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Overture of the Callous March

Inspired by “Second Sun” from City of the Sun, and Night by Elie Wiesel

 By Julia McCormack

 

Running, marching like Elie said

42 miles of ice and snow

42 miles of trampling over those I used to know

Endure or die, that is the command

No stop. No rest. No reward.

Only blows

And the labyrinth of reality

Pandora must have let Hope go 

because 

I can’t find her anywhere

Not in the air that reeks of death 

Nor in the sleep I lack

What happened to my rhythm?

Why do they carve the tempo of my life?

I am full of staccato notes 

that cannot give rise to a rest

Gone are the words that gave life to this shattered melody

Gone are the facades of a better being

All that remains is the calculated beat 

of broken men shambling away

 from their fate

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Riot

Katherine Butler

Is love bigger?
Because now when the
men in charge
lock up my right
to love and live,
when companies only
acknowledge me to
make a profit off of my identity
just to forget I exist
as soon as the month ends,
when I get criticized
and called broken
for not giving men what they
want,
when I get told to
“pick a side”
because it’s greedy to have both,
I think that love may be bigger,
but hate is louder.
And when those men in charge
decide to scream their hatred
at us, then I think it’s time
to remind them that
the first Pride was a riot.

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we’ll carry on

Lucy

Along the way, the candle in your lantern may blow out. Make sure you bring matches to relight it if you have to;

Along the way, you may run into something. If it is a bear, ignore it and hope it ignores you. If it is a spirit, offer up anything you have for good passing through their forest. You can hunt more. If it is a weary traveler, only give food you have to spare;

Along the way, you may lose your map. Follow the stars. They are here to guide you;

Along the way, your hopes may dampen. Never mind that, for you must be stronger than doubt;

Along the way, your extra clothes may become burdensome. Always keep them, though. The nights can get cold;

Along the way, follow the songbirds. Sing back to them; enjoy their kinship while you can;

Along the way, you may run out of kindling. Bark or dead leaves will do;

Along the way, you will miss home. But the adventure is your home, the sky your ceiling, and as long as you keep pushing through, homesickness will be at bay;

Along the way, you will be inclined to give up,

Don’t;

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thoughts from a cherry wood shelf

By Maddie Jaffe

to be an overthinker,

you must first understand what it means.

is there such a thing as an underthinker?

whose skull is a dusty, hollow, echoing shell?

or a just-right thinker,

with thoughts piled neatly on cherry wood shelves?

maybe not

or maybe so

but the point is

what makes the overthinker? what encourages one to flirt with insanity?

is it the never-ending nights watching your ceiling as

1…2…3…

hours pass, your beauty sleep a runaway paper on a windy day, always, always

blown just out of reach

or is it the fact that decisions as simple as what flavor of ice cream you want

are traumatic

painful

and leave you aching, wondering, still, an hour later, if strawberry was the right choice?

maybe it’s the eraser marks

tainting your page with an irreplaceable, indestructible gray from half-finished,

scrapped ideas and answers

that are now long gone.

so what, out of these, truly makes an overthinker?

what does it mean, and how do you become one

or make it go away?

well, friends.

I suppose we’ve overthought it.