LEFTOVERS
by Mab Speelman
Things That Could Happen
by: Arifah Baksh 1: They accept but she crashes on the way. 2: They decline so she considers something else -- the McDonald’s around the corner just got the pee--I mean, the play-place cleaned. 3: She falls in love with her prof. 4: Her prof falls in love with her. 5: She’s signed up for the wrong course. 6: She parties (in celebration) so hard that she misses orientation because her system is being drained. 7: They decline so she attends under a different I.D. 8: The letter is fake. She is murdered upon arrival. 9: She believes the letter is fake and doesn’t show up. 10: The letter gets lost in the mail. Her body deteriorates on the couch which she waited on. 11: She gets a letter from Hogwarts instead. They apologize for their tardiness. Eyes
by: M. Z. Sometimes I want to polish my eyes. Pull the out of my head: dig them out from their sockets and twist, unplugging my eyeballs from my brain. I would spritz some glorified soap on them, and rub away all the grime that’s coating them, skewing my vision. Rub and rub and rub until my eyes shone, finally clean again. I would put them back in, with a squelching, and then a suctioned pop. Maybe then I would see things for how they really are. Conversations With Myself
by: Emilie Montreuil Strub
The Other Reindeer
by Kelsey Nowlan I am not rudolph. Nor am I Comet, Donner, or Blitzen. I, I am the other reindeer. I have no shiny nose to light up Santa’s sleigh. I have no interest in those silly little reindeer games. I do not prance. I do not sing Christmas carols. Instead, I watch. I watch and protect. Sure Santa isn’t too interested in me now. But when danger strikes, that’s when he’ll be so grateful that I’m here. I’ll save the day. I might even save Christmas in a much more honourable way than lighting up some crummy sleigh. Do you smell that? It’s danger. It’s very faint, lurking in the shadows, but I’d know that smell anywhere. Crime is afoot. Yes, there hasn’t been a crime at the North Pole since the ham conspiracy of ‘63, but don’t you think it’s due time for another one? I’ll be ready for it. I’ll be watching for it. I’m watching right now, and I’ve got my eye on you. Endure what life god gives, and ask no longer span
by Sara Ersil “Endure what life god gives, and ask no longer span!” he yelled, backing away with each word. “I need to see her again, they said you could bring her back.” Max said, a threatening tone overtaking his usually quiet voice. “I no longer delve into that hell. It has scarred me, and I fear that it shall scar you even further.” the old man said frantically, his back plastered to the cave wall. “I-I don’t care. If you don’t want to do it, just-just show me how and I’ll do it myself.” Max screamed, his faces inches away from that of the old man plastered against the wall. “No,” the man whimpered, sliding to the floor. “I could not grant someone of such a tortured soul allowance to this power. I will perform it for you, but you must be warned.” “I don’t care about stupid warnings, not anymore.” 
by Karley Johnson
Space-A Blackout Poem
By Karley Johnson All questions in space are answers. by Ginger Hum We were a broken group of kids brought together by our glaringly obvious abnormalities. All of us slightly more abused and so much more twisted compared to others. We sat just on the edge of acceptable by society's standards, a seventeen year old boy abused by his father, a fourteen year old girl with a penchant of encountering bad luck and me, a sixteen year old boy who lost his mother far too young to remember it. We barely fit into the flow of high school life. We were tossed around and roughed up for the day and then spit out the front doors only to have to repeat the next day and the next. Nobody noticed us until they needed us or until we did something so embarrassing even the football players couldn’t ignore us. Despite popular belief I actually mind being pushed, shoved and tripped into the midst of this strange little group because we were all full of uncanny surprises. We proved to the world that fourteen year old girls were better at killing virtual zombies than any seventeen year old boy could hope to be and sixteen year olds were much too interested in things they didn’t need to know to learn the things they did. My father called us the leftovers as he tied his dress shoes and pulled on his jacket for work. We were the members of society that nobody wanted to know but everyone eventually wanted to be. SHITTY COLD FOOD IN CONTAINMENT
by Libby Graham I hate cold food.
In shitty plastic containers sealed with lids that you can never find and when you finally do never fit quite right. I hate cold food. In shitty plastic containers; their insides cloudy with condensation. I hate cold food. In shitty plastic containers that sometimes, where food had spilled over the night before, is crusty and dry. I hate cold food. When you have to dump it into a bowl or onto a plate and turn on your 20-dollar-garage-sale microwave. You watch it spin for a while basked in dingy yellow light, basked in waves of weak heat. and when the timer is finished and it screams shrilly at you, you take out your food, relieved that you can finally eat, and you take a bite. Yum. It’s warm. You take another bite. You gag. You spittle. You die. It was cold in the middle. 
by Aeriana Narbonne
Eyes
M. Z. Sometimes I want to polish my eyes. Pull the out of my head: dig them out from their sockets and twist, unplugging my eyeballs from my brain. I would spritz some glorified soap on them, and rub away all the grime that’s coating them, skewing my vision. Rub and rub and rub until my eyes shone, finally clean again. I would put them back in, with a squelching, and then a suctioned pop. Maybe then I would see things for how they really are. Twelve Sentences Pulled from Other Poems I’ve Written that Maybe Kind of Tell a bit of a Story
By Alexis Clarkson She lets me Roam the outskirts Of her body When I’m lonely Which is always. We fuck in the way a thunderstorm passes-- With purpose and absolutely no finesse. I would argue that there is nothing romantic about love. (Insert tonsil hockey metaphor here.) Her saliva is like sweet Salt water on the shore Of my taste buds. I would pretend to fall in love with the moon, If she were the jealous type. Who could ever love a thing like me anyway? You’ve never done laundry in your life, But you somehow managed To put my heart through the rinse cycle. I am here And so are you And yet we are both Nowhere. At four in the morning Kissing my neck Is nothing but Second best. As you walk away, I wonder: Can a shadow be made of concrete? I was never very good at letting go, But at least I was good at turning you on. |
Seven Things I Know About Him
by: Kate Yeadon His Father’s Sea Glass After his father died, they found beer bottles filled with sea glass lining his windowsills. His father collected each piece himself, walking the shore in his bare feet for miles. As a perfectionist, he only chose the smoothest pieces, with sand ingrained between the layers of glass. He filled 197 beer bottles, enough to line the 23 windows sills in his house. When he was too old to search for sea glass, he watched sun light filter through his collection and paint his house a seascape of blue, green, brown, yellow and white. The beer bottles scattered the light, weakened the colours. But he admired that. It showed something broken as more beautiful than its whole. The Crab He found The Crab on his neighbour’s beach crawling out with the tide. A green crab, so old it looked brown, one-eyed, with barnacles and bits of seaweed growing out of its shell. It was enormous. He tried to pick The Crab up. He pinched its side between his thumb and forefinger, but his fingers couldn’t reach across the width of its massive shell. So he grabbed it two-handed. The Crab fit snuggly into one of his Crocs. He ran home across the sand, and the coarse gravel road, and up the dirt path avoiding rocks and roots, wearing one shoe and carrying The Crab in the other. At home, he dropped it into his aquarium, where it ate several of the original inhabitants, small fish and snails mostly. He threw The Crab off the dock a couple of days later. It needed to be free. The Boathouse He painted it red-and-white, power-washing it every couple of years. Installed a closed-off changing area for quick-changes in and out of bathing suits. Hooked-up electricity and wi-fi powered by solar panels sescured to the roof. Stuck flags by the door that he alternated with the seasons. Stocked bins with buckets and nets and traps and species identification books. Dangled a thermometer over the second patio to check the temperature of the Atlantic. Opened a summer camp for aspiring marine naturalists. First Criticism “Get out of the water, boy! If you stay in there much longer, your toes will shrivel up, fall off and swim away.” Listening In “I guess you can explode a marshmallow in the microwave before your parents pick you up, but right now we’re cooking up mealworms with Chef Bugardee.” Self-Criticism “I tried being a vegetarian once, but ended up gaining 20 pounds, because I just ate french fries and tater tots. My doctor said I should probably stop.” Fantasy To work at the Monterey Bay Aquarium, rehabilitating animals, conserving the ocean and teaching children how to pick up crabs without getting their fingers pinched. Or guiding his motorboat into Peggy’s Cove at night, during a storm, with only the lighthouse to guide him. Or using his motorboat to pull three water tubes each carrying two adults or three kids. Or watching the llama give birth, again, to twins this time. by: Hannah Sabourin
It was one of the calmest moments of my life. I felt empty, for the loss I had experienced but, strangely, I felt fulfilled, for having lived through such a tragedy. I sat on the so+fa bed, while mom rocked back and forth on the old rocking chair. She stared at her ipad. The humidity made it difficult for her finger to glide across the screen. The vivid colours deriving from the device cascaded a blanket of light over mom’s blistering cheeks. Once in a while, a fly would pass through the light’s trajectory, and mom would jerk her head back. The rest of us stared at the television screen. A small, 25” flat screen, placed on a stand at the back of the room. The commercial reel was in full swing. My uncles sat significantly closer to the TV. They were engaged in a passionate debate over deserved football penalties. The sunroom’s blinds were left open. The light of the nearest street lamp flickered, which periodically exposed the still houses across the street. He neighbor’s shiny cars were neatly stationed in their driveways. Little Pieces
Anna Kolbuszewska Chive. Hitting waste on waist like macabre photo lore. Pregnant women in flimsy dresses film, soft, small, like fine fingertips is the womb. Hanging fresh from bone twisted muscle from teeth like diamonds that never fail to bite. Bite. They bite so watch your frail fingertips, frail back your dangerous spine in a gross moment quickness within lethargic men shrinking drunken breath on small boys too innocent to know his name: rape. Now see cement crevices in the wet parts of eyes tell of radio signals and sore cycles for string fingers sown to intuition. Pour mouse voices in little mouse suits fill the soft chambers smiling to switch back cardinal. Man sang caravan thoughts loading emphasis six cages for six changes pounds of luck distribution, sacs of something by the road. My leftover pieces. What Almost Was
by Talia Vogt I remember the way you looked at me.Slow blinks as enticing as the ocean, Eyes that twinkled, a thousand city lights, But hiding shadows dark as midnight waters. God knows what you were thinking, then. Turning at the right moment, I remember how my eyes always found yours But I never held that gaze, mine always flitting away Because there was a charge to that stare And I could never get used to being shocked. I suppose, looking back, that I was scared. I knew if I gave in, you'd send me spiralling sideways, And I was always one to keep her feet flat on the ground. Conversation three times overdue Both waiting for the other to make the first move I remember upon its fourth time, how our lives Momentarily gave way, That moment when you bumped into my life And decided to stay. The moment you took me to that coffee shop, And dabbed whipped cream on my nose; When we lay in the grass for hours, Counting clouds, trading thoughts; Entranced in recognizing the art in the world, lost-- I remember the art you brought out in me. I remember it all like it was yesterday Except that yesterday never happened A what-if created by madness; Hollow, Fruitless. Because the day I finally looked back at you, You were looking at someone else. It was a new beginning But it was no longer mine. And the rest, as they say, is history. .Sorry about this, Robert Frost
by Sarah Collins Some say the world will end in rusted. But that doesn't make sense, So I prefer to think the world won't end at all. But if our day of darkness does come, We will not greet it with fear, Nor welcome, or acceptance, But with ten thousand gallons of boiling Tomato soup, four hundred broken spoons, And a rusted nail. There are ghosts in the attic. Oh, wait. Nevermind. Now they're in the basement. Counting dirty windows is like Chasing parked cars. Wet, If it's raining. Ancient Italian proverb say: People in glass houses should not throw stones. Not very nice to throw stones Even if you don't live in a glass house. And who lives in a house of Glass anyway? Aside from Billy Joel. It would be a good place to Hide from the big, bad wolf. All he can do is blow. I wonder if he would be Smart enough to kick Or to punch Or to throw a stone. Climbing the stairs: First Floor. A rabid animal nips at your heels as you sprint to the top of the first flight. Second Floor. The rabid animal has collapsed from exhaustion and you hop to your victory. Third Floor. Someone pours lead into your backpack. Fourth Floor. The stairs turn to quick sand so you pull yourself up by the railing, dragging your feet behind you. Fifth Floor. Somehow you have managed to age backwards and reach the last step on all fours. Leftovers left out
by Meg Collins When Gloria came home from work on Tuesday – when she kicked off her shoes and opened the fridge on Tuesday – she found that his containers of leftovers were clouded and mouldy. Gary never let his leftovers get mouldy. He kept a clean house, he cared and fussed over every bit of food that came and went from the stove. She left a small pink sticky note on the fridge – reminding Gary that “it's your responsibility to maintain the leftovers”. While dinner was usually made and served by six, she found Gary had taken it upon himself to get groceries at five fifty-six. At six thirty she found him asleep on the couch. The next day, when Gloria came home from work, kicking her shoes off, she found two containers of the mouldy leftovers had been opened and left almost spilt on the couch. She picked them up – holding them at an arms' length to be careful. While pinching her nose, Gloria emptied the two containers of leftovers. Minutes later she found a blue sticky note on top of her pink. “Honey I'm going out tonight. I don't know when I'll be back – don't feel the need to wait up for me”. She put her pink sticky note on top of the blue. On Thursday – the day that had gone so well that she just kept smiling – she deciding to be generous by not kicking her shoes off but gently placing them by the coat rack. She knew Gary would like that. Walking to the kitchen, she stepped in something squishy, something soft. Six whole containers of mouldy leftovers had not only been spilt, but spread. Spread over their nice carpet, over their couch, some even on the walls. She would give Gary a piece of her mind – that was enough of this from him. But he wasn't in their bedroom, or anywhere else in the home. Neither were his clothes, his pictures, his possessions. On top of their sticky notes on the fridge was one more. “I've gone out – don't feel the need to wait up for me”. Tonight Gloria would have to order Chinese. |
