Contents
Waiting for a Ride in the Rain
Kira Garlick
What Is...
Marika Julia
Something Behind the Stars
Cloud
Titanic Love
Kira Garlick
Dear Doctors
Donnie (Tobie) Denome
Rorschach
Jasmine Liu
It's All in Your Head
Desmond Kamas
Untitled
Anonymous
Kaleidoscope World
Kylie Sherman
Girl With Towel
Kira Garlick
Parallel
Clem Chou
The Last Man
Maggie Wu
See the Sunlight
Rebecca Haymore
Kira Garlick
What Is...
Marika Julia
Something Behind the Stars
Cloud
Titanic Love
Kira Garlick
Dear Doctors
Donnie (Tobie) Denome
Rorschach
Jasmine Liu
It's All in Your Head
Desmond Kamas
Untitled
Anonymous
Kaleidoscope World
Kylie Sherman
Girl With Towel
Kira Garlick
Parallel
Clem Chou
The Last Man
Maggie Wu
See the Sunlight
Rebecca Haymore
Waiting for a Ride in the Rain
by Kira Garlick
by Kira Garlick
What Is...
by Marika Julia
I wake up, not to the sound of an alarm clock, but to the sound of my parents yelling. My dad came by to pick me up for school just a little bit too early for my mom. They must’ve started fighting about that and now they’re back at who cheated first. They do this everyday and only stop when I come in the room. It’s like they think, I can’t hear them unless I’m 5 feet away from them. I wonder what would happen if I just stayed here. I stay in my room by the door listening to my parent’s argument.
“You want to know why I cheated?” asks my mom, “Because you disgust me!”
“Yeah, I know how you feel. I CAN’T STAND THE SIGHT OF YOU!” my dad yells.
“Good, well you won’t have to see me anymore, unless it’s in court! I’m filing for a divorce!”
“Good!” my dad exclaims, “Where’s Joyce? She’s going to be late.”
That’s my cue. I come down the stairs in whatever clothes I can find and my mom angrily tosses me an apple. I guess that’s my breakfast. On the way to school, I think about my parents and their constant fighting. I’m glad they’re finally getting a divorce, but it puts me off getting married in the future. I wonder why people get married in the first place. What is marriage supposed to be anyway? It seems to me that it’s a load of empty promises made in the moment, that can be broken as long as you have the money for a lawyer that gets you out of it.
Before I know it, I’m at school, so I get out of the car and go to class. My first class is history and we get lectured on the Civil Rights movement. My teacher asks us to compare life then for coloured people with life now. I think about it and conclude that sure people of colour have the same rights as white people now, but we’re still facing the same issue. People still get judged by the colour of their skin or the country that they’re from.
At the beginning of the school year, my teacher asked us why history is important. She said it was important so we don’t make the same mistakes. What is the point of having history, if we keep on making the same mistakes? As far as I’m concerned, history should just be called Present because everything that was an issue back then, is an issue now.
The bell rings and I pack up my things and head to the dreaded Lit. class. I say “dreaded” not because I hate Lit. (because I don’t), but because we’re having a discussion. I don’t participate much, so I always feel bad at the end of the class. I feel like I’ve disappointed my teacher somehow and it’s not even my fault.
Once the bell rings, my teacher asks a question about the book we’ve been reading to start the discussion. As usual, the same hands go up and they talk for the majority of the period. Every time a question gets asked, I start to think of an answer, but before I have the chance to gather my thoughts, someone has already answered the question. It’s always like that. Sometimes I wonder why we get marked on participation. It never feels fair. What is participation even defined as? I think I read once that it’s taking part in something. At this school, I seems like it’s just an extra credit opportunity for fast thinkers.
Finally, the bell rings and it’s lunch. I meet my friends in the quad and they talk while I listen.
Some of my friends go to the washroom, leaving me with one of my newer friends, Olivia. Since, I’m not too familiar with her, I don’t really have much to say. It gets awkward pretty quick.
Then, Olivia asks, “Why are you always so quiet?”
I look at her, then look away as I try to formulate an answer. She doesn’t give enough time.
“You should really try being less antisocial. It’s kind of rude.” she says.
Just in time (for her sake), my friends come back and she talks with them. While they gossip about who’s dating who, I think about what Olivia said. People always think that introverts are shy and antisocial, but that’s not always the case. We just need time to ourselves to breathe and recharge and we like to think before we speak! Why can’t people comprehend that? They think we need fixing. If I were to ask them, “What is an introvert?”, I bet they’d say it’s a broken extravert.
The bell rings pulling me out of my thoughts and I reluctantly head to drama. I would much rather stay here and think some more. In drama, my teacher posts the roles for our upcoming production of Romeo and Juliet in the 21st century. I look at the list and figure out I’m playing Lady Montague. My friend in the class, Noah, is playing Mercutio. He gets to do an epic staged gun fight with choreography and everything! We start rehearsing, beginning with our Romeo and Juliet.
Noah comes to me and whispers, “Matt is so lucky, he gets to kiss Kyla! Multiple times!”
I shake my head. Noah is absolutely obsessed with that girl.
“Why are you so obsessed with Kyla?” I ask.
“Are we jealous?” he asks wiggling his eyebrows.
I roll my eyes and say, “No, I’m just curious.”
“Isn’t it obvious? She’s the hottest girl in school!” he explains.
After a moment of silence, I ask, “How do you know she’s pretty if you’ve never seen her real face?”
Noah rolls his eyes this time and doesn’t answer my question. Instead, I think about it. I find out that even though people say that beauty in what’s on the inside, beauty is most widely assessed by a person’s ability to put on make up. What is beauty, then? I guess it’s not even skin deep, just a layer on top.
Once drama is over, I go home and do my homework and think some more. I rethink everything I’ve been thinking about today. What is marriage? What is history? What is participation? What is an introvert? What is beauty? Then, I come to the ultimate question, what is life? I don’t think “life” has a definite meaning. I think it depends on what a person perceives it to be. That way, it’s different for everyone, because everyone lives a different life. And with that, I turn off my brain for the day and turn on the TV.
by Marika Julia
I wake up, not to the sound of an alarm clock, but to the sound of my parents yelling. My dad came by to pick me up for school just a little bit too early for my mom. They must’ve started fighting about that and now they’re back at who cheated first. They do this everyday and only stop when I come in the room. It’s like they think, I can’t hear them unless I’m 5 feet away from them. I wonder what would happen if I just stayed here. I stay in my room by the door listening to my parent’s argument.
“You want to know why I cheated?” asks my mom, “Because you disgust me!”
“Yeah, I know how you feel. I CAN’T STAND THE SIGHT OF YOU!” my dad yells.
“Good, well you won’t have to see me anymore, unless it’s in court! I’m filing for a divorce!”
“Good!” my dad exclaims, “Where’s Joyce? She’s going to be late.”
That’s my cue. I come down the stairs in whatever clothes I can find and my mom angrily tosses me an apple. I guess that’s my breakfast. On the way to school, I think about my parents and their constant fighting. I’m glad they’re finally getting a divorce, but it puts me off getting married in the future. I wonder why people get married in the first place. What is marriage supposed to be anyway? It seems to me that it’s a load of empty promises made in the moment, that can be broken as long as you have the money for a lawyer that gets you out of it.
Before I know it, I’m at school, so I get out of the car and go to class. My first class is history and we get lectured on the Civil Rights movement. My teacher asks us to compare life then for coloured people with life now. I think about it and conclude that sure people of colour have the same rights as white people now, but we’re still facing the same issue. People still get judged by the colour of their skin or the country that they’re from.
At the beginning of the school year, my teacher asked us why history is important. She said it was important so we don’t make the same mistakes. What is the point of having history, if we keep on making the same mistakes? As far as I’m concerned, history should just be called Present because everything that was an issue back then, is an issue now.
The bell rings and I pack up my things and head to the dreaded Lit. class. I say “dreaded” not because I hate Lit. (because I don’t), but because we’re having a discussion. I don’t participate much, so I always feel bad at the end of the class. I feel like I’ve disappointed my teacher somehow and it’s not even my fault.
Once the bell rings, my teacher asks a question about the book we’ve been reading to start the discussion. As usual, the same hands go up and they talk for the majority of the period. Every time a question gets asked, I start to think of an answer, but before I have the chance to gather my thoughts, someone has already answered the question. It’s always like that. Sometimes I wonder why we get marked on participation. It never feels fair. What is participation even defined as? I think I read once that it’s taking part in something. At this school, I seems like it’s just an extra credit opportunity for fast thinkers.
Finally, the bell rings and it’s lunch. I meet my friends in the quad and they talk while I listen.
Some of my friends go to the washroom, leaving me with one of my newer friends, Olivia. Since, I’m not too familiar with her, I don’t really have much to say. It gets awkward pretty quick.
Then, Olivia asks, “Why are you always so quiet?”
I look at her, then look away as I try to formulate an answer. She doesn’t give enough time.
“You should really try being less antisocial. It’s kind of rude.” she says.
Just in time (for her sake), my friends come back and she talks with them. While they gossip about who’s dating who, I think about what Olivia said. People always think that introverts are shy and antisocial, but that’s not always the case. We just need time to ourselves to breathe and recharge and we like to think before we speak! Why can’t people comprehend that? They think we need fixing. If I were to ask them, “What is an introvert?”, I bet they’d say it’s a broken extravert.
The bell rings pulling me out of my thoughts and I reluctantly head to drama. I would much rather stay here and think some more. In drama, my teacher posts the roles for our upcoming production of Romeo and Juliet in the 21st century. I look at the list and figure out I’m playing Lady Montague. My friend in the class, Noah, is playing Mercutio. He gets to do an epic staged gun fight with choreography and everything! We start rehearsing, beginning with our Romeo and Juliet.
Noah comes to me and whispers, “Matt is so lucky, he gets to kiss Kyla! Multiple times!”
I shake my head. Noah is absolutely obsessed with that girl.
“Why are you so obsessed with Kyla?” I ask.
“Are we jealous?” he asks wiggling his eyebrows.
I roll my eyes and say, “No, I’m just curious.”
“Isn’t it obvious? She’s the hottest girl in school!” he explains.
After a moment of silence, I ask, “How do you know she’s pretty if you’ve never seen her real face?”
Noah rolls his eyes this time and doesn’t answer my question. Instead, I think about it. I find out that even though people say that beauty in what’s on the inside, beauty is most widely assessed by a person’s ability to put on make up. What is beauty, then? I guess it’s not even skin deep, just a layer on top.
Once drama is over, I go home and do my homework and think some more. I rethink everything I’ve been thinking about today. What is marriage? What is history? What is participation? What is an introvert? What is beauty? Then, I come to the ultimate question, what is life? I don’t think “life” has a definite meaning. I think it depends on what a person perceives it to be. That way, it’s different for everyone, because everyone lives a different life. And with that, I turn off my brain for the day and turn on the TV.
Something Behind the Stars
by Cloud
October. Golden flames fluttering in the crisp sigh of autumn, navy blue streaking the dying light, silver shimmering in the sky. It is by far the most cool and most colorful point of the season. All is calm, all is silent, and yet a slight unease settles with the presence of the growing cold. Some force of nature makes it such that as the heat of the preceding seasons ease, a strange tension grows and fills in its place. It is because of this, presumably, that people tend to feel the most empty around these times of the year. The sunshine and smiles of summer become subdued and are gradually turned to ashes, a meager shadow of its former glory. The season of poetry, the season of analyzing the rapid changes occurring in the world, environmental or in each other. Autumn is a turning point, a point of death and simultaneously a point of rebirth. It is conflicted that way, but in a larger sense, everything that exists or is believed to exist in this world is conflicted in one way or another. This is a mere detail that humans fail to notice on a day-to-day basis, but regardless, it is something that will remain unchanged.
Autumn is poetically characterized by trees bursting into flame in slow motion and metamorphosing and long, solitary walks on a cool evening. To me, it possesses a different meaning. I pass my time by gazing into the night sky and questioning the validity of our existence. This, like taking an evening stroll to recenter around one’s life, is generally a lonely activity, one that most others lack the time or interest in taking part in. At the time, I knew but one person who shared my affinity for the glassy dome above our heads. As each day drew to a close, we would lay on the dark field of grass by the nearby school and watch the colors of the sky fade out slowly. It only made sense that we were there that night, the night when the star left the sky.
Twice that month, the moon was out of its usual place in the dark canvas above the earth. The evening sky was unusually clear; little silver stains speckled the sky and shimmered contentedly. The pink and golden hues of the setting sun slowly lost their vibrant brilliance as the chill of the night set in. A lone ember drifted by our pale faces, having just escaped the grasp of the tree it was tethered to beforehand. I personally was fascinated with the way every living color subtly melted in with the greyscale as temporary darkness began its reign, how the world slowly ceased its motion and froze, captured, as if in an old photo album. The surrounding area was likewise silent; I could hear her breaths next to me. The ethereal sky that night was reflected in her wonder-filled eyes. I, too, was full of wonderment myself, but I probably did not show it. I have always had a bit of difficulty expressing emotions.
The contours of her face were suddenly freed from their monochrome, almost lifeless state. Puzzled, I looked up at the source of the unexpected glow. There was a ball
of aqua-gold fire streaking through the motionless sky, resembling an airborne sphere of combusting ice. It was a thing of dreams, appearing to leave little golden specks in its
great, illuminated wake. We were mesmerized by the grace with which it singlehandedly invalidated the night. The conflicted colors in the conflicted setting provided a bit of
satisfaction, proving that it was possible for beautiful things to exist in a self-contradicting world. I traced its slow, elegant arc across the sky and found a similar arc adorning
the face beside me, glowing in a different way.
by Cloud
October. Golden flames fluttering in the crisp sigh of autumn, navy blue streaking the dying light, silver shimmering in the sky. It is by far the most cool and most colorful point of the season. All is calm, all is silent, and yet a slight unease settles with the presence of the growing cold. Some force of nature makes it such that as the heat of the preceding seasons ease, a strange tension grows and fills in its place. It is because of this, presumably, that people tend to feel the most empty around these times of the year. The sunshine and smiles of summer become subdued and are gradually turned to ashes, a meager shadow of its former glory. The season of poetry, the season of analyzing the rapid changes occurring in the world, environmental or in each other. Autumn is a turning point, a point of death and simultaneously a point of rebirth. It is conflicted that way, but in a larger sense, everything that exists or is believed to exist in this world is conflicted in one way or another. This is a mere detail that humans fail to notice on a day-to-day basis, but regardless, it is something that will remain unchanged.
Autumn is poetically characterized by trees bursting into flame in slow motion and metamorphosing and long, solitary walks on a cool evening. To me, it possesses a different meaning. I pass my time by gazing into the night sky and questioning the validity of our existence. This, like taking an evening stroll to recenter around one’s life, is generally a lonely activity, one that most others lack the time or interest in taking part in. At the time, I knew but one person who shared my affinity for the glassy dome above our heads. As each day drew to a close, we would lay on the dark field of grass by the nearby school and watch the colors of the sky fade out slowly. It only made sense that we were there that night, the night when the star left the sky.
Twice that month, the moon was out of its usual place in the dark canvas above the earth. The evening sky was unusually clear; little silver stains speckled the sky and shimmered contentedly. The pink and golden hues of the setting sun slowly lost their vibrant brilliance as the chill of the night set in. A lone ember drifted by our pale faces, having just escaped the grasp of the tree it was tethered to beforehand. I personally was fascinated with the way every living color subtly melted in with the greyscale as temporary darkness began its reign, how the world slowly ceased its motion and froze, captured, as if in an old photo album. The surrounding area was likewise silent; I could hear her breaths next to me. The ethereal sky that night was reflected in her wonder-filled eyes. I, too, was full of wonderment myself, but I probably did not show it. I have always had a bit of difficulty expressing emotions.
The contours of her face were suddenly freed from their monochrome, almost lifeless state. Puzzled, I looked up at the source of the unexpected glow. There was a ball
of aqua-gold fire streaking through the motionless sky, resembling an airborne sphere of combusting ice. It was a thing of dreams, appearing to leave little golden specks in its
great, illuminated wake. We were mesmerized by the grace with which it singlehandedly invalidated the night. The conflicted colors in the conflicted setting provided a bit of
satisfaction, proving that it was possible for beautiful things to exist in a self-contradicting world. I traced its slow, elegant arc across the sky and found a similar arc adorning
the face beside me, glowing in a different way.
Titanic Love
by Kira Garlick
by Kira Garlick
"dear doctors"
a poem
tobie
dear doctors,
when you told my parents that their child had
“a condition not compatible with life,”
they plotted their lives out around my death.
but i survived.
dear doctors,
you said you couldn’t predict the future
and then you said i might live
“as a grocery checker”
permanently defective, my parents heard
but i am here and graduating high school soon
dear doctors,
you pathologized my lack of speech,
telling my parents i might be mute
for the rest of my life
but this is a slam poem
what does that say?
dear doctors,
you said
“your child may have severe physical delays,”
even though the frontal lobes don’t deal with movement
but i love to dance
and my parents smile at my half-talent
dear doctors,
you asked to prescribe an anti-psychotic
when i was eight,
conflating some normal-kid behavior with
mental and emotional delays
but i love my anti-depressant and ssri now
and their side effects are much less severe.
dear doctors,
you made my parents fear that my brother would turn out the same as me,
but he’s got the family anxiety and shyness,
not my neurological issues,
and that’s okay.
dear doctors,
my diagnoses have ruled my life for years,
but i no longer can hide my scars.
dear doctors,
you told my parents their daughter would likely die
but their son, their child, i
survived.
and i am here.
dear doctors,
coming out to you,
over and over again,
it wears on me,
but i do it,
i tell you that i am trans,
because i must
to know that you are trustworthy.
dear doctors,
i have faith in you,
not the same faith that i place in god above,
but faith that the evidence is there,
and that i cannot deny it.
dear doctors,
i am sick of explaining my entire history,
the surgeon,
the neurologist,
the pediatrician,
the speech therapist,
the psychologist,
the psychiatrist,
the other psychologist,
the other neurologist,
the other psychologist,
the other psychiatrist,
the other psychologist,
the other neurologist,
the endocrinologist,
to you,
but i will,
because i know i am stronger than it,
i know i am more than the clot,
i know i am good enough.
a poem
tobie
dear doctors,
when you told my parents that their child had
“a condition not compatible with life,”
they plotted their lives out around my death.
but i survived.
dear doctors,
you said you couldn’t predict the future
and then you said i might live
“as a grocery checker”
permanently defective, my parents heard
but i am here and graduating high school soon
dear doctors,
you pathologized my lack of speech,
telling my parents i might be mute
for the rest of my life
but this is a slam poem
what does that say?
dear doctors,
you said
“your child may have severe physical delays,”
even though the frontal lobes don’t deal with movement
but i love to dance
and my parents smile at my half-talent
dear doctors,
you asked to prescribe an anti-psychotic
when i was eight,
conflating some normal-kid behavior with
mental and emotional delays
but i love my anti-depressant and ssri now
and their side effects are much less severe.
dear doctors,
you made my parents fear that my brother would turn out the same as me,
but he’s got the family anxiety and shyness,
not my neurological issues,
and that’s okay.
dear doctors,
my diagnoses have ruled my life for years,
but i no longer can hide my scars.
dear doctors,
you told my parents their daughter would likely die
but their son, their child, i
survived.
and i am here.
dear doctors,
coming out to you,
over and over again,
it wears on me,
but i do it,
i tell you that i am trans,
because i must
to know that you are trustworthy.
dear doctors,
i have faith in you,
not the same faith that i place in god above,
but faith that the evidence is there,
and that i cannot deny it.
dear doctors,
i am sick of explaining my entire history,
the surgeon,
the neurologist,
the pediatrician,
the speech therapist,
the psychologist,
the psychiatrist,
the other psychologist,
the other neurologist,
the other psychologist,
the other psychiatrist,
the other psychologist,
the other neurologist,
the endocrinologist,
to you,
but i will,
because i know i am stronger than it,
i know i am more than the clot,
i know i am good enough.
Rorschach
by Jasmine Liu
"Can you see anything in this image?"
"I see two people, who look rather large and plump. They are facing each other ad pressing their hands together in front of them."
"Can you show me how it looks like people?"
"The red blotches looks like tall hats, kind of like gnomes. Right under it, that blank spot right there, It resembles a head. The black blotches look like bodies. Like the way they are shaped resembles two people sitting down and leaning forward slightly. The red blotches right there look like legs. It's like two red stockings or long socks."
"Alright. Thank you Ms. Murray. You may leave now."
--------------
"Can you see anything in this image?"
"I see animals."
"Can you show me how it looks like animals?"
"Well, there's the body. Those two black splotches right there. And see those two splotches that kinda jut out of the body? Those are the legs. If you turn the picture around, you can see it. Actually, now that I look more closely, I think they're dogs, like the tiny, fluffy ones you see all those ladies down by Broadway always have."
"Pomeranian?"
"Yeah, those dogs."
"Alright. Thank you Mr. Schiller. You may leave now."
----------------
"Can you see anything in this image?"
"What are you talking about? It's just some ink."
"Can you see anything at all? You may have to use your imagination for this."
"Nope. Not a thing. It's literally just some red and black ink. I can't see the purpose of this test. Am I doing something wrong?"
"No. Not a thing. Thank you Mr. Welsey. You may leave now."
by Jasmine Liu
"Can you see anything in this image?"
"I see two people, who look rather large and plump. They are facing each other ad pressing their hands together in front of them."
"Can you show me how it looks like people?"
"The red blotches looks like tall hats, kind of like gnomes. Right under it, that blank spot right there, It resembles a head. The black blotches look like bodies. Like the way they are shaped resembles two people sitting down and leaning forward slightly. The red blotches right there look like legs. It's like two red stockings or long socks."
"Alright. Thank you Ms. Murray. You may leave now."
--------------
"Can you see anything in this image?"
"I see animals."
"Can you show me how it looks like animals?"
"Well, there's the body. Those two black splotches right there. And see those two splotches that kinda jut out of the body? Those are the legs. If you turn the picture around, you can see it. Actually, now that I look more closely, I think they're dogs, like the tiny, fluffy ones you see all those ladies down by Broadway always have."
"Pomeranian?"
"Yeah, those dogs."
"Alright. Thank you Mr. Schiller. You may leave now."
----------------
"Can you see anything in this image?"
"What are you talking about? It's just some ink."
"Can you see anything at all? You may have to use your imagination for this."
"Nope. Not a thing. It's literally just some red and black ink. I can't see the purpose of this test. Am I doing something wrong?"
"No. Not a thing. Thank you Mr. Welsey. You may leave now."
It's All In Your Head
by Desmond Kamas
by Desmond Kamas
Untitled
by Un titled
The dream begins with the face of your mother in a tree. Her normally smooth features are blended grotesquely with the coarse texture of the bark, her eyes hollow pockets partially absorbed into the trunk. As she speaks, each word takes a decade, the seasons flitting by, each as meaningless as the next. You can hear it in your ears like the soft whisperings of the wind. You know that there are words but you cannot make them out or you cannot understand, but you the contradiction of love and fear. In a blink, she is gone, a rough stump in her place. You find tears to be running down your face, with the speed of time moving too quickly to even see her killer. The bark on the edges of the stump slowly grow around the roughly chopped edge, smoothing the harshness of machinery into nature. All around you, new stumps emerge from the ground, together seemingly vibrating to a monotone beat. Words tumble from your mouth like leaves in autumn, the notes the variety of pigments and the meaning the path as they fall. When your last note has died down, the rhythm stops, the silence as powerful as the tone. Grass stalks behind you nudge you to the stump that was your mother, and you walk silently up to the bark throne with a sense of immense power filling your body. As you sit, her skin embraces yours, and you become one, your roots deep into the beginning of life and your branches to its finality. Small petals on your limbs drift into galaxies of their own, spirally softly to the ground. You begin the song again, knowing it to be your last, your breath gently falling over all the beauty that exists.
by Un titled
The dream begins with the face of your mother in a tree. Her normally smooth features are blended grotesquely with the coarse texture of the bark, her eyes hollow pockets partially absorbed into the trunk. As she speaks, each word takes a decade, the seasons flitting by, each as meaningless as the next. You can hear it in your ears like the soft whisperings of the wind. You know that there are words but you cannot make them out or you cannot understand, but you the contradiction of love and fear. In a blink, she is gone, a rough stump in her place. You find tears to be running down your face, with the speed of time moving too quickly to even see her killer. The bark on the edges of the stump slowly grow around the roughly chopped edge, smoothing the harshness of machinery into nature. All around you, new stumps emerge from the ground, together seemingly vibrating to a monotone beat. Words tumble from your mouth like leaves in autumn, the notes the variety of pigments and the meaning the path as they fall. When your last note has died down, the rhythm stops, the silence as powerful as the tone. Grass stalks behind you nudge you to the stump that was your mother, and you walk silently up to the bark throne with a sense of immense power filling your body. As you sit, her skin embraces yours, and you become one, your roots deep into the beginning of life and your branches to its finality. Small petals on your limbs drift into galaxies of their own, spirally softly to the ground. You begin the song again, knowing it to be your last, your breath gently falling over all the beauty that exists.
Kaleidoscope World
by Kylie Sherman
The world is a kaleidoscope.
Everyone sees the colors differently
and everyone is determined to be right.
Some people see forever through the kaleidoscope world
and some see only a day
and some nothing at all.
Some see the world
through the prism called religion
and then through the kaleidoscope
and their view is distorted.
For some
this only serves
to brighten the colors of the world.
Some try to force the kaleidoscope
to only produce patterns
geometric and logical
but the world is not ordered that easily.
Sense and reason
are impossible to discover
until all colors are found.
Some are determined
to only see the colors they wish to see
and therefore do not look through the kaleidoscope at all
but instead look into a mirror.
Mirrors are windows
into the colors of your mind
but not doors to the colors of the world.
The kaleidoscope of the world
is neither flawed nor perfect
but we replace the eyepiece with prisms and mirrors
and fail to see truth.
by Kylie Sherman
The world is a kaleidoscope.
Everyone sees the colors differently
and everyone is determined to be right.
Some people see forever through the kaleidoscope world
and some see only a day
and some nothing at all.
Some see the world
through the prism called religion
and then through the kaleidoscope
and their view is distorted.
For some
this only serves
to brighten the colors of the world.
Some try to force the kaleidoscope
to only produce patterns
geometric and logical
but the world is not ordered that easily.
Sense and reason
are impossible to discover
until all colors are found.
Some are determined
to only see the colors they wish to see
and therefore do not look through the kaleidoscope at all
but instead look into a mirror.
Mirrors are windows
into the colors of your mind
but not doors to the colors of the world.
The kaleidoscope of the world
is neither flawed nor perfect
but we replace the eyepiece with prisms and mirrors
and fail to see truth.
Girl with Towel
by Kira Garlick
by Kira Garlick
Parallel
by Clem Chou
To be early is to be on time.
To be on time is to be early.
A = B and B = A.
Early self-identifies with on time.
Time permeates all--
Tendrils of Seconds. Minutes. Hours. Days. Invade the senses.
Days that stretch into night and back into day, oscillating like a sine wave.
The limit does not exist.
If time goes on forever, then,
to infinity and beyond, where there are infinities greater than other infinities,
then what is early?
What is on time?
If you can flatten yourself and lie on top of the linear progression of past, present, and future,
all at once,
then
you are
on time.
And early
by Clem Chou
To be early is to be on time.
To be on time is to be early.
A = B and B = A.
Early self-identifies with on time.
Time permeates all--
Tendrils of Seconds. Minutes. Hours. Days. Invade the senses.
Days that stretch into night and back into day, oscillating like a sine wave.
The limit does not exist.
If time goes on forever, then,
to infinity and beyond, where there are infinities greater than other infinities,
then what is early?
What is on time?
If you can flatten yourself and lie on top of the linear progression of past, present, and future,
all at once,
then
you are
on time.
And early
the last man
by Maggie Wu
the bones of moss and rot cushion mine
(the burnt-out ground of trillions of years)
it's dark out because the sun's gone down
(and hasn't come up since it went out)
i'm trying to go to sleep
i'm counting the stars
(and they keep moving.)
but it's impossible to fall asleep now.
i know that, somewhere in the back of my mind, my head
(it'll come with the mold
to my frontal cortex)
i can't.
once you decide to live
(and live and live)
there's no going back
no turning back the stars and cosmos and
(the sun)
because it's just me now.
no one to turn back for.
just me now. me and my body. my body is slowly decaying with the big dipper and my mind,
my mind was gone long ago.
i can feel the nerves in my flesh fraying, snapping, wearing away
the synapses in my brain are slowly going out
that's good
finally
light pollution has a solution
i have no legs to stand on any more
(no nerves, no pain
no limbs, no legs)
but i can always see the sky.
watch the clouds roll in
heavy and pregnant with the evaporated blood
of the people
(who could always forgive it
and look where that got them)
the acid rain rolls into my eyes
(my nose, my mouth--
wherever that's gone)
the unforgiving echoes of a million lives
one million years later
the alcoholic petrichor is still imprinted onto
(my memories of)
my olfactory senses
and i
i am still trying to sleep
i
i am still counting the stars.
by Maggie Wu
the bones of moss and rot cushion mine
(the burnt-out ground of trillions of years)
it's dark out because the sun's gone down
(and hasn't come up since it went out)
i'm trying to go to sleep
i'm counting the stars
(and they keep moving.)
but it's impossible to fall asleep now.
i know that, somewhere in the back of my mind, my head
(it'll come with the mold
to my frontal cortex)
i can't.
once you decide to live
(and live and live)
there's no going back
no turning back the stars and cosmos and
(the sun)
because it's just me now.
no one to turn back for.
just me now. me and my body. my body is slowly decaying with the big dipper and my mind,
my mind was gone long ago.
i can feel the nerves in my flesh fraying, snapping, wearing away
the synapses in my brain are slowly going out
that's good
finally
light pollution has a solution
i have no legs to stand on any more
(no nerves, no pain
no limbs, no legs)
but i can always see the sky.
watch the clouds roll in
heavy and pregnant with the evaporated blood
of the people
(who could always forgive it
and look where that got them)
the acid rain rolls into my eyes
(my nose, my mouth--
wherever that's gone)
the unforgiving echoes of a million lives
one million years later
the alcoholic petrichor is still imprinted onto
(my memories of)
my olfactory senses
and i
i am still trying to sleep
i
i am still counting the stars.
See the Sunlight
by Rebecca Haymore
by Rebecca Haymore