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Back to Us
Katie Wilkins Let’s go back to when “you” was synonymous with “me,” before crumbling commitments left us coughing in our own debris. Before loneliness stormed in like a hurricane, ripping belonging to each other from our memories. Let’s go back to when there was nothing that could compare to the belief that we had endless time to spare. When confidence carried us to the greatest heights and we shed doubt like clothing until our skin was bare. Let’s go back to when reality couldn't tear apart your fingers wrapped around my heart. So focused on surviving, we did not notice we had become an accidental work of art. Before promises fell like drops of rain, and our fingertips could no longer support the strain of trying so hard to hold on tight to a kind of love that we couldn’t maintain. Smile
Livia Mann-Burnett She smiles when she sleeps. I watch her start to drift off into her own little world, a place she makes up, whether she has control over it or not. Sometimes, when the stars are shining in the 1 am sky (since she tends to go to bed way too late) you can see the corners of her mouth start to curl. I watch her and begin to wonder what is going on in that beautiful mind of hers. Maybe she's off on one of those adventures she always talks about going on. Maybe she's in one of those magical worlds, created by the stories that tend to make her lose sleep. Frankly, she could be dreaming about murdering someone, and I'd be fine with that, because lately that smile doesn't come out as often as it use to. Now, it only seems to happen when she's in that half conscious state, just before she takes an adventure for the night. Little does she know that whenever she does smile, it makes my day a little better. It’s become the highlight of my day to see her happy.That's why I stay awake until the very early hours just to see her mouth curl up, her shoulders relax and her eyes seem to sparkle for a second, even though they’re closed. This smile is why I fell in love with her and I'm not ready to give it up. Not yet. So if it requires the stars in the 1am sky, then that's what I’ll do for her. Her smile creates love. Her smile creates life. Her smile creates her. The Hitchhiker
Zoe Perkins On the side of the road he sits over his pack with bare feet on gravel. His back is hunched like gravity is pain and the atmosphere suffocated his eyes, he lets them blind. One step behind the wind, a part of him is taken hostage with every gust. There is dirt under the nails on his fingertips and the road winds itself around his outstretched thumb. Like kindling in fire, he's lost. |
Euphonic
Maya Dagher He cannot stand the silence. It leaves him too much space to think of all the violence and all that's taken place. Instead he drums his fingers the quiet feels too wrong. As long as noise still lingers, he need not move along. With silence comes the stillness, the sense of disapproving. Through every trial and illness, he won't be caught unmoving. Through all his untamed habits, secrets wishes and fears, he's one of many misfits, much more than he appears. The Gap
Phuong Nguyen He and I were standing on opposite sides of the gap He was tall I was short His fingers were slender My fingers were stubby His eyes were round, Magnified by his glasses My eyes were almonds, Hidden behind a curtain of hair He always made bad puns I always sang off key But our idiosyncrasies Our flaws Made a bridge It carried us Through the gap safely. 
Kathleen McCulloch-Cop
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Untitled
Anonymous
Anonymous
- Day seven, year nine. His body rocks back and forth, back and forth, in rhythm with the boat. Day forty-two, year sixteen. His body rocks back and forth, back and forth, still in rhythm with the boat he got off five years ago.
- She is having a conversation. They can’t hear her. Her lips move but no words form. She’s not talking to them.
- Scarf four is wrapped tightly around the other three. He unwraps it. Then unwraps scarf three. Then unwraps scarf two. He never dares unwrap scarf one.
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Untitled
Archana Raguparan Turn off the lamps, blow out the candles. Shut the door, stuff a sweater in between the floor and its base; You know you can see through that crack from your bed. Pull together the heavy drapes drag them along the floor with a hunch in your back that screams "I will sleep forevermore." Don't let the light in, it will outshine my dreams and cast shadows on my walls, and leave me feeling sore in the morning. Sincerely, girl who's obsessed with her dreams & her slumber |
Lucas
Kate Reeve blue blonde kid a rough rider guy kneecaps like new potatoes blushing into their first sunrise nails always running a little ragged a little jagged, against soft palms fast feet, flashing Lighting McQueen never met someone he didn’t try to like doesn’t look for greener pastures or the grass on the other side uniquely and completely content in his small days |
space boy
Arianna Randjbar
i met you on my friend’s front porch on the first day of october. you sat on the cement steps, fussing first over your shoelaces and then the top button of your shirt, even though it didn’t really matter what you had on; you wore the sunlight like a second skin. your laugh warmed the autumn air like woodsmoke from a bonfire that i wanted to build up again and again from the embers left behind.
although your posture was akin to that of a willow tree, your hands told a different kind of story. while a willow clings to the place where it grows up, you cultivated an aptitude for outer space. i almost lost you in the backwoods of the suburbs after staring up at the sky for so long, but you brought me back down to earth by the hands. i was surprised that a boy could be so soft. i was expecting the touch of jupiter. i was expecting knuckles like craters. instead, you held my hands and set me up straight when i stumbled into the teeth of the curb.
while our friends went off to smoke outside, you and i sat cross-legged in the otherwise empty basement for hours, throats burning from liquid courage and telling each other the kinds of stories your vocal chords are never supposed to spin. we talked until we were lightheaded and you got the call to come home. i have never been much of a dreamer, but that night, you found me in my dreams at the park where i used to waste away the daylight when i was eleven and kissed me the same way the first boy i loved once had.
when i woke up, everyone asked me what we did last night, and i wasn’t sure which story i should tell.
Arianna Randjbar
i met you on my friend’s front porch on the first day of october. you sat on the cement steps, fussing first over your shoelaces and then the top button of your shirt, even though it didn’t really matter what you had on; you wore the sunlight like a second skin. your laugh warmed the autumn air like woodsmoke from a bonfire that i wanted to build up again and again from the embers left behind.
although your posture was akin to that of a willow tree, your hands told a different kind of story. while a willow clings to the place where it grows up, you cultivated an aptitude for outer space. i almost lost you in the backwoods of the suburbs after staring up at the sky for so long, but you brought me back down to earth by the hands. i was surprised that a boy could be so soft. i was expecting the touch of jupiter. i was expecting knuckles like craters. instead, you held my hands and set me up straight when i stumbled into the teeth of the curb.
while our friends went off to smoke outside, you and i sat cross-legged in the otherwise empty basement for hours, throats burning from liquid courage and telling each other the kinds of stories your vocal chords are never supposed to spin. we talked until we were lightheaded and you got the call to come home. i have never been much of a dreamer, but that night, you found me in my dreams at the park where i used to waste away the daylight when i was eleven and kissed me the same way the first boy i loved once had.
when i woke up, everyone asked me what we did last night, and i wasn’t sure which story i should tell.
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To the beat of Her heart
Anonymous Her head swayed to an ever constant beat that only she could hear. Her hips swayed to the rhythm of whatever her internal radio felt like playing that day. Her fingers tapped silently on whatever surface nearest. Her lips moved to lyrics playing only in her mind. Her eyes sparkled, as if she kept a secret no one else knew. And you supposed she did. 
Archana Raguparan
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Abstract Mirror
Mi Sa It wasn’t in the eyes, where I found myself. it was in the overdriven heartbeat toe taps, that had no melody, just an uneven rhythm, Eyes glued to the mirror studying the features that all meet the eye, I didn’t meet myself. I met myself at an odd place, in the smudges created by the lead stained fingers that latched onto everything I put effort into. I was introduced to myself when I was 5. A stubborn know-it-all who had no idea what she was saying, but still said it when it sounded remotely intelligent. I became friends with myself, when I talked too quietly for anyone to hear, and too loud for anyone to care. That was why I talk to myself through relentless pencil moving and laughed about stories that made no sense. The Kitchen Boy
Natasha Laycock A lad with tousled hair tosses shortcrust pie, with hands as cracked as the lines on his forehead, he says 'ello to the princess's maid. Fig juice spilling down his chapped knuckles like blood, staining his forehead when he wipes off his sweat caused by the heat of the flames; he can't stand it. Escaping to the familiar bales of hay never masks his fennel fragrance, nor his anise aroma. He leaves a trail of flour through his matted locks. Working so young and eating the rejects-- gruel |
Mom's Birthday, the Catalogue and Why We Keep Dying
Kathleen M-C
The L.L. Bean catalogue is in the mailbox again. First week of every month, just like always. No one in my family wears L. L. Bean, Mom's just never cancelled the subscription.
My great grandmother passed away after a stroke 2 years ago. The last time I saw her, I promised to take her frail self, then 94, to Tim Hortons so she could claim the free donut and coffee she won in the Roll Up The Rim contest. She was ecstatic, she said that was the first thing she'd won in her entire life. At the funeral, Mom spoke for a bit and I learned one thing about my great grandmother: She used to go down to the racetrack Sunday morning and come home Sunday evening 500$ richer. She never lost a bet.
I toss the catalogue on the table, bury it under flyers. Later that night, I walk into the kitchen to see Mom has bought herself flowers, and is sitting at the kitchen table with the catalogue in front of her, her face in her hands. What comes with Mom's birthday is the anniversary of my great grandmother's, and my grandmother's death. I creep out of the kitchen, and leave her present wrapped in silver paper on her bed.
My grandmother died three months after I was born, and Mom says after that, things got too hectic to remember, so photo albums brought together by my aunt do most of the remembering for her. I think that’s okay, I just think Mom doesn’t want to remember that year. I think it might be too much for her.
Mom stays at the kitchen table for a while. I don’t want to disturb her, so I creep by the doorway on my toes, flinching at every creak in the floor. The worst is when I drop my phone, but even then she doesn’t look up.
We burned my great grandmother in a pink sweater and white pants from L.L. Bean, and buried her in small canisters created for film storage.
I find it odd that I can count how long the women in my family have been dead either by my birthdays, or by how long it's been since Mom opened that damn catalogue.
Mom stands at my doorway that night, and I pretend to be asleep. I hear her pad down the hallway to the living room. Hear her sit down, fiddle with the fireplace. I hear her breathe heavily, take two deep sighs, stand up, and lock the front door.
Kathleen M-C
The L.L. Bean catalogue is in the mailbox again. First week of every month, just like always. No one in my family wears L. L. Bean, Mom's just never cancelled the subscription.
My great grandmother passed away after a stroke 2 years ago. The last time I saw her, I promised to take her frail self, then 94, to Tim Hortons so she could claim the free donut and coffee she won in the Roll Up The Rim contest. She was ecstatic, she said that was the first thing she'd won in her entire life. At the funeral, Mom spoke for a bit and I learned one thing about my great grandmother: She used to go down to the racetrack Sunday morning and come home Sunday evening 500$ richer. She never lost a bet.
I toss the catalogue on the table, bury it under flyers. Later that night, I walk into the kitchen to see Mom has bought herself flowers, and is sitting at the kitchen table with the catalogue in front of her, her face in her hands. What comes with Mom's birthday is the anniversary of my great grandmother's, and my grandmother's death. I creep out of the kitchen, and leave her present wrapped in silver paper on her bed.
My grandmother died three months after I was born, and Mom says after that, things got too hectic to remember, so photo albums brought together by my aunt do most of the remembering for her. I think that’s okay, I just think Mom doesn’t want to remember that year. I think it might be too much for her.
Mom stays at the kitchen table for a while. I don’t want to disturb her, so I creep by the doorway on my toes, flinching at every creak in the floor. The worst is when I drop my phone, but even then she doesn’t look up.
We burned my great grandmother in a pink sweater and white pants from L.L. Bean, and buried her in small canisters created for film storage.
I find it odd that I can count how long the women in my family have been dead either by my birthdays, or by how long it's been since Mom opened that damn catalogue.
Mom stands at my doorway that night, and I pretend to be asleep. I hear her pad down the hallway to the living room. Hear her sit down, fiddle with the fireplace. I hear her breathe heavily, take two deep sighs, stand up, and lock the front door.
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Speak Up
Sage Spicer I hold hands with the wet shirts my mother hangs from the doorframe. You do it too sometimes, when you come over. I don’t know why we do it, I don’t know why we do anything anymore. People stare at us and people laugh at us. Sometimes it makes me cry but you don’t mind at all. You're funny, you're odd, you don't speak much. I sometimes imagine what your laugh would sound like. I'd like to hear it someday. The Smiling Man Aaron Hill A city destroyed, war torn and frail, the people ensnared in a gloomy veil. Amidst the faces of sorrow, of anguish and fear, a man walked the streets, with a smile ear to ear. Why does he smile, what most people said, Our lives are all ruined, and our town is in shreds. The man stopped for a moment, and through old lips he spoke “I smile to bring joy, and calmness and hope. I smile for the fact that our lives have been spared, in times of darkness, a smile will always be there. I smile to bring peace to our hearts that all hurt, I smile through the blood, and the tears and the dirt. A smile can bring hope, to even the most hellish places, You all would feel better with smiles on your faces.” Their lips curled upwards, and their smiles spread like fire, A city of smilers, in tear soaked attire. So the town was rebuilt, and though the sadness was done, the townspeople still smiled, till the day they were gone. |
Sugar Coated
Kimiya Aghazadeh I've always had a habit of sugar coating things. I like to see the good in people. But now I need to learn to let go. I really do. But it's hard. Because if you let go, it means that they're gone. If you take away the sugar, it means you have nothing. And that's a really hard place to be. For anyone. Bad Habits
Amy Li There was a girl who picked obsessively at her nails. She clawed at every cuticle, Chewed every uneven edge. It eased her anxiety. It was a bad habit. It would make her nails grotesque, the doctors said. She didn’t need them to tell her. She saw how her nails were already deteriorating. But it was a habit. It was addictive. She couldn’t stop. There is a girl who stares into the mirror, examining every inch of her body, and picks obsessively at every flaw she sees. She claws at every blemish on her skin, Pounds in frustration at any excess weight. She sinks her teeth into every insecurity And indulges in all her failures. It eases her anxiety. It's a bad habit. Her friends tell her she needs to stop, That she’s killing her body And killing her mind. She doesn’t need them to tell her because Every day, when she looks in the mirror, She sees her life deteriorating. But it’s a habit. It’s addictive. She can’t stop. |
MSKMC
Edges
Anonymous
She liked to cut things. She had every kind of blade imaginable, and she cut everything from wire to grass to ants. There was just such a thrill in watching the edge slice through whatever it desired, leaving behind two clean, crisp halves.
She wanted to be a scientist.
Her favourite thing to cut wasn’t anything tough or strange, but something simple, pliable. Paper. She relished the shhhhhk it made as her scissors broke through, the snip of her knife, even the way the little bits floated down to rest on her cutting mat after she had severed the atoms. She kept a pair of sharpened kitchen scissors at her desk, just so she could cut up little sticky notes when she was bored, or stressed, or happy, or anything. She was always in the mood for cutting.
That was when she was thirteen.
She was homeschooled, and didn’t often interact with other kids at a young age, but eventually, it was decided that she needed to get used to some social interaction, and at fourteen, she was enrolled to a public high school, and she discovered that she possessed one more blade than she thought she did. Her personality.
Her favourite scissors became blunt from neglect. She was busy.
She was beautiful, but she didn’t know it, not until then. Girls complimented her with jealous looks, and guys gave her peculiar smiles that she didn’t understand. She made friends easily, but they didn’t interest her, and never lasted long. She found it much more fascinating to cut them off than to keep them, and so it became a game. How cleanly could she detach herself from a friend she would’ve called close not ten days ago? Who would last the longest? And always, always at the back of her mind was the smallest tiny fragment, constantly wondering if somebody would cut her off before she did.
Her science grades dropped.
He, like many others, had ‘fallen in love,’ or so he thought. He started mingling with her friends of this month, and sitting next to her in the class they shared. She knew he liked her, and he knew she knew, and yet the fact that he didn’t come forward fascinated her. She watched, and waited. He watched too. He enjoyed staring at her.
Her mother bought her a new pack of sticky notes for that month; red. She had accumulated three different colours by then.
One day he kissed her hand. She was disgusted; his lips had felt warm and slightly damp as they pressed against her ice cold skin. She didn’t like to be touched. She drew back and glared. He was confused; it had always worked. The shy, awkward boy, his sudden bold kiss, his beautiful eyes, what wasn’t to love? But distaste was so clearly etched in her features that he quickly backed away. He would need a different strategy.
The next morning, her garbage can was filled and she had no more sticky notes.
She was not at all pleasant that day, and yet somehow that made her more appealing to him. Her rage was obvious in the way her eyes flashed, the way she snapped at everybody who talked, the way her fingers didn’t tap so much as claw at the table. He managed to convince himself that it showed her passion, her fiery spirit. He loved her, but from a distance.
She chopped off her long locks the next day. The snip was almost as satisfying as paper.
When she returned to school the next day he was shocked; the jagged lines cut a weird frame for her face, so different from the typical symmetry she bore; everything about her had always been so sharp, so calculated, so composed. He still loved her. Maybe he was only a silly teenager, but love is love and he loved her undeniably. His true love had begun to lose some of its glamour though, and turned sour. Reluctantly, she had to admit to herself that he was becoming a nuisance. She would begin her project to cut him off.
She had once tried to cut fabric. No matter how many cuts she had made, there had always been more fibers to slice through; it was too tightly bound. Frustrated, she had torn it in two, leaving two tattered halves.
She tried simple tactics at first. Avoiding. The cold shoulder. When it didn’t work she moved on to rumours, which jumped eagerly from ear to ear, but he wouldn’t be deterred. She moved to direct confrontation; both good and bad cop all at once, then just bad cop. She yelled at him, made scenes, accused him of being creepy, of being mean, of anything and everything. And yet somehow he managed to be at her locker, and eat with her, and sit beside her, and be on the same bus as her.
Every once in a while she went back to try to cut cloth; it became addictive, almost. She hated it.
One day he was absent from school. Her friends for that month teased her about how grateful she must be, and she had smiled, but... in a weird way, she had... no. If she thought the thought, it would be impossible to take back. She was careful not to think it, making it harder not to think it, but she was dedicated if nothing else, and it didn’t creep in until the end of the day, when she was alone with her thoughts. She had missed him.
She had started cutting and tearing cloth a lot more. Her mother was angry with her, and gave her a needle and thread, telling her to fix it herself. It was fun to put together the tattered remains. Addictive.
When she saw him the next day she had smiled, in spite of herself. She had smoothed her face of it’s ugly wrinkles and turned away the moment his eyes had flickered towards her, but he saw; barely more than a glimpse, but he had seen that slight curve to her lips, the way she sat slightly angled towards him. She was in half-love. Maybe she was only a silly teenager, but half-love is half-love, and she half-loved him undeniably.
Her science marks started climbing. They had moved from research in fission to fusion.
The day after that, she stopped the rumours. She had friends in high places, and some well placed whispers here and there doused the flames. He had pretended not to notice them, but when they stopped, he walked a little straighter. I did that for him, she thought. She tried to gloss over the fact that she was the one who had been causing the pain in the first place, but she knew, in her freshly grown heart, that it was her. She, who was normally so composed, was no good at apologies, and she offered him a clumsy smile in the cafeteria. Sorry.
The next week she had definitely dropped the cold shoulder, and had started frequenting his haunts. Her friends of that month but also that year teased her, seeing through her half-excuses and thinly veiled lies. They made her feel silly, but instead of cutting them, she had just smiled. And they had smiled back.
Anonymous
She liked to cut things. She had every kind of blade imaginable, and she cut everything from wire to grass to ants. There was just such a thrill in watching the edge slice through whatever it desired, leaving behind two clean, crisp halves.
She wanted to be a scientist.
Her favourite thing to cut wasn’t anything tough or strange, but something simple, pliable. Paper. She relished the shhhhhk it made as her scissors broke through, the snip of her knife, even the way the little bits floated down to rest on her cutting mat after she had severed the atoms. She kept a pair of sharpened kitchen scissors at her desk, just so she could cut up little sticky notes when she was bored, or stressed, or happy, or anything. She was always in the mood for cutting.
That was when she was thirteen.
She was homeschooled, and didn’t often interact with other kids at a young age, but eventually, it was decided that she needed to get used to some social interaction, and at fourteen, she was enrolled to a public high school, and she discovered that she possessed one more blade than she thought she did. Her personality.
Her favourite scissors became blunt from neglect. She was busy.
She was beautiful, but she didn’t know it, not until then. Girls complimented her with jealous looks, and guys gave her peculiar smiles that she didn’t understand. She made friends easily, but they didn’t interest her, and never lasted long. She found it much more fascinating to cut them off than to keep them, and so it became a game. How cleanly could she detach herself from a friend she would’ve called close not ten days ago? Who would last the longest? And always, always at the back of her mind was the smallest tiny fragment, constantly wondering if somebody would cut her off before she did.
Her science grades dropped.
He, like many others, had ‘fallen in love,’ or so he thought. He started mingling with her friends of this month, and sitting next to her in the class they shared. She knew he liked her, and he knew she knew, and yet the fact that he didn’t come forward fascinated her. She watched, and waited. He watched too. He enjoyed staring at her.
Her mother bought her a new pack of sticky notes for that month; red. She had accumulated three different colours by then.
One day he kissed her hand. She was disgusted; his lips had felt warm and slightly damp as they pressed against her ice cold skin. She didn’t like to be touched. She drew back and glared. He was confused; it had always worked. The shy, awkward boy, his sudden bold kiss, his beautiful eyes, what wasn’t to love? But distaste was so clearly etched in her features that he quickly backed away. He would need a different strategy.
The next morning, her garbage can was filled and she had no more sticky notes.
She was not at all pleasant that day, and yet somehow that made her more appealing to him. Her rage was obvious in the way her eyes flashed, the way she snapped at everybody who talked, the way her fingers didn’t tap so much as claw at the table. He managed to convince himself that it showed her passion, her fiery spirit. He loved her, but from a distance.
She chopped off her long locks the next day. The snip was almost as satisfying as paper.
When she returned to school the next day he was shocked; the jagged lines cut a weird frame for her face, so different from the typical symmetry she bore; everything about her had always been so sharp, so calculated, so composed. He still loved her. Maybe he was only a silly teenager, but love is love and he loved her undeniably. His true love had begun to lose some of its glamour though, and turned sour. Reluctantly, she had to admit to herself that he was becoming a nuisance. She would begin her project to cut him off.
She had once tried to cut fabric. No matter how many cuts she had made, there had always been more fibers to slice through; it was too tightly bound. Frustrated, she had torn it in two, leaving two tattered halves.
She tried simple tactics at first. Avoiding. The cold shoulder. When it didn’t work she moved on to rumours, which jumped eagerly from ear to ear, but he wouldn’t be deterred. She moved to direct confrontation; both good and bad cop all at once, then just bad cop. She yelled at him, made scenes, accused him of being creepy, of being mean, of anything and everything. And yet somehow he managed to be at her locker, and eat with her, and sit beside her, and be on the same bus as her.
Every once in a while she went back to try to cut cloth; it became addictive, almost. She hated it.
One day he was absent from school. Her friends for that month teased her about how grateful she must be, and she had smiled, but... in a weird way, she had... no. If she thought the thought, it would be impossible to take back. She was careful not to think it, making it harder not to think it, but she was dedicated if nothing else, and it didn’t creep in until the end of the day, when she was alone with her thoughts. She had missed him.
She had started cutting and tearing cloth a lot more. Her mother was angry with her, and gave her a needle and thread, telling her to fix it herself. It was fun to put together the tattered remains. Addictive.
When she saw him the next day she had smiled, in spite of herself. She had smoothed her face of it’s ugly wrinkles and turned away the moment his eyes had flickered towards her, but he saw; barely more than a glimpse, but he had seen that slight curve to her lips, the way she sat slightly angled towards him. She was in half-love. Maybe she was only a silly teenager, but half-love is half-love, and she half-loved him undeniably.
Her science marks started climbing. They had moved from research in fission to fusion.
The day after that, she stopped the rumours. She had friends in high places, and some well placed whispers here and there doused the flames. He had pretended not to notice them, but when they stopped, he walked a little straighter. I did that for him, she thought. She tried to gloss over the fact that she was the one who had been causing the pain in the first place, but she knew, in her freshly grown heart, that it was her. She, who was normally so composed, was no good at apologies, and she offered him a clumsy smile in the cafeteria. Sorry.
The next week she had definitely dropped the cold shoulder, and had started frequenting his haunts. Her friends of that month but also that year teased her, seeing through her half-excuses and thinly veiled lies. They made her feel silly, but instead of cutting them, she had just smiled. And they had smiled back.
Kathleen McCulloch-Cop
Untitled
Emma Rankin
Blue. The sky was so blue. The colour just engulfed me, transporting me. I've never felt so free in my life. Not at work, doing meaningless things with meaningless people. That was anything but blue. That was grey. Consuming, endless, grey. Not when I stood on the ledge, air whipping around my face, literally being in the verge. It was intense, I just started to feel alive, but it wasn't enough. I could feel it all coming back to me, no way out. Their blank looks, climbing over me in despair. When I let go, step forward, I fell. I didn't scream. I opened my eyes and saw life. Everyone so relaxed and calm, why couldn't that be me? But there, falling, I finally felt alive. Freeing. Open, falling, but not blue. No blue is lying on my back looking up. I'm not free or happy. But, finally calm. Just so calm. People crowd around me blocking my sight of the blue. No can't they see, what are they doing? All I want is the blue! No, no, no! Don't take me away feel the blue. The beautiful sky. I want to scream, but I can’t. Everything is a haze around me compared to the blue. I have to join it be with the blue. They can’t take me away! So that's what I do. I rise, float up, and become part of the blue.
Emma Rankin
Blue. The sky was so blue. The colour just engulfed me, transporting me. I've never felt so free in my life. Not at work, doing meaningless things with meaningless people. That was anything but blue. That was grey. Consuming, endless, grey. Not when I stood on the ledge, air whipping around my face, literally being in the verge. It was intense, I just started to feel alive, but it wasn't enough. I could feel it all coming back to me, no way out. Their blank looks, climbing over me in despair. When I let go, step forward, I fell. I didn't scream. I opened my eyes and saw life. Everyone so relaxed and calm, why couldn't that be me? But there, falling, I finally felt alive. Freeing. Open, falling, but not blue. No blue is lying on my back looking up. I'm not free or happy. But, finally calm. Just so calm. People crowd around me blocking my sight of the blue. No can't they see, what are they doing? All I want is the blue! No, no, no! Don't take me away feel the blue. The beautiful sky. I want to scream, but I can’t. Everything is a haze around me compared to the blue. I have to join it be with the blue. They can’t take me away! So that's what I do. I rise, float up, and become part of the blue.
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Running Mouth
Nina Babic She never let her thoughts hide away. The words would always escape past her lips. They would tumble away Words spilling at an uneasy speed. The adventures of a brave vocabulary. Her teeth were stained with plentiful phrases. Adjectives would dangle from her gums. The roof of her mouth, damaged by lazy verbs. It was a constant struggle, then To manage to achieve the last word while squabbling Or, to even playfully whisper Without her sudden interjections The sharpness of her abundant conversation. Her running mouth was never still. The everflowing river of communication That flowed from her mind And into the air. Into the abyss A waterfall of discourse poured. The words swirled as she spoke. She forbid them from draining. Though, in the end I really did not mind her careless tongue. I did not shy away from her speech. For under the moonlight I could watch her speak for centuries. Fingers
Holly Bennett Some are tapered and spindly While some are calloused and dry Others injure unkindly Or sketch stray clouds in the sky. Some are drummed on one’s sore knees Or sport bands of gold and gems They dance on piano keys And pull threads through fraying hems. I cannot wear precious rings Or fix the skirt of a doll I cannot draw pretty things I have no fingers at all. |
Red Wool Gloves
Mahaila Smith The raindrops fall in a calculated patter onto smooth, newly paved roads. Watches tick in unison. Car wheels spin, driving side by side in organized lanes. The faces of commuters are blurred. Some talk on cell phones, others hold black umbrellas: hundreds of little shields against the grey sky. Glass doors open. Heels click on the linoleum floors of office buildings. A girl stands still under a tree. She smiles. Yellow taxis drive by. Mothers hold the hands of young children. The girl stays. A drop of water hits her nose She shoves her gloved fingers into her pocket. Red wool hands hidden from the gray city, the girl turns around and walks away. Loving You
Bethany McKinley-Young All the energy in the world comes from the sun. From rays of light absorbed by our planet. It used to seem like no matter how long they shone, There wouldn’t be enough of it for me. I left the lights shining in my room every night, Wondering if they could replace the sun. But meeting you made the sun seem irrelevant. You shine more than any mid summer day. Every smile you smile reaches right to your eyes, Makes me smile a smile that reaches my toes. Every hug, every kiss, lights up my heart, And there’s no way I could ever let go. I want you to know this and to never forget, I get energy when I am with you. I know the exact second I have to leave your house, So that I make it home before curfew. I know that every minute we spend together Is a minute worth wishing on stars for. I know no matter how much time I have with you, It will always feel like there isn’t enough. Because any time with you won’t be enough time For me to love you so completely. All I feel won’t fit into one tiny organ. And all my love for you keeps spilling out, Like water overflowing out onto the floor, Into your arms that wait, outstretched, for me. All the energy in the world comes from the sun. But my energy comes from loving you. |
About You
Lily Inskip-Shesnicky
She often tore her nails to shreds. She would bite them and chew them and they would be gone. Tiny hangnails were all that remained, she would then proceed to pull the hangnails out. Even if it hurt and even if it was bloody. She also had the habit of pulling at her eyelids. Pinching, pulling, feeling them snap back. Kind of like elastics, but not really.
I wrote a poem about it once.
She always kept sunglasses on the top of the fridge so she wasn't blinded by light when she went to get a midnight snack. She took forever to choose what table to sit at when we went to restaurants and then an extra minute to decide which seat was best. She got bad vibes if she wasn't sitting in the right place. She read street signs backwards for whatever reason, I don’t know. If a candy had more than one colour in it she had to eat each colour together. She would buy Skittles, pour them all out, organizing them by colour and only then could she eat them. Those weren't all her habits , but they were the ones I noticed the most. I don’t know her any more, we don’t talk, but I remember all the quirky things she did. I think they made me even more infatuated with her, or maybe I'm just romanticizing the whole thing.
I wrote a poem about her again.
She's not the best poetry in the world. I don't think anyone ever really is, but I like the poetry that I write about her. It makes me feel happy inside and I wonder if she ever wrote poetry about me when she was still alive.
Lily Inskip-Shesnicky
She often tore her nails to shreds. She would bite them and chew them and they would be gone. Tiny hangnails were all that remained, she would then proceed to pull the hangnails out. Even if it hurt and even if it was bloody. She also had the habit of pulling at her eyelids. Pinching, pulling, feeling them snap back. Kind of like elastics, but not really.
I wrote a poem about it once.
She always kept sunglasses on the top of the fridge so she wasn't blinded by light when she went to get a midnight snack. She took forever to choose what table to sit at when we went to restaurants and then an extra minute to decide which seat was best. She got bad vibes if she wasn't sitting in the right place. She read street signs backwards for whatever reason, I don’t know. If a candy had more than one colour in it she had to eat each colour together. She would buy Skittles, pour them all out, organizing them by colour and only then could she eat them. Those weren't all her habits , but they were the ones I noticed the most. I don’t know her any more, we don’t talk, but I remember all the quirky things she did. I think they made me even more infatuated with her, or maybe I'm just romanticizing the whole thing.
I wrote a poem about her again.
She's not the best poetry in the world. I don't think anyone ever really is, but I like the poetry that I write about her. It makes me feel happy inside and I wonder if she ever wrote poetry about me when she was still alive.
The Green Team With Aunty Nana as Captain and Aloe Vera Enthusiast
Kassandra Byers
Whenever we go to Aunty Nana’s house for Christmas, Mommy tells us to be careful, to not trip, to not get too close to the flames. My favourite flame holder (Mommy doesn’t like it when I call them that. She thinks it sounds violent and says I should just call them candles) is the one where the flame is coming right out of Santa’s butt. Charlie and I always laugh because it looks like a mega fart. I think it looks like Pikachu’s tail but Charlie always says Pikachu’s tail looks like a lightning bolt. It doesn’t matter though, because Mommy never lets us get close enough to compare the flame with a picture of Pikachu’s tail. She thinks the paper will burn and the house will burn and Aunty Nana will burn and she doesn’t think she can take that.
This Christmas, Charlie and I think we’re old enough to compare the photo to the flame. Mommy walks us up, opens the door, and reminds us: don’t touch the flames, don’t touch the glass ornaments, don’t unwrap the light switches (we tried that two years ago and Aunty Nana didn’t talk to us for four months). We head right to my favourite flame holder, and Charlie whips out his Pikachu picture. “Look! A lightning bolt and a regular flame,” he says. He laughs at me and he thinks that’s okay just because he’s a few years older than me and handsomer but he isn’t smarter. He puts the paper down by the flame holder and we go to the kitchen for carols and cocoa.
We’re just finishing Jingle Bells when Charlie asks Aunty Nana why she doesn’t use the lights. Aunty Nana looks away like usual and sniffs the air. She asks if she’s the only one who smells something burning. Charlie looks at me and runs to Santa’s butt and of course Pikachu caught fire. He tries to put the flame out with his finger but all I hear is him whimper and see him run to the sink. Mommy starts screaming. Aunty Nana says it’s fine, there was no real damage, and that there’s aloe vera in cupboard upstairs. My legs carry me up the green carpet empty handed and down the green carpet clutching aloe vera.
Mommy is still screaming, on and off, saying aloe vera can’t cure everything Mom, these are my kids not sunburns, just turn on the damn lights and put out the damn flames or I will never come here again dammit. Aunty Nana is shaking in her jumpsuit and shaking when she tries to unwrap the light switch. She says the cling wrap is too clingy and I just can’t get it and I’m sorry for everything but I just can’t get it right now and as a matter of fact aloe vera is quite useful in situations like these. I’m standing next to Charlie and I hear him say is, “See? Santa’s butt flame still didn’t look like Pikachu.”
Kassandra Byers
Whenever we go to Aunty Nana’s house for Christmas, Mommy tells us to be careful, to not trip, to not get too close to the flames. My favourite flame holder (Mommy doesn’t like it when I call them that. She thinks it sounds violent and says I should just call them candles) is the one where the flame is coming right out of Santa’s butt. Charlie and I always laugh because it looks like a mega fart. I think it looks like Pikachu’s tail but Charlie always says Pikachu’s tail looks like a lightning bolt. It doesn’t matter though, because Mommy never lets us get close enough to compare the flame with a picture of Pikachu’s tail. She thinks the paper will burn and the house will burn and Aunty Nana will burn and she doesn’t think she can take that.
This Christmas, Charlie and I think we’re old enough to compare the photo to the flame. Mommy walks us up, opens the door, and reminds us: don’t touch the flames, don’t touch the glass ornaments, don’t unwrap the light switches (we tried that two years ago and Aunty Nana didn’t talk to us for four months). We head right to my favourite flame holder, and Charlie whips out his Pikachu picture. “Look! A lightning bolt and a regular flame,” he says. He laughs at me and he thinks that’s okay just because he’s a few years older than me and handsomer but he isn’t smarter. He puts the paper down by the flame holder and we go to the kitchen for carols and cocoa.
We’re just finishing Jingle Bells when Charlie asks Aunty Nana why she doesn’t use the lights. Aunty Nana looks away like usual and sniffs the air. She asks if she’s the only one who smells something burning. Charlie looks at me and runs to Santa’s butt and of course Pikachu caught fire. He tries to put the flame out with his finger but all I hear is him whimper and see him run to the sink. Mommy starts screaming. Aunty Nana says it’s fine, there was no real damage, and that there’s aloe vera in cupboard upstairs. My legs carry me up the green carpet empty handed and down the green carpet clutching aloe vera.
Mommy is still screaming, on and off, saying aloe vera can’t cure everything Mom, these are my kids not sunburns, just turn on the damn lights and put out the damn flames or I will never come here again dammit. Aunty Nana is shaking in her jumpsuit and shaking when she tries to unwrap the light switch. She says the cling wrap is too clingy and I just can’t get it and I’m sorry for everything but I just can’t get it right now and as a matter of fact aloe vera is quite useful in situations like these. I’m standing next to Charlie and I hear him say is, “See? Santa’s butt flame still didn’t look like Pikachu.”
|
Strings
Olivia Kenny She had strings tied around her fingers to help her think of all the things she forgot to remember, but the things she forgot to remember made her think of the things she couldn’t remember to forget. All her life she wanted to catch the stars and keep them on her windowsill, and the moment she did, she couldn’t stop thinking of setting them free. She’s got a river of ideas flowing through her head but she dammed them all up to stop them dribbling out of her mouth. She never says what she is thinking because she’s afraid of making ripples in calm water; she’s backwards and upside down and she’s above us all. He waltzed into her life with promises dribbling from his lips, a jar of galaxies under his arm and a mess of strings around his fingers. Her eyes were alight with the fire in his and she hardly knew it. When she grew bored of him and floated back up into her forest of stars, he grabbed her ankles and yanked until she was his again. The cracks splashed across her skull leaked ideas that could never again be cherished. “Silly girl,” he said, “I’m the only one who cares for you.” She became his graveyard of cigarettes, the space between his words, the soles of his shoes. She was the flower growing from the crack in the sidewalk, forever thinking it was a weed. When she could no longer bite her tongue he did it for her, and convinced her that all the blood was his. He was kicked out of her life barefoot, speechless, and bleeding. She untied the strings around her fingers one by one, and remembered all the things she’d tried to forget. She let flowers grow from her bleeding knuckles, and clawed her way out of his silences and into her words. She spit crimson on his memory and washed away the graveyard of cigarettes to make room for her river of ideas. She washed away the ash from the cracks in her heart and dipped her finger in freezing cold water simply because she wanted to watch the ripples. When she was sure he was gone, she set her stars free, and hitched a ride with them to the end of the universe. She curled up to constellations and watched centuries pass by. Now, the tides pull in as she inhales and roll out as she exhales, she blinks with the seasons and sings the moon to sleep. She pokes her head into reality every now and then, but never too long; for she has business to attend to. Somewhere where our greedy hands can’t reach, where our tired eyes cannot see, where are droning hearts do not beat; there is something going on that is backwards and upside-down and most certainly above us all. |
Mareim Salman
The People You Meet on the Bus
Emma Rektor She flagged down the bus from the side of the road. Was her scraggly orange hair a wig or not? I don’t know. She strode up and down the aisle, unhappy with every seat she tried. The other passengers slumped in relief when she passed by them. She gave up and instead intruded on the bus driver’s concentration. Her chest thrust forward and lips whispered in his ear: an awful mimicry of a tender lover’s moment. Her blue bra framed artfully by the barely buttoned shirt, I cringed when she cooed at a toddler sitting in his stroller. |
The Willow Tree
Pascale Malenfant
I was sitting on a park bench, and a girl walked by. She was so beautiful. She had silky brown hair that reached her mid-back, and gorgeous dark skin. She was tall, and walked with confidence. I couldn’t help but feel attracted.
I guess I must’ve been staring at her with a bit too much intensity, because she turned her head to look at me. She furrowed her brow, and that’s when I noticed the scar on her left cheek. Almost hidden by the distance and her natural blush, the scar covered the area right beneath her cheekbone and her dimple. It was an array of lines in the shape of a willow tree. Other people might have thought it was an unfortunate flaw on something that had had the potential to be beautiful, but I thought it was amazing.
I was about to look away when she tripped over her own feet, crashing hands-first on to the ground.
I immediately got off my bench to go help her up. When I did, I got a closer look at her scar. It was a few shades darker than her skin tone. It was light around the edges, blending from an almost black to an almost white seamlessly. I guess she didn’t enjoy the fact that I was still staring, as she was glaring at me. Regardless, I asked her if she wanted to sit with me, I had some Band-Aids in my backpack. I guess she didn’t have anywhere to go, so she said sure. I could sense a bit of exasperation in her voice.
As she tried to ease the bleeding on her palms with the crumpled Wendy’s napkins I had given her, she told me a bit about herself. She said that she was a freelance artist, and the city council often asked her to paint murals around the city on abandoned buildings they were too lazy to trash. I compared her line of work to legal vandalism, and she laughed and told me I was somewhat right.
She asked me about my life and I told her about my interest in law and politics.. She told me how boring of a life I must have, and to be completely honest, I kind of agreed. Office jobs weren’t the most exciting, after all, and I didn’t really know if my career would ever take-off.
After talking for a bit longer, she told me that one of her latest pieces was actually close to where we were, and she asked me if I wanted to see it. I looked at my watch and saw that my next meeting was an hour from then, so I said why not. She grabbed my hand tenderly, not wanting to dislodge the Band-Aids that she had carefully placed on them, and led me out of the park and down a street I had never taken before. We stopped in front of one of those old red-brick buildings.
It was a painting of the city’s bridge done in pastel colours. It stretched at least 20 meters across, covering the building’s windows and doors. It was amazing. I looked back at her, but she was still staring at the painting, smiling. Without thinking, I asked her about her scar.
She looked at me, her smile turning into a frown.
I could see her reminiscing memories of sadness in her eyes. She looked back at the painting and told me how it was a birthmark. She never had many friends, as most kids in elementary would stay away from thinking they would catch some kind of disease. She never really had much opportunity after those years to meet new people, since she was homeschooled. People still acted like elementary kids towards her then. She always saw looks of pity or disgust on the faces of people she passed by. She joked about how her art was the only beautiful thing about her, and told me that when she had seen me staring at her at the park she had thought I was doing the same thing.
I looked at her, and she looked at me. I grabbed her by the hips and pulled her closer. She didn’t resist. I kissed her and told her I thought it was beautiful.
We dated for nearly 3 years after that. It was great. Her art was gaining more recognition day by day. I had been promoted several times and eventually became a counselor on the city board. We loved each other so much. I even thought of proposing to her. I could see us having kids, and growing old together.
But we didn’t, and we never will.
I remember every part of the call I had gotten the day it happened. My caller ID read the city hospital. They told me they had little time to explain, and to just get down there quick. So I did.
When I arrived there, they lead me to a room. I had no idea what was happening. When I looked inside, I saw her. Almost all of her limbs were broken, and her head had a large gash in it. I could see parts of her skull, and her face was still covered in her own drying blood. They told me some drunk had rammed in to her while she was painting a building in the messy part of town. They told me the insurance company would let her stay on life support for as long as she needed it, free of charge, but it probably wouldn’t be that much of a cost to them anyways.
That night she died in my arms. The only goodbye I had gotten was the chaste kiss and hug I had received from her just that morning. I bowed my head, a tear falling from my cheek and on to hers. It rolled down her neck, and I can’t remember where it went after that.
The funeral was a month later. I organized it with her parents. Her father had never really approved of our relationship, but when I saw him that day, he hugged me for the first time and cried into my shoulder. I had barely ever seen him smile before.
It was an open-casket. They managed to fix up her body pretty well. Too bad they couldn’t have done that while she was still alive, I thought. But there was no point in being angry. She was already gone.
I looked down at her. Her hands were folded over a bouquet of yellow flowers her favourite colour. She was wearing a white gown, her long hair combed neatly and placed on her chest. Her eyes were now closed, never to be open again. My eyes trailed down to her left cheek where her scar was masked by layers of foundation.
I took out my handkerchief and dipped it in the water from a vase beside her coffin containing the same yellow flowers she was holding. I wiped at her left cheek until I could see the willow-tree shaped scar. She looked almost exactly like she did the day I first met her, and that was how I always wanted to remember her.
I often visit the mural of the bridge painted out of pastel colours she showed me the day we first met. It was slightly faded, but the memories attached to it were as vibrant as when they had happened. I’m sure she wouldn’t want me to touch it up, anyways. She always liked the character paintings possessed when they aged and faded. So I only made one little change. Beside her signature on the bottom left corner, I painted a willow tree. I painted it from the memory of my first time ever laying eyes upon it, from the memories of waking up and having it be the first thing I saw, from the memories of caressing it gently while her tears ran slowly over its intricate details. I know that no one but me will ever notice it.
I only wish I could have told her that the beauty she had been given wasn’t only in the art she made, but also in the art that God had given her.
Pascale Malenfant
I was sitting on a park bench, and a girl walked by. She was so beautiful. She had silky brown hair that reached her mid-back, and gorgeous dark skin. She was tall, and walked with confidence. I couldn’t help but feel attracted.
I guess I must’ve been staring at her with a bit too much intensity, because she turned her head to look at me. She furrowed her brow, and that’s when I noticed the scar on her left cheek. Almost hidden by the distance and her natural blush, the scar covered the area right beneath her cheekbone and her dimple. It was an array of lines in the shape of a willow tree. Other people might have thought it was an unfortunate flaw on something that had had the potential to be beautiful, but I thought it was amazing.
I was about to look away when she tripped over her own feet, crashing hands-first on to the ground.
I immediately got off my bench to go help her up. When I did, I got a closer look at her scar. It was a few shades darker than her skin tone. It was light around the edges, blending from an almost black to an almost white seamlessly. I guess she didn’t enjoy the fact that I was still staring, as she was glaring at me. Regardless, I asked her if she wanted to sit with me, I had some Band-Aids in my backpack. I guess she didn’t have anywhere to go, so she said sure. I could sense a bit of exasperation in her voice.
As she tried to ease the bleeding on her palms with the crumpled Wendy’s napkins I had given her, she told me a bit about herself. She said that she was a freelance artist, and the city council often asked her to paint murals around the city on abandoned buildings they were too lazy to trash. I compared her line of work to legal vandalism, and she laughed and told me I was somewhat right.
She asked me about my life and I told her about my interest in law and politics.. She told me how boring of a life I must have, and to be completely honest, I kind of agreed. Office jobs weren’t the most exciting, after all, and I didn’t really know if my career would ever take-off.
After talking for a bit longer, she told me that one of her latest pieces was actually close to where we were, and she asked me if I wanted to see it. I looked at my watch and saw that my next meeting was an hour from then, so I said why not. She grabbed my hand tenderly, not wanting to dislodge the Band-Aids that she had carefully placed on them, and led me out of the park and down a street I had never taken before. We stopped in front of one of those old red-brick buildings.
It was a painting of the city’s bridge done in pastel colours. It stretched at least 20 meters across, covering the building’s windows and doors. It was amazing. I looked back at her, but she was still staring at the painting, smiling. Without thinking, I asked her about her scar.
She looked at me, her smile turning into a frown.
I could see her reminiscing memories of sadness in her eyes. She looked back at the painting and told me how it was a birthmark. She never had many friends, as most kids in elementary would stay away from thinking they would catch some kind of disease. She never really had much opportunity after those years to meet new people, since she was homeschooled. People still acted like elementary kids towards her then. She always saw looks of pity or disgust on the faces of people she passed by. She joked about how her art was the only beautiful thing about her, and told me that when she had seen me staring at her at the park she had thought I was doing the same thing.
I looked at her, and she looked at me. I grabbed her by the hips and pulled her closer. She didn’t resist. I kissed her and told her I thought it was beautiful.
We dated for nearly 3 years after that. It was great. Her art was gaining more recognition day by day. I had been promoted several times and eventually became a counselor on the city board. We loved each other so much. I even thought of proposing to her. I could see us having kids, and growing old together.
But we didn’t, and we never will.
I remember every part of the call I had gotten the day it happened. My caller ID read the city hospital. They told me they had little time to explain, and to just get down there quick. So I did.
When I arrived there, they lead me to a room. I had no idea what was happening. When I looked inside, I saw her. Almost all of her limbs were broken, and her head had a large gash in it. I could see parts of her skull, and her face was still covered in her own drying blood. They told me some drunk had rammed in to her while she was painting a building in the messy part of town. They told me the insurance company would let her stay on life support for as long as she needed it, free of charge, but it probably wouldn’t be that much of a cost to them anyways.
That night she died in my arms. The only goodbye I had gotten was the chaste kiss and hug I had received from her just that morning. I bowed my head, a tear falling from my cheek and on to hers. It rolled down her neck, and I can’t remember where it went after that.
The funeral was a month later. I organized it with her parents. Her father had never really approved of our relationship, but when I saw him that day, he hugged me for the first time and cried into my shoulder. I had barely ever seen him smile before.
It was an open-casket. They managed to fix up her body pretty well. Too bad they couldn’t have done that while she was still alive, I thought. But there was no point in being angry. She was already gone.
I looked down at her. Her hands were folded over a bouquet of yellow flowers her favourite colour. She was wearing a white gown, her long hair combed neatly and placed on her chest. Her eyes were now closed, never to be open again. My eyes trailed down to her left cheek where her scar was masked by layers of foundation.
I took out my handkerchief and dipped it in the water from a vase beside her coffin containing the same yellow flowers she was holding. I wiped at her left cheek until I could see the willow-tree shaped scar. She looked almost exactly like she did the day I first met her, and that was how I always wanted to remember her.
I often visit the mural of the bridge painted out of pastel colours she showed me the day we first met. It was slightly faded, but the memories attached to it were as vibrant as when they had happened. I’m sure she wouldn’t want me to touch it up, anyways. She always liked the character paintings possessed when they aged and faded. So I only made one little change. Beside her signature on the bottom left corner, I painted a willow tree. I painted it from the memory of my first time ever laying eyes upon it, from the memories of waking up and having it be the first thing I saw, from the memories of caressing it gently while her tears ran slowly over its intricate details. I know that no one but me will ever notice it.
I only wish I could have told her that the beauty she had been given wasn’t only in the art she made, but also in the art that God had given her.
|
Four Times Andrew Did and The One Time He Didn’t
Krista Hum 1. Andrew wouldn’t say that he was growing distant from her but he would say that he wasn’t getting any closer. They didn’t stare at stars or walk at midnight anymore, instead they avoided highways and stuck to shadows. Andrew was waiting for her to come back from the place she had dug herself into. He watched her sleep but she didn’t look young and peaceful, she looked like she was running away from her life in her dreams. So he leaned over and placed a kiss on her forehead. 2. Andrew wouldn’t say that she was definitely drowning but he would say that she was slowly sinking. She didn’t dance while getting ready ins. There are stars burning behind the morning or sing herself to sleep, instead she talked to the television and drank herself awake. She was waiting for someone to dig her out of the hole she was trapped in. She hated sleeping because instead of falling in love in her dreams she was falling off buildings and cliffs. So he leaned over and brushed her lips with his own. 3. Andrew wouldn't say he was losing hold but he would say that his grip was slipping. He didn't listen to music or write poems, instead he made soup that he knew no one would eat and he read how to's on the internet. He was waiting for her to realize he was just as stuck as she was. He listened when she talked about her dreams but her dreams gave him nightmares. So he leaned over and grazed her cheek with his lips. 4. Andrew wouldn't say that she ignored him but he would say that she didn't listen. She didn't make small talk at breakfast or watch the news, instead she sat on cold floors and walked in the rain. She was waiting for him to realize that she wasn't dead but she wasn't alive. She blurted out mistakes and re-lived them in her dreams. So he leaned over and allowed his lips to touch the top of her head. 5. Andrew wouldn't say that they were falling out of love but he would say they were falling into regret. They didn't share movies or go to fancy restaurants, instead they argued with door slams and broke too many plates. They were waiting for each other to realize that they were both as gone as they were there. She didn't tell him about her dreams because she didn't sleep anymore. So he leaned over and told her goodbye. 
Libby Graham
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Dear Whomever
Anonymous I'm dying. Yup, that seems about right. Much more plausible than the second option-which we in no way need to discuss. What is important is my imminent death. I should prepare. Write a letter, or a will -no- my parents technically still own all of my worthless crap. So a letter, to... who saying what? I guess it doesn't matter, I'll be dead. For now I think I'll just let it run it's course. I just hope whatever it is hurries up and kills me because I feel like complete shit. POSSIBLE SYMPTOMS OF DEATH: 1. A weird warm feeling in your chest every time you see a person you admire, yeah, that makes sense I clearly just admire her. Nothing more- you know what, we should move on, apparently I am on a tight schedule. 2. Your heart starts palpitating every time someone you admire (probably the same someone from the first symptom) talks to you, or casual touches your arm when laughing. 3. You will have this horrible pain in your stomach, just always. As if you've lost something or made a huge mistake or maybe it's just a parasite. 4. You obsess over the person you admire, for no good reason, (but give me a break I'm dying!) 5. Your head will be foggy, always. Especially when around said person you may or may not be obsessing over (which is way closer to may not, thank you very much.) 6. You want to talk to her- said person you admire. You want to talk to her all the time and hear her laugh and see her smile and hold her hand- no. No, that's crazy. I do not want to hold her hand, I haven't held hands with my friends since the first grade. 7. You start noticing things about her that you have never noticed about a person before. You notice that her eyelashes are actually white, even though her eyebrows are a light brown. You notice that one of her earlobes is considerably larger than the other. You notice that one half of her left eye is stained brown. You notice how crazy you sound listing a million oddities of a girl you barely know. 8. You will loose all sanity. (I hope you have deduced that much.) I feel that since I'll be dead by the time you read this I should at least disclose who the person I admire is. Her name is Lexi, she's an artist, she's tall with bright eyes and golden hair, she paints the moon and the sun on the back of our hands. I admire her mainly because she's everything I'm not: pretty, smart, artsy, happy, open. She's the kind of person that makes you want to smile, or dance or sing. I can't remember the last time I sang, but every time I see her, I want to. I want to climb a tree, or dance or just holder her hand; for no other reason than my moon is lonely without her sun, of course there's no other reason. I know I shouldn't admire Lexi, she isn't good for me. I saw her once, at the back of the school kissing Leah. Around the corner from where the ninth grade hides when they smoke, too scared of getting caught. The smoke intermingled with my anger, she was kissing another girl, instead of me- no. I was mad because it is wrong for to two girls to kiss, no other reason. I can't help but admire Lexi because I am sick. I am dying and I can't help the way I feel... or am. Or maybe it doesn't matter because it will all be over soon. 9. You won't be able to properly focus on anything, or form a clear thought. You might even ramble on about girls kissing girls. 10. You might forget everything church has ever taught you, or your parents have ever preached and wonder what it would feel like to kiss a girl behind the school. Around the corner from where the ninth grade hides when they smoke, too scared of someone finding out. Would it taste like the strawberry lip balm you know she wears. Would the smoke intermingle with the closeness of your bodies. Would someone see. Would you care. This is how I know I am dying, because I am a good girl, and good girls don't kiss girls who kiss girls behind the school. Good girls listen during church and smile when a boy complements them, and good girls are happy with being good. I am sick. I am dying. I am not happy with being good. |
Leaving on a Jet Plane
Lucy Boyd
“I don’t think you have to go yet. Your flight doesn't take off for another five hours.”
“We still have to drive to the airport. Not to mention going through security.”
“It’s only a fifteen-minute drive to the airport.”
“What if we get a flat tire? Or I realize that I’ve forgotten something, and we have to turn back? Or there’s an accident along the way that holds us up in traffic? What if we’re in an accident ourselves? Besides, you know what airport security is like.”
“You’re flying to Vancouver, not out of the country! I agree that security is tight, but...what are you doing?”
“I’m checking my bags to see if I have everything. Let’s see...toiletries, passport, electric fan...”
“Why do you need an electric fan? For heaven’s sake, it’s the middle of winter!”
“Because the white noise helps me sleep, of course -- as does my special pillow that I’m also packing. Those hotel pillows can be too scratchy. iPod, ear plugs, ebook, hotel registration papers...”
“Hotel registration papers? You’re overthinking this. You do realize that you’re only staying for three days, right?”
“Yes. That’s almost half of a week outside of the comfort zones of my home and my routines.”
“You don’t need to worry so much, that’s all I’m saying. You worry about everything. It’s a little weird.”
“Well, it’s called being careful.”
“Like the time that you refused to swim in Mexico because you thought you’d get eaten by a shark?”
“I’ll have you know, there have been attacks! You should read the newspapers more often.”
“And the time you spent obsessively researching Ebola because you were convinced it was coming to Canada, and that you were going to get it?”
“Many people are worried about it. Besides -- you heard about the nurse in Texas. It’s coming a little closer everyday.”
“Just tell me that you’re not adding an Ebola bio-hazard suit to your suitcase.”
“I would have, but my Internet order for one hasn’t arrived in the mail yet. This face mask is going to have to do for now, even if its elastic makes my scalp itchy.”
“You’re not wearing that face mask.”
“Just on the flight. All of that recycled air -- there are too many germs to think about. Which reminds me, do you know where my bottle of Purell is? I almost forgot!”
“It was the first thing you packed, remember? Back a week ago when you started packing because you were afraid that you weren’t going to be ready for the trip on time.”
“Oh, that’s right. I’d like to leave now, actually. We’re going to be late.”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t be safer just walking to Vancouver?”
“Very funny. Let’s go.”
Lucy Boyd
“I don’t think you have to go yet. Your flight doesn't take off for another five hours.”
“We still have to drive to the airport. Not to mention going through security.”
“It’s only a fifteen-minute drive to the airport.”
“What if we get a flat tire? Or I realize that I’ve forgotten something, and we have to turn back? Or there’s an accident along the way that holds us up in traffic? What if we’re in an accident ourselves? Besides, you know what airport security is like.”
“You’re flying to Vancouver, not out of the country! I agree that security is tight, but...what are you doing?”
“I’m checking my bags to see if I have everything. Let’s see...toiletries, passport, electric fan...”
“Why do you need an electric fan? For heaven’s sake, it’s the middle of winter!”
“Because the white noise helps me sleep, of course -- as does my special pillow that I’m also packing. Those hotel pillows can be too scratchy. iPod, ear plugs, ebook, hotel registration papers...”
“Hotel registration papers? You’re overthinking this. You do realize that you’re only staying for three days, right?”
“Yes. That’s almost half of a week outside of the comfort zones of my home and my routines.”
“You don’t need to worry so much, that’s all I’m saying. You worry about everything. It’s a little weird.”
“Well, it’s called being careful.”
“Like the time that you refused to swim in Mexico because you thought you’d get eaten by a shark?”
“I’ll have you know, there have been attacks! You should read the newspapers more often.”
“And the time you spent obsessively researching Ebola because you were convinced it was coming to Canada, and that you were going to get it?”
“Many people are worried about it. Besides -- you heard about the nurse in Texas. It’s coming a little closer everyday.”
“Just tell me that you’re not adding an Ebola bio-hazard suit to your suitcase.”
“I would have, but my Internet order for one hasn’t arrived in the mail yet. This face mask is going to have to do for now, even if its elastic makes my scalp itchy.”
“You’re not wearing that face mask.”
“Just on the flight. All of that recycled air -- there are too many germs to think about. Which reminds me, do you know where my bottle of Purell is? I almost forgot!”
“It was the first thing you packed, remember? Back a week ago when you started packing because you were afraid that you weren’t going to be ready for the trip on time.”
“Oh, that’s right. I’d like to leave now, actually. We’re going to be late.”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t be safer just walking to Vancouver?”
“Very funny. Let’s go.”
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Cheap Stocks and Nothing Like You
Anna Kolbuszewska You can’t walk anymore. Machine gun hands and knees have you knotted under “fuck, it's snowing for the fourth time this week” and “shit, I thought we lived in South Carolina”. But you’re too crippled to know the difference. You can’t know how I mustered the courage to tell them that I didn’t want to be the one to tell you that she loves you not. But I did, and you couldn’t. I guess it’s fine though, really. The train is running just on schedule and I say that because I know all too well how time can be fickle. For you, anyway. But if you are still wondering, checking out yesterdays stocks, trashed tickets and wishing - cheap thrills cost more than a dime nowadays. The salt and pepper shaker is used judiciously and the girl next door, the cute one, travelled to the future and changed the way money works. As in… it doesn’t. So here we are. Well I am. You obviously aren’t. Too untouchable, too far gone to you are to raze your mother’s carefully cultivated etiquette. No more compulsive patterns of knives, forks, spoons, then napkins. No more setting the table for you, although you would have. So here I am. In the midst of the doesn’ts and couldn’ts. God. This town still hasn’t changed in the way you told me you expected it would, not for the last 50 years. And I’d laugh, but it’s just like the shitty movies you would watch Friday nights when I didn’t have an opinion that mattered. Anyway, they still don’t tell you it will be over soon, because for now they’re shit at lying, and fabricating false evidence never did anyone any good anyhow. But in the end, your absence has made me shit at lying too. If I was any good I’d tell you that our warehouse hasn’t been reduced to something fucking unbearable like hair painted into walls and chapped lips. That's it. I guess. 50 years, 7 months, 3 weeks, 2 days, 23 hours, 59 minutes, and 4 seconds have gone by in a blur. I’ve only gone obsessive, not insane, missing you. |
Florence
Tyrin Kelly Violet Christmas lights were strung around the branches of the surrounding sycamores for the much anticipated social. News of the party spread quickly, entering the conversations of young adults and the important for many weeks. The tension built and carried between those invited, others envious of their own inferior social status. On the night of the special occasion the town’s people pressed their bodies against the iron gates of the property, hoping to hear slurs of gossip or to inherit the happiness the attendees were feeling.They all saw him, too, those who waited in front of the gate of the property. A very boyish man, a disarray of glitter and sparkles draped over his upper body like a religious mosaic. It was only a glimpse, a peek through the walkway between the hedges. But I was there watching with the others in the garden first hand. His name was Florence. A friend of a friend, the plus one of somebody invited to the engagement. Throughout the night he drank gin and tonic. He drank one, and two, and three and four. His thin flute glass was always full to the brim. Sometime in the night he made an announcement as he shimmied and stammered atop a long dining table that stood outside for the event, kicking plates to the grass and spilling h’ordeuvres. “Attention!” he called, “Here, here!” His hair was black and long, like a witch. He removed his clothing one by one. First was his silk dressing shirt, beneath revealing a shimmering glittering top, like a disco ball. The guests were appalled, gasping and storming off. I had to act like I was too. But I was intrigued by Florence. He danced before me in a lovely seduction that I was not used to, like a wood nymph. He took off his pants and there he was, half naked, an electrifying disco ball. His hips curved and skin was smooth and pale, transparent almost. His nose bridge was thin and tall like himself, nostrils flared with drunkenness; his hair a cloud of misery that rained over us. Florence was a showman. “An entertainer by design”, I thought. He was my cherub; a discovered planet against the night. His face babied and rear supple, fingers long and creepy. The way he moved atop the table sent me shivers. He danced slowly, his arms becoming an instrument of the wind, his body a part of the moon’s sky. The announcement was never announced. It was all a lie. The others tried to get him down from the table, to salvage what little dignity the party had left, for he was too drunk and needed to be escorted home. But he wouldn’t leave. He simply kicked and spat at anybody who tried to defy his dancing, his slow and melodic symphony. His orchestra was his body and I understood this. Florence: the conductor. His mouth opened as if he had something to say, but no words could describe what he was feeling, what kind of warmth burned in his chest, rising passion through his limbs like a hot air balloon over Tanzania. His knees were shaking, and eyes were lost. And as the peak of the ocean wave reaches over to touch the sun, to assure its existence, it crashes into the Pacific, and loses everything it has gained. Without applause Florence hung his head in shame and his body ceased to flow like it did. Maybe he realized what he was doing and became embarrassed, but he stopped. And when he did nobody helped him down from the table. He simply pulled up his pants from his ankles and stepped down, and walked through the passageway between the hedges and out the main gate. And just like that it was over, and my life left empty without vigor, or love. 
Kathleen McCulloch-Cop
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Carl
Claire Hendrickson-Jones
Normal conversations are like tennis matches, with words and ideas bouncing back and forth between two people.
Occasionally someone hits a fault and the ball flies out of the field of play, but it can easily be retrieved and return to its graceful arcs through the air.
Conversations with Carl are more like games of chess. You make your statement, or ask your question, and he twists his mouth to one side, calculating. Then, wham. A bold, intelligent comeback--checkmate.
This can be frustrating if, say, you’re trying to make plans for dinner while Carl is theorizing on the contributing factors to the Irish Rebellion of 1798, but lucky for Carl (and perhaps less so for you), it’s impossible to be mad at him. He’s delightfully impractical, always bringing home flowers or expensive chocolate, even though he’s just a janitor and really can’t afford it. And he loves you, which you’ve come to realize is not something to take lightly.
Claire Hendrickson-Jones
Normal conversations are like tennis matches, with words and ideas bouncing back and forth between two people.
Occasionally someone hits a fault and the ball flies out of the field of play, but it can easily be retrieved and return to its graceful arcs through the air.
Conversations with Carl are more like games of chess. You make your statement, or ask your question, and he twists his mouth to one side, calculating. Then, wham. A bold, intelligent comeback--checkmate.
This can be frustrating if, say, you’re trying to make plans for dinner while Carl is theorizing on the contributing factors to the Irish Rebellion of 1798, but lucky for Carl (and perhaps less so for you), it’s impossible to be mad at him. He’s delightfully impractical, always bringing home flowers or expensive chocolate, even though he’s just a janitor and really can’t afford it. And he loves you, which you’ve come to realize is not something to take lightly.
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Home Felt Hollow
Emilie Tunn She fed sunflower seeds to the seagulls and danced around in red rain boots. “Look at the doves, Mummy!” she giggled, soaking the bottom of her pants. She took the hand of my mother and walked with her in the church. This morning she cried when we told her it was too cold to go to the funeral in just a dress. She hugged my legs and asked me again and again until I almost said yes. It was my mother, Sylvia, who stepped in with her foot down and told Vlora to put on her pants. I felt a surge of anger when Vlora listened to her and not me, as I always did. I gave up the title of Vlora's mother the day she was born but I still felt myself wanting to nurture her in the way an aunt could not. To her I was Auntie Jenna and that was all. When we stepped in the church, Vlora held the top of my mother's head to keep balance as she swapped her rain boots for black shoes that made her look tinier than she already was. The three of us sat at the back of the church. From the corner of my eye, I could see Vlora shifting uncomfortably in her seat. I reached over and squeezed her hand. When the casket was brought in, I saw the woman in front of us take a second glance at Vlora's flattened features and crossed eyes. Those were the kinds of looks I was scared of when I found out Vlora was not a regular child; I didn't understand then what I understand now. I could never be embarrassed of her. As the funeral proceeded I wondered if we would ever tell Vlora the truth. I wondered if Vlora would ever know Sylvia was really her grandmother or that I was her mother. I wondered if she would ever connect the dots and realize the funeral she attended that day was the funeral of her father, not her distant cousin. She would probably never know these things and maybe it was better that way. Her mind was so fragile I didn't want to destroy the only truths she knew. The funeral ended and it came time for us to part. I helped Vlora into her car seat and gave my mother the look. Neither of us knew exactly what the look meant but somehow the message was always sent. Finally, I kissed Vlora on the forehead, feeling a pang of guilt for giving her away all those years before. On the drive home, I remembered what the doctor told me about having children. Vlora was a gift I didn't appreciate enough. I wiped a tear off my cheek, driving right through the red. Home felt a lot more hallow that night. 
Rusting Frames
Isabelle Flack They fly to the remains of a dock Now just a tangled mass of decaying wood. Their black feathers condemn them to this fate. A mile away, white beaches kiss the San Francisco sea, Where birds grace the skies with their photogenic presence Letting cameras capture them soaring beside the melting sun. Not here. The crows wait on the deteriorating dock, Simply watching with cruel, wise eyes; after all, Few think rusting chain-link fences make the prettiest frame. |
Are You my Angel?
Leah Campbell When he cut me, I remember Looking down, my blood surprising as paper Snakes leaping from a tin And we forgot to die In a wonderland we lie Knocking on the moonlit door Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space But our love was stronger than the love Of the canal after a hurricane Even lightening can be beautiful In a scary kind of way Are you my angel? Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The trees add shade to Shade lights out in the houses, we’ll both be lonely Till after midnight glimmer upon us the lights of a dim lighted building Through the windows of houses I saw lives light up Nothing else can be learned from this incident I remember We’d always smell of lake water and sex And I would be singing to myself “I am so lonely, lonely” By the end of the day An deciphered solemn signal for either help or hurt It would be a new game Because we are Words and our meanings change A little closer yet We are love And we are lonely Scars
Sarah Ersil What makes me different? Is it the way I think? I piece together things no one else realizes. I can figure out puzzles in the blink of an eye. I can think up whole universes in my brain. I can solve math problems easily. I can do so many things other people can’t. But what makes me different? What do other people see? They see the scars on my face. They think that’s what makes me different. But they’re wrong. They’re all wrong. |
The idiot-syncraSies that brought you idiosyncraSies
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We'd like to thank everyone who submitted and thanks to Mr. Blauer for letting us talk in lit.
Archana, Kimiya, Mareim, Kassandra, and Kathleen
Brrr...
Archana, Kimiya, Mareim, Kassandra, and Kathleen
Brrr...