I don’t want
—I think—
To be in that higher register,
Air-infused and lilting soft.
Earthy
—I’d rather—
Of the ground,
Milled from grit and grumble.
Not a helium-high girl
But something a bit more
Grown-up.
Rasp and rattle of words meant
—And heard.
Sarah Boyd is a freelance editor and writer who occasionally commits acts of poetry. She probably can’t be found @seviebee on Twitter, but it’s worth a shot.
These colors blend.
I slowly watch, the weather bear the pain on the canvas.
Trying to show themselves to be so unique and superior, seeing the tempers fight, merge, and decline.
Isn’t quite funny and sad, we fight to see that we are worth it. The world just isn’t the same.
Hello, my name is Zion. I currently attend Savannah State University as a Senior English Major minoring in Africana Studies.
The orders come one by one.
“Keep your head down, ignore your surroundings. Your focus, your attention, belongs to me, and only me.”
I look up for only a fraction of a second, praying that this is my hell and my hell alone, that I am the only one being tortured and tormented so. My eyes widen in horror as I look around me and fnd the same thing. People, tall and short, young and old, gripped by this young overlord. Their heads down, their morale in shambles.
Another order.
“Look at this. Look at me. Look at what I can ofer. Look at what I can bring to you, bring to the world. Look at me. Love me, adore me. Love me and me alone.”
We all obey in shame, in dissatisfaction, for this was our own fault, this was our own doing. We were the ones who gave this being its power. We were the people who gave this demon its crown. We willingly ofered up our lives, somehow expecting the result to be diferent.
The tyrant tightens the chains as it screams at me.
“You are not alone, everyone is with you. Your co-workers, your families, your friends today, your friends yesterday, your friends tomorrow. Everyone is here, see? Look at the smiles on their faces, they’re so happy, they love it, they love me. You could be the same; don’t you want that?”
“Don’t you want to be happy too?”
I do. I really do. I know it’s false. I know the chains that hold me, the bait that lures me in is false.
Yet I am lured in regardless. I could pretend that it isn’t. Pretend that this king does not control me.
I am deluding myself.
Look at me. I’m not better, I’m apart of the problem; my life is in the palms of the overseer already, it has always been. Since the day I frst discovered it.
There never was a way out. This is how it is now.
“This is how it is now.”
I can do nothing but join them.
“You can do nothing but join us.”
I am
You are
Hello! My name is Riley, I’m a 20-year-old college student and an aspiring Storyteller! Here’s my writing website! https://rileywrites81299780.wordpress.com/ Twitter: @HappyfacePro Enjoy!
Sup guys. My name is Sophie. I am your typical 9 year old girl in third grade. My two besties are Sarah and Catherine. I have an annoying brother named William. One day Sarah tells me that she doesn’t have a pencil bag and wants to steal one because she is afraid that the teacher will get mad at her. Our teacher is really mean. We call him Mr. Humpty Dumpty because he is so fat. I once got in trouble for not having a pencil. Alright back to the story. What I think is that Sarah has a good reason to fear she will get in trouble, but that doesn’t mean that she should go steal it from someone else.
I ask, “Why don’t you ask your parents?”
She said, “They will probably get mad that I lost my stuff.”
“Ok, but I would not be as bad as being caught stealing.”
“I don’t care, I still will do it. Also no one would know.”
“Fine, but who are you stealing from?”
“Probably Maddie.”
“Oh no.”
The reason I said “Oh no” is because Maddie is the literal definition of a teacher’s pet. If she stole from Maddie, she would 100% snitch, no doubt about it. The second reason is Maddie kinda hates me, so she would probably blame me. The reason she hates me is because I beat her grades on the final exam and now she is always salty. Nevertheless, I was still going to try to convince her, but I don’t really think it will work.
“So what is your plan?” I ask.
She responded, “Maddie is always helping out Mr. Humpty Dumpty. When Mr. Humpty Dumpty passes out homework, she always volunteers. When she helps him, I also ask to pass out homework. Then while I am by her desk I will grab her pencil bag. It is the end of the day, so she will leave and hopefully not notice.”
Not gonna lie the plan sounded pretty good. The only problem is that she will need her pencil bag and she is the most organized human being on the planet. There is a good chance that she will figure out her pencil bag is missing and snitch on me.
“The only problem is how will she not realize that her pencil bag is missing?” I ask.
“Don’t worry she will probably think that she lost it and ask her parents,” Sarah responded.
The next day, which is Friday, before school I asked Catherine what she thought.
She said, “Well Maddie is really organized and has never forgotten anything, but if you unzip her backpack it would make it look like she just dropped it. Then I think it can be successful. If she does it on Friday, I think it will be even better because if you leave something at school over the weekend no one knows what happens to it.”
Sarah made it through the whole day without Mr. Humpty Dumpty noticing because I gave her some supplies. It was the end of day and he was passing out homework.
Mr. Humpty Dumpty asked, “Who wants to help me pass out homework?”
Maddie said, “Me Me Me.”
“Ok Ok Maddie you can. Now who else?” replied Mr. Humpty Dumpty.
Sarah said, “ I’ll do it.”
Mr. Humpty Dumpty gave her a suspicious look but didn’t think too much about it.
“Ok alright Sarah here you go,” said Mr. Humpty Dumpty.
At first everything was fine. They passed out the homework and when Sarah got to Maddie’s desk she grabbed the pencil bag no problem. She put it in her backpack like it was hers and we left. It was Saturday and we were talking about the success of the heist, but I knew it was only successful if Maddie didn’t snitch.
It was Monday the moment of truth. I honestly thought we hadn’t pulled through, but when I got to class everything seemed fine. Maddie had some supplies. All hope was lost when at the end of the day Mr. Humpty Dumpty called me to his desk.
He said, “Alright I have a report that Maddie’s pencil bag was stolen.”
I decided to play it dumb and responded, “Really? I saw that she has supplies.”
When he replied “That is because I gave her some. Now tell me where the pencil bag is,” I knew that he knew.
“I never took the pencil bag. I don’t know where it is.”
“Don’t play dumb I know you have it.”
“I don’t have it, sir”
“If you won’t admit it I will just tell your parents.”
After this he let me go. The first thing I did was tell Sarah. Mr. Humpty Dumpty knows that you stole Maddie’s pencil bag and now he thinks I did it. He has even threatened to call my parents. You have to tell him or I will get in trouble.
“I can’t or I will get in trouble,” complained Sarah.
“You stole it not me, so it is not my fault,” I countered.
“We have to return the pencil bag without knowing it was us.”
“And how will you do that?”
“Trust me”
It is the next day and Mr. Humpty Dumpty gave me a deadline of Thursday to return it. It is Wednesday and Sarah’s plan is to put the pencil bag in some corner of the room and have someone else pretend to find it. We have successfully put down the pencil bag. By the end of the day no one has picked it up for some reason, so we have to make more people come over here. That should be easy.
“Ahhh! A fly just tried to bite me,” I yelled.
“Where?” yelled Mr. Humpty Dumpty.
“It flew to the corner by the bookshelves”
Of course this is where the pencil bag is.
“I don’t see it,” said Mr. Humpty Dumpty.
That causes the whole class to be right by where the bookshelves are. This time someone has to find the pencil bag. I was right.
“Maddie, I think I found your pencil bag” said JJ.
“Really let me see. It is. Thank you! Thank you!” yelled Maddie.
After this Mr. Humpty Dumpty apologized for blaming me. After that the school year was great.
Bryan Zhan is a 6th grader from Houston with a love for baseball.
The brink of a new season.
The beginning of the end.
How unfamiliar for this time to draw near,
And not bring with it a sense of foreboding or fear.
It is not that this Winter itself will be any different than the last.
Black clouds will bring white snow,
And my city will be muted by the cold.
For one cannot change nature, except for the nature of what is understood.
But that is enough to bring a different end than seasons in years past.
Because winter is no simple storm to weather,
Nor a swirling sea to survive.
It’s a maze to navigate.
A tunnel without end in sight.
So in those dark hours, you need to be your own light.
Hi I’m Andrew, I like crows, coffee, and my cats. Insta is @anesacpeartistsson
Flames, like individuals, flickered, crowned
the hills. A new civilization, I took their census
and my eyes wished, as the stampede
roiled in wait, to unfold–to see the birthplace
of ash, its unifying intimate process.
The crackling clung still, only to the comfort
of the hills. If, instead, the cascade’s cavalry
trampled our homes, would the flames leave
me, a seed, unburdened?
Nuptials nourished in the wake.
Georg Sperle is a poet from the PNW. He, his fiancée, and two cats live in Portland where he received his MFA in Creative Writing from Portland State University. @georgsperle on Twitter
Mahika Mukherjee is a student at Krea University, India. She is known for her self-published collection of poetry titled ‘A God’s Tears’. Her writing can be found on her blog: mahikamukherjee.com
Are the tools of ritual not themselves holy?
Blessed are those that continue the work, holy as the hands that wrought it.
Those hands, that divinity, this legacy.
The shadowed eye, the bowed line of the mouth,
daily anointed in pigment and oil.
Are the tools of ritual not themselves holy?
Giveth and taketh away, the dough is kneaded and must rest.
Every night a new bounty, a new blessing.
Those hands, that bread, this meal.
Cloth for every raiment, cut to every form,
needles and pins made bloody with the love that can be touched.
Are the tools of ritual not themselves holy?
Affectations adopted by the faithful, to become more like the divine,
the elixir every morning, the ointments every night, the work done in the daylight.
Those hands, that work, this tradition.
The tomb lies shrouded in mystery, unattended by her followers
yet many relics are left behind, to impart their sacred guidance.
Are the tools of ritual not themselves holy?
But no other hands, no abandoned trinket, no concocted platitude could ever replace –
I fear I am a bad Saint
Fenn MacDonald is an award-winning poet, author, and editor currently haunting the Pacific Northwest. Find them on Twitter @FennFatale
I walked out my door
and saw roses
shoved by a strong gust
the gray clouds rumbled overhead
thunder fell from the sky
and down came rain
the last of our sun dissolved
I felt cold water strike my cheeks
I extended my tongue to capture
every drop
Brandon Shane (he/him) is a substitute teacher, who lives in Temecula, California. He is an alumni of California State University Long-Beach, where he majored in English. On twitter @Ruishanewrites
We stood there, gathered round the summoning circle. We lit the candles, laid out our offerings. Soon, he’d be here. Fenrir. Devourer of the world. Cleanser of rot and folly.
We said the words slowly, having waited for this night long prophesied. The chant grew, our voices rising and falling in orgiastic crescendo.
Thunder cracked. Smoke billowed from the circle. We stood in reverent awe.
Suddenly, there came a sound of rending. A tearing, wet and rotten. We found ourselves covered in crimson. Our clothes, our hair, the floor. But this was wrong. We wanted blood. We got rose petals.
“Oops,” said a soft voice from smoke. There he floated, blushing.
“I’m sorry,” said Cupid. “I get gassy when I’m nervous.”
Coffee snob, whisky lover, smart ass. He writes primarily about hope, mental health, and the value of a single human life. Also a sucker for fart jokes. Twitter/Instagram: @joefuel
Mamaw said put out fleeces
Let the dew tell you what to do
That ain’t really craftin’
It’s what the Bible says
Judy read all of my tea leaves
Told me what would hook me
My thumb already knew
Bells and hats that bring trouble
But good news will come around
Making some protection
In a Dr. Pepper glass
Found in the woods
From that same protection long passed
Get em all around, she said
Made a beard turn gray
With every one I buried
In her good Christian way
Born and Raised Appalachian behavioral health professional/wannabe writer Insta: no.tortious.m.e.g
An ode to eyelashes
To the fluttering harpstring gates
that protect the windows to my soul,
I offer my deepest condolences.
For you have felt the loss of every
Tear, far more than I, the lone
rain cloud in heaven.
I’ve asked a violin to wait outside
In the grassy fields of morning
and catch dew upon her strings.
But I forgot how she could
have made music
Instead.
Briana Craig (she/her) moonlights as a writer of stories, poetry, and plays. She recently published poetry in FOLIO, Decomp, Bourgeon Magazine, and more. IG: @bri.and.her.books Twitter: @brianacraig1
Unstamatic 