized the way you treated them was terrible, just like I did. And I’ll feel bad. I’ll feel sorry that you were born into a crappy life. I’ll feel sorry that nobody sat you down and had a real conversation with you, tried to understand why you didn’t care.
But I don’t feel as bad as I could. Because you really were, the worst.
Spider by Jasmine Hrynyk Seabrook
Stitch by Lillian JohnsonTear-drop shaped holes draped through my arm
Thread the needle with your finest yarn Like cookie-cutters pushed into skin Its pattern plunged through, through thick and thin Like a childs block-puzzle in it goes The supple skin of mine own foes Look how it fits! How nice! How fine! Its pinkish colour contrasting all of mine. My corse is embedded in different shades Its patchworked surface eternal stockades So I sew sew sew and I hum a soft tune, Threading through the bubbling blood to the beat of my croon. With a satisfying pull, the two join like a knot. I sure hope this great find doesn't begin to rot. So please don't mock an old broad like me Unless you wish to be stitched into my little old knee. |
We Are Made of Scars by Ella PeganAlong the side of your left pointer finger
When your cat was not in the mood to play Across your brow, to your hairline When you tripped in the garden The outside of your left ankle When you fell too hard from the apple tree The sole of your right foot When you didn’t notice the broken glass The side of your arm When you woke up on the floor Your left elbow When your bike hit the tree Scattered across your cheeks Don’t turn away. It won’t hurt to be seen by me Untitled by Kara BrulotteI’d say we found each other
Two kids from broken homes Two mismatched pieces Sewn together by schemes and secrets Something made out of necessity But I guess that wasn’t a stable foundation And in that collapse we gripped too tight We slipped from each other like sand through our fingers That tattered cloth ripped at the seams Leaving only a photo pushed to the bottom of my drawer |
The Demon by Logan Webster
The name’s Thorin. You may have heard of me. I’m the source of all the bad things that go on in the world. The sands of Africa barren and unwilling to host vegetation? Me. World leaders indifferent to climate change? Also me. Little sisters? Some of my finest. I fly around haunting widows and making babies cry. Ruining days is all I do. And what can I say? I’m the best in the business.
One day, not looking for anything big, I was hovering over a craft fair full of old losers just waiting to be miserable. I started out small, because the worst unhappiness is taken in doses. Nothing more than knocking food out of some lady’s hand into someone else, blowing hats into the nearby lake, low-level stuff really. I was busy at work being a terrible guy, when I caught sight of a disgustingly sweet-looking old lady in the middle of sewing a quilt. It was green and blue and decidedly much too fluffy to be acceptable.
Slinking over in a devilishly demonic way, I peered over the luscious threads of the quilt. A loose thread. Opportunity! I glanced over at the old lady as I pulled the thread. The quilt split clean in two. Strangely, the old woman took the two pieces and kept working, tying them together without missing a beat. Odd… she, along with her quilt, should have been torn up right then, but the old lady just kept stitching it back together. I tried spilling food on it, but her smile never wavered. She took a bottle of cleaner and simply wiped the ketchup right off. I had never met a woman so immune to simple annoyances. I decided to up the ante. Taking a candle from a nearby scent shop, I set fire to her quilt! But it just went out. Her quilt was fire resistant! Something was going on and I had to find out what.
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One day, not looking for anything big, I was hovering over a craft fair full of old losers just waiting to be miserable. I started out small, because the worst unhappiness is taken in doses. Nothing more than knocking food out of some lady’s hand into someone else, blowing hats into the nearby lake, low-level stuff really. I was busy at work being a terrible guy, when I caught sight of a disgustingly sweet-looking old lady in the middle of sewing a quilt. It was green and blue and decidedly much too fluffy to be acceptable.
Slinking over in a devilishly demonic way, I peered over the luscious threads of the quilt. A loose thread. Opportunity! I glanced over at the old lady as I pulled the thread. The quilt split clean in two. Strangely, the old woman took the two pieces and kept working, tying them together without missing a beat. Odd… she, along with her quilt, should have been torn up right then, but the old lady just kept stitching it back together. I tried spilling food on it, but her smile never wavered. She took a bottle of cleaner and simply wiped the ketchup right off. I had never met a woman so immune to simple annoyances. I decided to up the ante. Taking a candle from a nearby scent shop, I set fire to her quilt! But it just went out. Her quilt was fire resistant! Something was going on and I had to find out what.
Click button to read the rest.
The Baker and the Quiltmaker by Sharon Xu
She was a baker
And he was a quiltmaker It was love at first sight For he was her knight And when the sun went down He’d walk across town To see his dearest Who stood in front of the forest They trudged across the grass And he’d hold an arm out to her with class The two of them beneath the starry blanket In the midst of the wild rose thicket But all good things must come to an end And their story could not mend The stitch that came undone By a foreign prince, looking for some fun Alas, he wanted a mistress Who would stay all day on his mattress So he set his eyes on the baker But she did not want to be his caretaker In the end, they were wed But she refused to stay in his bed As the prince smelled bad And that made her very sad The following day She mounted a sleigh And returned to the quiltmaker Where they lived happily ever after |
Patch by Irene YuHer damaged hands work
like some type of disfigured machine repeating the same rugged motions again and again Skin flesh and bone substitutes cold hard metal Her mind wanders back; to those lovely evenings spent admiring quiltwork how fascinating it was each tampered patch coming together in her mother’s delicate hands On days like those she felt at ease truly, at ease contentful She envisioned her life coming together like those beautiful quilts patch by patch stitch by stitch She dreamt of devouring the stars of outswimming the sea grand things she held in orbit |
9/11 by Hannah Gallant
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The viewer.
TV screens flicker In silence and stunned they watch Twin Towers tumble The broker. Coffee cups on desks Tuesday morning ritual Now fall to the ground The firefighter. Up the stairs he went Heart open and body trained Uniformed hero |
The passenger.
Four planes flying fast Strangers hug and use their phones Messages of love The bystander. Concrete confusion Heads tilt back and tears stream down All run for safety The survivor. Phones ringing with grief Endless what ifs and regrets An empty casket |
patchwork by Skully Sullivan
A doll of cloth. The first thing I had ever brought to life. It was small, made for a baby. Brown locks were pulled into pigtails, rosy cheeks sewn on. Green eyes staring blankly. I named her Emily. Her dress was torn right through the middle, and stuffing poured out of her. I used to play with her all the time, ripping out her insides and sewing her bak together. Sometimes I would rearrange her body parts, put an arm in the wrong place, put her nose upside down, rip out an eye.
She had sat in my attic for years, untouched, covered in dust.
I had covered her in sugar and spice and everything nice. I prayed to the devil she could be real.
One day my prayer was answered. A girl came knocking on my door, cold and afraid, soaked from the rain. My own human doll.
Real Emily complained at first. She didn’t like to be played with. She used to scream when I cut her open, cry when I mixed her around.
No matter what I did she never died. That’s how I knew she was mine.
She was broken. She begged me to let her go. She honestly couldn’t be happy with me. She said I was evil, a monster, because I hurt her. Didn’t she see, I always put her together in the end. She never came back the way she was before, but she was nothing before. She was just a girl. I made her brand new. I made her her own. I made her unique. I made her anything but human.
She was never human to start. No real person could live without a heart, or so I thought.
But you see, I got a little too curious. More and more people were sent to me, Christian, and Melony, and James. None of them could die. I frankensteined them. I never intended to make them live forever, I mean, I wouldn't want to. They couldn't function after a while. They didn't eat right or they couldn't dress themselves. They weren't toys anymore, they couldn't be stitched back together. No one but Emily survived.
This doll was a wonderful memory. A memory of where I begun. An 11 year old girl, now 30, now a national phenomenon. Now, with Emily stolen from me, I searched the world for her. Ready to yet again, tear her apart, and patch her up again.
She had sat in my attic for years, untouched, covered in dust.
I had covered her in sugar and spice and everything nice. I prayed to the devil she could be real.
One day my prayer was answered. A girl came knocking on my door, cold and afraid, soaked from the rain. My own human doll.
Real Emily complained at first. She didn’t like to be played with. She used to scream when I cut her open, cry when I mixed her around.
No matter what I did she never died. That’s how I knew she was mine.
She was broken. She begged me to let her go. She honestly couldn’t be happy with me. She said I was evil, a monster, because I hurt her. Didn’t she see, I always put her together in the end. She never came back the way she was before, but she was nothing before. She was just a girl. I made her brand new. I made her her own. I made her unique. I made her anything but human.
She was never human to start. No real person could live without a heart, or so I thought.
But you see, I got a little too curious. More and more people were sent to me, Christian, and Melony, and James. None of them could die. I frankensteined them. I never intended to make them live forever, I mean, I wouldn't want to. They couldn't function after a while. They didn't eat right or they couldn't dress themselves. They weren't toys anymore, they couldn't be stitched back together. No one but Emily survived.
This doll was a wonderful memory. A memory of where I begun. An 11 year old girl, now 30, now a national phenomenon. Now, with Emily stolen from me, I searched the world for her. Ready to yet again, tear her apart, and patch her up again.
Patched Together by Rose Basu-BrownOh baby, how did you never see we were so patched together? Why was I always a distant thought to you? Maybe I was more sewn to you than you were sewn to me. But, you can’t blame my delicate heart for loving too easily. Forgive me, for all my love was stitched into you. My mind wrapped around your beauty. Now, my mind is wrapped around the pain.
I dreamt about you last night. I awakened in tears. My dream had made an excuse for why we ended. In reality, I am clueless. My memories of you are so strongly knit into my brain that ripping them out takes a piece out of my patchwork heart. You can try to tear apart the fabric, try to rip the threads, try to cut a hole into it. My patchwork heart is strong but fragile. Unbreakable but flexible. I will have to wait until the love I deserve arrives. I will not deal with anymore spoon-fed love. I will love myself. However, I have a question. Oh baby, how did you never see we were so patched together? Broken Soul by Tara FitzgeraldShe stands alone,
A pretty figure against the soothing waves of the sea. Her body stands frozen, But her spirit lingers free. Where does it go, Not to a place of serenity and calmness, But to a world where the darkest of things from our world and the next, Roam around trying to capture any lost souls they can. The evil beings that drift through these lands, Mean not to kill, but to badly harm and torture. They leave wounds and gashes of immeasurable size, Cutting not only the body, but the mind into tiny pieces. She’s become broken. She stays that way for a long time, Yet somehow no one ever notices. She realizes that nobody will ever help her, She will have to save herself this time. Using sheer force of will, And a little bit of patchwork, It took what felt like eons, But finally she was done. With scarred flesh, And thousands of stitches in her pale skin, She was whole once again. 
Photo by Lillian Johnson
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You by Oonagh CalkinYou are
sixty percent water one hundred percent flesh and blood tears and sweat muscles straining synapses firing heart pumping steadily You are one hundred percent human stitched together through years of pain and hurt laughter and love You lived all of your experiences vividly in bright colour and You learned what the world taught You what did the world teach You? it took a half glance at You and instantly decided what You were it chose for You printed You out a neat clean script in black and white but it is not from black and white You sprung and it is not black and white You will become Family by Maya MohammedFamily fits together
Not like puzzle pieces Nothing perfect Nothing exact But all sewed together With a common thread Like patches on a quilt Mismatched and beautiful Help by Erin FrankYou thread my ripped flesh with your lies
Patch me up then send me away You say that I am fine and I almost believe you But inside I am broken Sewing my lips shut then forcing me to speak You unravel me till I am nothing but a thread Joined only by your last words |
Can't Keep up by Damien Jordan
consciousness comes slowly, dusty tiles under your hands, a dull pain throbbing through your head. eyes flutter open and an array of colours flash across the room, but it’s dark, and your hands are just barely tinted gold. a puff of dust rises as you cough, and there’s the dizzying rainbows streaking the sky again. moments come in bursts, and you can’t feel your own heartbeat. blurring, your hands shaking as you pull yourself to your feet and in the cracked mirror you only see your eyes.
were they always that dark.
the dim yellow light flares as you attempt a smile, and your face falls when it doesn’t reach your eyes. that sounded about right
he said it would be one thing after another, one more moment of joy, one more laugh, one more smile, and then you were here.
you didn’t know what he was thinking, chasing after them through a neon city only to leave the mess for you. it was the blonde hair, your timer, your signal. and all you ever did was pick up the pieces.
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were they always that dark.
the dim yellow light flares as you attempt a smile, and your face falls when it doesn’t reach your eyes. that sounded about right
he said it would be one thing after another, one more moment of joy, one more laugh, one more smile, and then you were here.
you didn’t know what he was thinking, chasing after them through a neon city only to leave the mess for you. it was the blonde hair, your timer, your signal. and all you ever did was pick up the pieces.
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Untitled by Wesley Massey
Oh, he did enjoy his work. He imagined his work enjoyed him less. All was well though. If anything, it would be more concerning if those he worked on, actually looked forward to spending a night alone with him. The dark, cold, rat-infested cells of the Emperor weren’t exactly hot, new vacation spots. To Candrick however, they were all he looked forward to nowadays.
The sweet scent of mud dragged in from weeks ago, with bits of blood sprinkled in. The delightful lighting of the occasional cindering torch every ten or so steps. Not to even touch upon the faint squeaks of rats which always seemed to be overpowered by distant screams. Oh, Candrick loved it so. He wouldn’t have it any other way. Every stone in these crumbling walls stood upon a foundation of days well spent.
While Candrick knew the walls were sturdy and would stand long after he was erased from this world, the dust and stones found tumbling still worried him. He’d get so worried that occasionally his mind would race to terrible conclusions. These troubles were nonsense of course. The Emperor was almighty and his strength was forever yielding, never breaking in on itself. To even think such things was blasphemous, to voice them would be treason. And Candrick knew how treason was dealt with, better than anyone. It required a little patchwork is all, and he was the one to administer the patches, by any means necessary. Whether that meant crudely stitching them or delicately sewing them, the results would always be the same, and Candrick always got results.
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The sweet scent of mud dragged in from weeks ago, with bits of blood sprinkled in. The delightful lighting of the occasional cindering torch every ten or so steps. Not to even touch upon the faint squeaks of rats which always seemed to be overpowered by distant screams. Oh, Candrick loved it so. He wouldn’t have it any other way. Every stone in these crumbling walls stood upon a foundation of days well spent.
While Candrick knew the walls were sturdy and would stand long after he was erased from this world, the dust and stones found tumbling still worried him. He’d get so worried that occasionally his mind would race to terrible conclusions. These troubles were nonsense of course. The Emperor was almighty and his strength was forever yielding, never breaking in on itself. To even think such things was blasphemous, to voice them would be treason. And Candrick knew how treason was dealt with, better than anyone. It required a little patchwork is all, and he was the one to administer the patches, by any means necessary. Whether that meant crudely stitching them or delicately sewing them, the results would always be the same, and Candrick always got results.
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The Weaver's Ritual by Thomas StarzomskiAs the lonely weaver sat in his chair,
feeling nothing but loss and despair, he looked around the vacant room, and knew it would be his final tomb. In a last-ditch effort to feel again, he took out some paper and took out a pen, he began to spin his words like string, he knew the trauma this spell would bring. He spoke the words, he knew the chants, around him, the quilts, they started to dance, his final act would not be forgotten, his soul began to feel quite rotten. He began to peel and crack and twist, his soul passed through his boney fist, then it went to the locked-up box, hidden under the pile of ancient rocks. As the immortal weaver sat in his chair, he wove the string into a prayer, “Please Gods forgive my blasphemy, I just wanted to always be free.” Pretty Little Piece of Patchwork by Kate-Lynn McGowanThe noble Lady stitches together the fabrics,
The different and opposing fabrics, The small and large fabrics, The square and rectangular fabrics, The soft and rough fabrics, The colourful and plain fabrics. So abnormal from the one-dimensional palace politics, The quest for power and royal blood. This quilt she is sewing, Of strange and diverse fabrics, Is so foreign from her life of influence and riches, But this quilt is a homemade piece of love, of money from her heart. When she is finished connecting the fabrics with her needle and her thread, She will gift this lovely piece of useful art to her daughter. The young Lady of her parents’ land and of the country’s nobility, Will then understand more lives than her own carefree, painless life. And all because of this pretty little piece of patchwork. Untitled by Brynn DugganPeople are patchwork blankets.
Every person that has an impact on you Makes another square in your life. Sometimes people cut out the squares in your patchwork, And the threads unravel, You lose touch with people who love you, And you cut out their squares without knowing, But know that you are still attached to a few good patches, They might not be perfect, But some will always be there for you No matter what. You'll always be attached to another patch, Another person, Another memory, Because those patches, people, and memories Make you, You. So when you feel all alone, Remember that there are people by your side. When you feel flawed, Remember that patchwork blankets aren't perfect, That's what makes them beautiful. As time goes on, Your patchwork will evolve, And change, Just remember that You are capable of Patching up someone elses blanket, Making a difference in someone else's life. People are patchwork blankets, Waiting to be patched up Focusing on their own broken threads, Instead of the strength they have to mend someone else’s. |
Untitled by Nate FahmiYou’re made up of a patchwork of personalities. Like a quilt, with each square wildly different from all the others, all of them forming together to make one cohesive art piece.
You find little pieces of others that you like, and covet them away, your own personal hoard, a collection making you into who you are. You take pieces from you mom or your dad, your ex, or your best friend from the first grade. Sometimes you take a piece from someone you saw on the street. Maybe you weren’t sure whether you’d like to be them or to date them. You forget about them then, but some piece of them stayed with you, a new part of who you are. Everyone is made up of a million little bits, of people, of memories, of experiences that make us who we are. How do we see ourselves? by Rebecca KempeWe say our lives are linear. We say they’re a sequence of events where one moment leads straight to the next, and then to the next. But it is that really true? Because that’s not how we remember them. We experience our lives as puzzles, or when we’re lucky, more like quilts. The events of our lives shape who we are, and who we are shapes how we remember things. Our memories are all different; they can be rearranged; they can be sharp or dull or falling apart. Sometimes they fit, and sometimes they don’t. Our identities are what we make of the pieces; of what we choose to remember and choose to forget, of what we’d love to forget but can’t. We’re made of all of our decisions and the consequences that came with them. We’re shaped by what we’d love to forgive but can’t. We’re shaped by the ghosts of what we didn’t do as much as much as what comes after what we did. We take those pieces, and we stitch them together, binding them into our natures, weaving them into our personalities. Experiences trigger other memories, which mix the timelines inside our brains. Our lives aren’t linear: they’re mosaics. They’re scattered pieces finding ways to fit together.
Or at least, that’s how we remember them. And what if a human if not a collection of memories? Patches of Music by Emma UlvrA timpani’s steady rhythm
Runs gracefully underneath The songs of other instruments Carrying the beat Above the cellos fastened Her strings ring high and low A patch of perfect harmony Created only with a bow The woody clarinet Weaves into the tune The only one warmer Is the grand bassoon The trumpets golden voices Sound just like the sun They can be heard above all else They’ll take the melody and run The flutes stitch the piece together Flying high above They thread the tune of unity fitting like a glove The conductor is a puppeteer Pulling at their strings Giving cues left and right He gives the music wings They all sound so different But they are one before long Sewn together by a thread of notes A perfect quilted song |