Invisible strings connecting one to another, unable to severe. A feeling of love or need for another living soul. An email determining your future, and all you have to do is click on the link attached. Desperately reaching for a long gone adolescence, unable to let go of the past. An inability to let go of a loved one after they've passed. Everyone is attached in some way, the red string of fate tied around our finger.
Welcome to the first Spotlight of 2023, where you'll find everything attachment, unnecessary tidbits kept from youth to secret admiration for machines. You're not alone here, many have felt like you do.
Welcome to the first Spotlight of 2023, where you'll find everything attachment, unnecessary tidbits kept from youth to secret admiration for machines. You're not alone here, many have felt like you do.
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Callie Clysdale Curled hair and tinted lips Floral scents and bulky patterns An image so stuck in my mind it tangles with my every thought Your fingers wrapping around mine and your breath stirring my hair your voice I can’t quite remember Your features have blurred in my eyes And your clothes have melted in my mind Your footsteps leading to a place i don’t know Time Passes, They Grow Old Kate-Lynn McGowan The girl holds a bouquet of tulips Standing eagerly at the fencepost, waiting For her friend to run screaming from the school gates Movie night at the theatre, she rests her head A smile in the darkness, holding hands Narrative arcs long forgotten in the twilight Swimming in the lake, laughing in unison At sunrise, beckoning the ducks to climb up on the shore where two friends love one another, in silence and noise Throwing ridiculously-styled graduation caps Up into the stars, arms wrapped around one another Comforting in the fear of the unknown Embracing tightly at the banquet table, wedding cake Cut with certain precision, the bride is greeted With unfailing familiarity by her friend A house by the river, the elderly pair Carry the love they hold for each other in their actions, endlessly Pouring morning coffee, soothing warmth Side-by-side tombstones of forgotten souls Flowers have not been pressed to their graves for years Yet their bones rest at ease, knowing the other is close It is said by some that Those who love each other with an old love Stay forever young in their hearts. In between Bailey Curtin we were once girls doused in sunbeams skin freckled and tan splashing in the fleeting waves we embraced the sun, yet now we hide from it. i look at her and know she is older now her hair a darker shade of strawberry blonde the friendship bracelet i made for her in fourth grade tight around her wrist threads bursting to break free i watch our daisy chains wilt and the clouds darken yet there is beauty in our world this stage where our faces are not wrinkled our teeth are not yet yellowed our roots are not quite gray there is laughter in the in between and there is love in attachment Ring Ring Hinata Derouin We’re connected by nothing but a telephone wire. If one of us were to never call the other again, we would slip away into non-converging roads, voices lost to the line between dials. Our feelings lie in the curve of the cables. Tired words murmured in the evenings after work, anecdotes of the day that we’ve both told a million times before. A relationship that only exists when the telephone chimes and builds the presence of a person who isn’t there. But I don’t know if I could handle the thought of a dead line on the other side. Wanderer Ivy Janes I walk through life mostly alone, and consider myself a free spirit. Unburdened by others’ expectations, or by my eternal disappointment in these “others” Attached to no one as I drift on by. Attached to nothing material for more than its use in that moment: Like the food in my belly and the roof over my head, and occasionally a book to fill my time and my thoughts. But I’m none too attached to these things, I’m not too attached to anything really. Actually, that’s not true. In my time as a wanderer, as a drifter and a nomad, I feel I’ve grown attached to my loneliness. I dread what I don’t know, and what remains most mystery to me always is what’d happen if I were to let my precious loneliness go and hold instead onto people once more. You deserve better Millie Farley We care too much & we care too much that we care too much. I wish I could stop caring about us. What if we stopped begging for someone else’s attention & appreciation? Aren’t you aware that they’re never going to give enough? We need to stop lingering on affection that is half imaginary & half half hearted. And we need to put OURSELVES OURSELVES OURSELVES OURSELVES OURSELVES First. Throw them out of our mind. They haven’t earnt a spot there in the first place. Remember the ways they hurt you. Remember the person who hurt you. Let them go. They don’t deserve you. Eyes Full of Stars Natalie Wueppelmann “Close your eyes,” she held her hand gently, resting it on her knee “Do you see the stars?” A galaxy filled her mind’s eye. Trails of pink and purple light swirled around her. She felt lost, alone. “We’re there. Among the stars. Together. We always will be. I’ll always be right by your side.” She reached out, her hand grazing her fingers. She latched on pulling her towards herself. The arms grasped her, holding her close. She felt every breath, every heartbeat. “Right there.” “I’m scared.” it was barely a whisper. The word drifted away from her mouth, disappearing among the stars. She wasn’t even sure she had said them loud enough to be heard. “I know. I know. Just hold on. I’m- I’m right here. Just hang on. Just for a little bit longer.”
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A list of things I don’t use
Galadriel Bond A birthday poster from The Putting Edge with signatures from all my friends A little yellow wind up thing that walks around for a bit A styrofoam pirate ship with butterfly sails and planks made from dried cattail stems A pink Build-a-Bear wearing a childhood dress A cylindrical Go Diego Go coin bank with the top can-opened off A book of fairy tales with the spine cracked on Thumbelina An iPod Touch in need of a defunct adapter if it’s ever to work again A wig fit for a five year-old from the Bibbidi Bobbidi Boutique Melt Away Larissa Egarhos Placing gems on construction paper Buttons to felt Feathers to paper plates... Thanksgiving turkey Junior kindergarten, you really couldn’t find a hand without it Crusty and peeling, stuck in the blue woven carpet We’d laugh in each other’s faces if it spilled on our pants But no hard feelings. The Elmer’s white glue, non-toxic and washable I won’t forget its smell anytime soon And on the days my memory does start to melt away, I’ll march to my kitchen Open the craft cabinet Pick up the white bottle in my hand, and twist open the cap Put my nose real close, and take a big sniff Then I’ll cough a little bit, because that stuff stinks But now I’ll remember for a while longer, the things I no longer have; Carefree placing of stickers, grimy hands and pipe cleaners stabbing our fingers Untitled Natalia Hauderowicz Worn on my sleeve, Implicit grace and wisdom. Camera Obscura to the world: I am an old soul. Straighten your tie, Try not to choke. Back straight, Chin up, Poised. Stay poised. Don’t let them in. Scrape on my knee, Bandage, quick. Window to childhood, Close the blinds. A false sense of strength Perched on my shoulder. Raven claws dig deep, Strain on young bones. Forced habit on display, Validation my merit. As maturity looks into a puddle Forced independence stares back. I scour my drawers, Where’s my seam ripper. Glued to my arm all these years, I’m left incomplete. Years have caught up, The talent show over. An age sans identity. To be grown without growing Leaves a glass half empty. I am Peter Pan’s antonym. A suit of skin Ishaal Ali My mother loved to sew. In fact, she was known for it. In the small town we lived in, everyone was known for something. The elderly woman next door could bake up a storm. My best friend was dead-droppingly good at realism paintings. And my mother? She sewed. Any holiday was an opportunity for her to block out some time for herself, trash her closet to find the ‘perfect little needle’, and sew. Even if we’d argued for hours before, she would tell me stories as she manipulated the warped pieces of fabric to fit together. The stories were the best, because all I needed was my hearing. In spite of a fresh black eye or a busted lip, I could close my eyes, forget about our fight, and listen to hear her wonderful, vivid stories. Stories of flighting fairies and pretty princesses and savior soldiers; I still remember. I remember sitting next to her, our shadows dancing on the walls opposite the fireplace. Her, wearing a seemingly harmless flowery nightdress. She told me her talent of sewing had been passed down by her mom, whose talents had been passed down by her mom, and so forth. I think that’s why I like sewing so much now. Not necessarily those days spent beside my mother, but more because of the sense of purpose it gives me. I just wish my mother realized sewing didn’t have to be so factual. It can be abstract, as I’m displaying now. I wish she could love more than one thing. But even if she hurt me, I know I needed her to function, need her to function. My talent for loving my mother was almost as strong as her love for sewing. And now that she’s finally gone and draped in my backyard, I’ve decided to mix our two talents together. Simple days Auryn Dahl Schaaf We’re sitting on the couch Or i guess i should say you’re sitting I’m strewn across it My head resting in your lap I have a book of essays in hand and im studiously reading it You’ve always found it weird how much i prefer essays over what you call “real books” There’s music on in the background and you’re mouthing the words to a song i don't know I try to hum along, catching the rhythm and patterns but every so often i mess up and you let out a little giggle I cherish these days These simple days Where we have nothing to do but love each other Untitled Kathryn Burns Words Words like knives I hold tightly. Words like the sharpened shards of broken hearts Words like where the storybook starts. There are a lot of words Pierced into me like tattoos Vivid patterns. Colors. Words. There are a lot of words Cut into me like scars Nasty ridges. sprawling etches. Ugly pink. Words that were supposed to be ours Words I'm supposed to let go. Words I'm supposed to write down in a row. Words in columns by date and speaker. Words touch an orange flame and curl into ash. Words like ashes spread in places we hold on to. Words come from places I want to forget. Words like my happiness Words like my smile Words that are shameful and twisted and vile. Words that have cut me so deep, Words that cry out in my sleep. Machine Morgan Gale “ ‘A corpse was in the center of my life yet again, not unsurprising for a diener. I’d of course have to prepare the body, a Mr. Paul, for burial. Its name was an echo my ears wouldn’t receive, lost in the vastness of my kingdom. My kingdom being the land of passage between the plains of life and death. My actions controlled the final moments between them and the people responsible for their arrangement’s. Everyday a new body was on my table, each blending into the next. I never bothered to learn their names. That may sound sick to some, my lack of emotion bordering on sociopathic. However, they’ll never know the intricacies of death as I do. But death is still so foriegn a concept to me, that is until I know it so intimately you could say we were intertwined. Everybody that lay on my body was cold. Frigid with the presence of death, my job was to give them back their warmth. I examined my uniform as I did everyday. Buttons all done up, gloves secure. Some would call my uniform pristine, sterilized to perfection, after all. But still whenever I put on my disguise all I could see, all I could feel, was the filth. It had scared my hands beyond recognition (invisible to the naked eye and strongest of microscopes), no pair of gloves strong enough to protect me from it. I stepped up to it and began to prepare my embalming equipment. |