Archive
Image By Daniel A.
Image by Natalie Persaud
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Behind Mine EyesNatalie Persaud (10)
There is something buried within my archival mind.
I dare you to look behind the eyes that withholds it. Find that darkness deep in the light. The light, the light that brightens my eyes And forces that smile When the darkness ruins it all. It spreads, vines, festers, weaved into the purity Like a black hole, sucks and scatters Even the fastest ray of light One day it will consume me And the devil shall prevail Run the archives as the master of hell would. |
Death is something that comes for us all.
Old or young, Black or white, Man, women, or something else. It does not judge based on how you look, It judges based on your mind. It searches through the archives of your head, Reaching into your mind, Digging, Digging, DIgging, Until It finds what it needs. Until It can pass judgment. It searches through your memories, Through your thoughts, It sees what you saw, Feels what you felt, It becomes you as It searches. Once It’s decided weather your a sinner or a saint, It leads you to your eternal home. Whether that be the place of eternal happiness, Or the place of eternal suffering. It's up to you. Choose how you live carefully, Death is always watching. |
Death's JudgmentVio Green (10)
Image by Vio Green
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Dust And Ash |
Reasons to Keep A Journal- A List |
Wabisi Budge (10)
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Amelia Medd (10)
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Ruined.
Destroyed. Tumbled. What buildings once stood tall and mighty now remain scattered on the ground Covered in dust and untouched only waiting to be found Archived by the earth but the proof still stays The stone is all crumbled from when fire set ablaze Ash is all that’s left from the wood that stood so high A tragedy so terrible it made the sky cry A few standing pillars dispersed around the site The misfortune took place in the dead of night Image by Simon Buell
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1. To remember your favourite moments
2.To let your emotions spill onto the page 3.To cover your notebook in pretty stickers and scrap paper 4.You can feel less terrible for forgetting every moment, so you can feel like you’re not so bad at remembering things 5. You are that bad 6. Maybe this will let you forget without guilt 7. Maybe 8. So you have an excuse to buy more stickers and highlighters 9. So you can write down the busy or lazy days in jot notes on the back of your corner store receipt 10. You can buy more stickers because I’m sure that will make you want to journal more 11. You can tell people you journal, they will be very impressed 12. You can sometimes forget to journal 13. Wow you’re so bad at journaling 14. How will you remember your life if you can’t even remember to journal till 12:00am when you have your lights out 15. You’ll just do it tomorrow 16. No you won't 17. When you’re older you can look back at your life. It’s even harder to remember things as you get older, the box of memories in your mind only has so much room so having a book, or 7, of your thoughts is really nice. 18. Maybe hundreds of years from now someone will find one of your journals. That way your thoughts, and life, and dreams will live on 19. You’ll love it, journaling, really you will |
“Do you believe in luck?”
That's what the screen asked, what the screen requested an answer to. It wouldn’t let things proceed without an answer, that's how it was supposed to work. All the previous questions must be answered. The mouse cursor hovered over the options, a simple digital piece that pointed, always in one direction. If only a human could decide where to go so quickly. But alas, cursors were built like that. Despite this, people could easily, so easily change their cursor to suit their preferences. Then again, they still pointed the same way almost all of the time. Yes. A response was inputted after some time, the screen loaded, then logged in the information. Loading a new question, the progress bar ticked once, indicating an advancement made in the survey, though a slow advancement. The next question presented itself on the screen, still pixels danced around as the mouse jerked towards each option, as though the person behind the screen could see only the words the cursor pointed to, each pass through the lines of responses felt as though it gained another sense of humanity. The cursor finally settled on one option, the second one from the bottom, it quivered around as it waited for the next inquiry, the next question… and the ones after that. “What does luck mean to you?” The cursor was now a line, blinking idly as it waited for letters and words to be typed in for the final response. It flickered in and out with each idle second, the human waiting on the other side with baited breath, just hoping for a way to put thoughts into words. The system was patient, just enough to never rush one’s train of thought, and yet at the same time, the screen taunted the person, cursor silently pushing for a proper response. Each response felt void of emotion, no sincerity withheld in the words, typed up only deleted mere seconds later in built up frustration. Eventually, a response was finally formulated. Not that it mattered anymore, as the cursor clicked submit as soon as the typing stopped. The tab was closed without a second glance at the final message. “Thank you for your time, your responses will be withheld in our data archive.” |
Image by Averey Nguyen |
Ink StainTheia Taylor (9)
The ink is cold against my skin, staining my thumb with liquid darkness. It drips down onto the table before I swipe it across Margaret’s name.
Father let me borrow this jar of ink from his study. Mother always tells me I should recognise and reflect upon my sins, but Father says that sometimes it’s better to get rid of the evidence and move on. The golden cross necklace Mother gifted me hangs down as I lean over Margaret’s letters. Whenever I hesitate before erasing a particularly lustful passage, it shines in the candlelight, reminding me of why I’m doing this. Why I’m breaking my own heart. Mrs. Smythen is standing upstairs in our sitting room with her son. He has dark hair and dark eyes but his smile has light in it. I could love him. I pop the stopper back on the jar. I shuffle the letters together, letting the ink stain and smudge. I slip them behind a stack of books, out of view. I don’t let myself linger, instead spinning around and making my way back up the stairs. Even if a couple hundred years from now, some historian finds our sacred letters within my family’s old archives, they will not be able to decode them. All they’ll read is the one line I couldn't find the strength to cover, the last thing she ever wrote to me. I love you. I don’t want to hide anymore. Image by Megan Mekis |
In archives there laid dust. Wretched, ugly dust, but also human dust nonetheless. They came from broken voices, tattered souls, and they were all sent here. The Archives. Some hadn’t been broken, some were whole and beautiful and bold, but ignored. Silence or static filled the quiet in this place, few came to check, to discover, or to tell stories untold. Most come to rummage and twist.
The voices here, the stories, the people, most were women. All were victims. In The Archives lay victims of a cruel, bitter world. They were destined to fall at the hands of God, of Men. They could only ever fail because it is what society made them do. And even those who succeeded, even they rest here; in archives where they would rot. Dead, dead, dust, and new flesh. You would think fewer would be sent here over the ages; you would think it’d change. Yet everyday, more stories are sent, and more bodies cast to The Archives where they would vanish at last. Sin in the name of God shoved them here. So now their stories and cries are lost in a cold, neglected space. Society glanced at them and tossed them away. They tossed them to the archives and in The Archives they will stay. |
Image by Noa Thompson |
Two moments, separated by time.
It's not poetic, yet its sadness soothes your mind. But when time is truly against you, no poems are written, no tears shed, unless by onlookers. Yet do tears truly fall? The knowledge is lost to time, a never ending loop in the systematic process of life. Although the poems of sadness captivate the reader, nothing could ever capture a moment fully. Even in photographs, a moment is purely pictured, its feeling lost to memory. How I fall captive to these pictures is beyond me. Even pictures someday become erased, So why do we keep lamenting about the concept of time? |
Untitled Patrick Ralph (10)
Image by Patrick Ralph
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I want to live by a garden
So the neighborhood kids can play in the brambles, So I can build meals from fruit and leaves I want to live by a garden So I can grow what was here before The boats and the cannons The guns and war I want to live in a garden So I can tell her my stories And listen to the tales her roots whisper back I’d live to live by a forest To craft jewellery from vines and stone To forage for feasts I’d like to live by a river So I can dip my hands into the dripping stream And listen to the water whipped rocks I’d like to live on a planet That lives long enough To tell others the stories I read to her branches |
Image by Amelia Medd |
In Loving Memory Of Brenda Lee KatzWabisi Budge (10)
Image by Liberty Chantres |
Brenda (Bree) Lee Katz of Boston Massachusetts, was hit by a wrecking ball while napping in her apartment and passed on Saturday, November 12, 2011 at the age of 22.
She was born on April 20th 1989 to Cindy Katz and Ronald Katz in Greenville, Maine. She lived with her sister, Phoebe, and two brothers, Kalob and Luca, until Kalob passed away while fighting cancer in 1998. Katz was a University student in Massachusetts Institute of Technology, she was a major in pharmaceutical engineering. She had been valedictorian for her high school graduation and had also won a DECA Emerging Leader Honor Award. Brenda had a partner Kaylee whom she had been living with for 2 years. They had been dating for 3 years since they were 19 during their first year of university together. Kaylee was at the vet with their pet cat, Juice, at the time of the accident. She had a part-time job at Walmart and had been working there for 2 ½ years but was ready to quit due to the grief and stress of recently losing her father to a drunk driver. Bree loved to dance and took dance classes every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday at Boston Dance studios. She loved going on morning walks around her neighborhood while listening to music and watching the sunrise. Katz is survived by her girlfriend; mother; siblings and friends. She is preceded in death by her father; brother; great grandparents; and childhood dog, Marlee. |
Image By Natalie Persaud
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The MonsterNatalie Persaud (10)
There were once books lining these shelves. Pages full of facts from heaven to hell. All plucked away one by one by the monster of the hall himself. Burned by his dragon-like breath, and ash lost in the air, these books were gone for good. These halls, they feel the decay. Now all that is left are these empty shelves and dust covering the wood. But the monster's not gone, he lives in the halls. Burning it all, from the floor to the walls. He will never rest until it's ash, all the way from the east to the west. Never again will we see those books along those shelves
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If I fade, I want to fade beautifully.
With the mold decorating my body like that of glitter, my sunken cheeks and cold hands, I am the most beautiful I have ever been. All I can hope for is that some artist sees me, fading away, and thinks that I am beautiful. I am forgotten, I am remembered. I am fading away, being pushed into the shelves of history, but I am still here, a reminder of my life. And though my flesh is tearing, although my bones are broken, aching even in death, I am a sight to behold. I am everything, and I am nothing, because my body is here, and I lived a beautiful life. But it doesn't matter. I am insignificant beside the scale of history and time itself. I am insignificant, but this artist thinks my body is inspiring. It's a morbid thought. The thought of having no impact is scary, but the thought of leaving an impact is scarier. But if I fade, I want to fade beautifully. |
Image By Patrick Ralph |