The Mischievous Gold Sandals
By Michelle Gorner
They touch the streets of every city
their owner travels to.
They collect a single piece of every journey,
and hold on to it; a memory.
The sandals allow their owner to remember
the past but change little details.
Not letting the owner remember everything.
For the sandals want memories of their own.
The large flower in the center is the brain,
the mind of the sandals.
Keeping the memories so the shoes can learn,
to become their own being.
So one day,
the sandals can walk on their own.
Someday, We’ll Fly Away
Harper Poole
Someday, We’ll Fly Away
And we will live with the distant scribble of stars.
And we won’t need telescopes because the glorious galaxies are now our radiant sky.
Because Someday, We’ll Fly Away.
Lonely nights and midnight frights and all sorts of scares are no longer.
Swimming in starlight seas and sipping meteor teas
are now activities I ponder.
Because Someday, We’ll Fly Away.
Swaying trees and bumblebees are now distant memories
And as I sit and wait each day
Why Now Can’t We Fly Away?
Unanswered questions and poignant predicaments are supposed to
disappear in this galactic sea,
But know I know it’s not where you are,
It’s Who You Want To Be.
Happiness is a blessing, but addiction to it is a curse
In order to experience true joy,
You Must Have Sadness First!
Although I know this, true to be,
I’d still love to float freely
In a Place of Peaceful Serenity
Some say it’s not the destination,
It’s the journey
But the Journey Never Ends
We’re always experiencing
new and confusing universes
Wherever We’re Sent
I know that it won’t
happen today
But Someday,
We Will Fly Away
The Bard
~ Brenna Connell ~
I ride under the guise of a simple traveler,
Wandering far and wide in search of the distant unknown;
I keep myself hidden with every strange encounter
But by the fire, by my dear companions, away the cloak is thrown.
I paint word-pictures in the air, hold one-sided conversations,
Speak my truth and pierce the air with unapologetic honesty;
I see potential in the sparks of fire, the star-speckled sky
For grand epics and long-woven yarns, the making of a story.
relinquish
relinquish
all those bad memories
the ones you dwell upon everyday
cannot come with you
there’s nothing you can do about them now
leave them behind in a burlap sack
tie it up
and toss it into the river
with wild dogs inside
pray the water chills them to the bone
all those you hold dear
hold tighter
they are your raft,
your fire,
and the sum of all your love
love harder
don’t lose your head
don’t lose your breath
but lose your fear
you are not obligated to care
about what others think of you
-s.b.
The Box of Roses
Nia Jolivet
The box was in a pile of junk at the bottom of the stairs. My grandmother was ready to donate bags and crates of unnecessary items to the “Salvation Army”. The roses caught my eyes at first sight. There has always been something so attractive about them to me. Maybe it’s their elegance, appearing in places you’d never expect but looking beautiful, nonetheless. Maybe it’s the way their petals fall onto the ground so gracefully, as if that was their destination in the first place. Or, maybe it’s because the focus of the rose is at the top. Beautiful vibrant colors in an incomparable swirl but as you move farther down, you find thorns and rough leaves on a dark green stem. You find imperfections on a petal that remind you of bird tracks running aimlessly through freshly fallen snow or a bleeding marker on blank white paper. The beauty of the sweet quintessential smell of a rose with the pain of pricking your finger on a thorn brings you comfort and discomfort at the exact same time. Maybe that’s the way life should be, comfortable to an extent but discomfort should always be present too. Life always throws you periods of discomfort to test you more than you could imagine but in the end, those formidable seasons of your life make you stronger, just like a rose.
fire & ice
Lucy
In the midst of the heat of a supernova is an odd place for a planet of ice to be formed. And yet, a near-perfect sphere of that exact material found itself a white dwarf to orbit: water underneath ice, sloshing around stardust to form what would, in time, make life.
The first people called themselves the Jido. People of the ice.
Their language was flowing, graceful, as it swam through the air and built as civilization. Dao, dao was heard. Night. Their planet’s sun was out of sight. Shina, shina was heard. Sky fire. Right where the ice ended and the water began, right at that line where the two met, where life met the sky, where fire met the sky.
If you could understand what the people were saying, you might hear about how once in a while, at the very peak of the cold, two figures appeared on what was called the Dona, ice and fire, where land met water.
Do, goddess of the ice, who crafted this beautiful planet, this beautiful home with her bare hands. Her body, her movements were flowing, graceful as she walked across the ice, dress blowing behind her.
But even such beauty couldn’t keep her out of the loneliness, couldn’t keep the tranquility from turning into stifling silence. She alone could see her sun, and so called upon it to bring her life.
So Na, goddess of the fire, touched down on the planet only to have it melt beneath her feet. She stayed away from the half still frozen and sent Do fire from afar, giving her and her people light and happiness.
You might hear how life expanded under Do and her kind guidance, but she still felt the solitude, still lacked the companionship she’d craved. And you might hear about how Na felt just as lonely.
Then, you might hear how over thousands of years Do and Na came to each other for that company, and over thousands of years Do and Na fell in love even on opposite sides of their world. And once in a while, at the very peak of the cold, Na is able to venture to the very edge of her sea and Do her land without risking Na’s heat, her light damaging Do and the ice; without either being hurt by the other.
They were able to touch, finally, after an eternity each time, and the contact sends something wonderful into the sky, so beautiful the Jido called it Shina.
Sky fire.
Just 1 cent
Grace Martin
Ice
Freezing
Snow
The only words that swirl around my head
When asked what color my eyes are
Sharp
Deep
A pool
Like 4th of July with my Brothers
Dive deep into the abyss
And rise
Releasing a gasping breath
And swim
Molded
Like clay
Into semicircle objects
Amazing the fact that eyes hold our future
What insignificant things they are
Not bigger that a penny
A penny
1 cent
Compared to my tears and memories and happiness
What could it buy you?
Standing at the mall
Begging the person who mirrors my eyes
“Mom” I scream at the top of my lungs
“I wanna make a wish”
A penny
Compared to my sight
My vision
The capsule of my memories
Okay
Portfolio in hand, waiting to hand it in
She had a smile on her face, long gone by now
She’s angry but also anxious
What if they forgot about me
How could they forget
As her thoughts ponder, she begins to feel weary
Sleepy almost
Something is keeping her up though
Ring
She looks to the phone on the front desk
Curiosity being her weakness, she answers
“Hello Mrs…”
“Ms, actually”
Choking back the memories, she keeps listening
“Right, sorry for your loss”
“It’s okay, thank you”
Memories begin to flash and she tries to stop the tears
“We wanted to inform you that you’ve received the job.
However, we moved your first meeting until tomorrow”
“Oh okay, thank you so much”
Despite the exciting news, she couldn’t help the already fallen tears
Her husband wasn’t a memory that could easily be stored away
Even a mention of what use to be caused floods of not only
memories but heartbreak
“We’ll see you tomorrow”
She hung up the phone quickly
She cried for what seemed like hours but was only a few
minutes
As she settled down, she rubbed her kicking stomach
and began to think about her new life ahead
Things were going to be okay.
Collective Biography
This week, we grew as writers by making new connections and immersing ourselves in a creative environment. We spent our time with intellectual discussions and diverse writing opportunities. Encouraged by helpful teachers, we expanded our knowledge of various methods and facets of writing, which improved our technique. With the help of writing exercises and prompts, we learned new skills and pushed ourselves outside of our comfort zones. Our workshops were amazing. We give thanks to Screenwriting taught by Dina Fiasconaro, Poetic Prose instructed by Nate Brown, Fantasy writing lead by Elise Gallagher, Investigation and fieldwork Illuminated by Anthony Moll, Exploration of Identity directed by Christina Rockey, last but not least Responsive poetry enlightened by Austrie Martinez Duarte. These workshops taught us new ways to improve our writing comprehension and collaboration skills by teaching us different ways to write our pieces such as changing the genre you usually write about. We also used the “art-to-art” concept by visiting the Visionary Arts Museum, and had fun exploring the museum together, gathering inspiration, and learning from other artists. A visit from slam poet Lady Brion on Monday and a lesson on public speaking with Austrie Duarte on Friday provided bookends for a week of exciting activities. Through our teachers, the environment, and our classes, these experiences will help us grow as writers and people in the future.