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

Patches by Emma Breton

every 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 Cheer

Patch 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 Sidhu

the 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 Noon

He 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

A Beautiful Mess by Christwell Ogedengbe

a 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 Germain

She 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.

​The Needleworkers by Rowen Schofield

The 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 Rasmussen

Just like the quilt, stitched together piece by piece, our love is only growing, memory by memory.

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. 

Spider by Jasmine Hrynyk Seabrook

Stitch by Lillian Johnson

Tear-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 Pegan

Along 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 Brulotte

​I’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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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 Yu

Her 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

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.

Patched Together by Rose Basu-Brown

Oh 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 Fitzgerald

She 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

You by Oonagh Calkin

You 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 Mohammed

Family 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 Frank

You 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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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 Weaver's Ritual by Thomas Starzomski

​As 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 McGowan

The 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 Duggan

People 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 Fahmi

You’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 Kempe

We 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 Ulvr

A 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