Strange is the Death
Alex McAfee
Of the man hardly known.
He would emerge from his house,
Decorated immaculately no matter the season,
You'd smile and wave on your way to grab the mail
And chat about your day,
How school was going,
How his granddaughter was an alumni,
How you could borrow his lawnmower
Despite knowing you have one.
With the asphalt burning your feet, you rush for an out
And wish him well.
His absence makes you self-aware:
The last time words were shared
Is intangible.
A Pollockian mess of memories stretching back
Ad infinitum. He had remained as unchanged
Since your youth
As his lawn,
Twice weekly mowed,
And always greener than evergreen.
Left in limbo.
You cannot grieve him
As the general loss of life,
Nor as family. Mourn the void instead?
Knowing only the superficial of a soul
Can rights to tears be claimed?
In these times
There is no wake
To which you might show
Your sorrow at his loss.
You watch his lawn,
As you once did.
Grass once greener than evergreen,
A pale brown creeps up the blades,
Something you'd never seen
Until now
at the end of winter.
He would emerge from his house,
Decorated immaculately no matter the season,
You'd smile and wave on your way to grab the mail
And chat about your day,
How school was going,
How his granddaughter was an alumni,
How you could borrow his lawnmower
Despite knowing you have one.
With the asphalt burning your feet, you rush for an out
And wish him well.
His absence makes you self-aware:
The last time words were shared
Is intangible.
A Pollockian mess of memories stretching back
Ad infinitum. He had remained as unchanged
Since your youth
As his lawn,
Twice weekly mowed,
And always greener than evergreen.
Left in limbo.
You cannot grieve him
As the general loss of life,
Nor as family. Mourn the void instead?
Knowing only the superficial of a soul
Can rights to tears be claimed?
In these times
There is no wake
To which you might show
Your sorrow at his loss.
You watch his lawn,
As you once did.
Grass once greener than evergreen,
A pale brown creeps up the blades,
Something you'd never seen
Until now
at the end of winter.
Submerged
Maeci Curtis
Anger anguish self-hate annoyance,
Flood my skull,
Cracking the dam,
Trembling
Relief?
I sink my teeth
Into my pillow,
No,
Until
I break the dam
With a thin silver blade,
the river of red.
Flood my skull,
Cracking the dam,
Trembling
Relief?
I sink my teeth
Into my pillow,
No,
Until
I break the dam
With a thin silver blade,
the river of red.
Hot Tamales
Sydney Sackett
Laying five crisp dollars on the counter, Mom nods for
the go-ahead, and Lanie's dug the plastic scoop into her favorite basket
already: oblong, gummy lipstick-red candy, a dry slush sound
rusted into her bag and sealed with a
wire tie. It weighs in at ten ounces and Mom looks at her
five dollars, and pins a big-eyed pucker smile on me, the one that means
she could line up another buck, but she'd cry the whole way home.
I bare my teeth, tacky and sweet as Jolly Ranchers. No, Mom,
it's not problem. Lance wanted it more than I did.
She says I'm a good girl and before we're even halfway through
the parking lot, Lane is digging her chubby hands in wrist-deep,
scrunching up warm sugar globs that stain her face and shirt
like a melted candle. Oh, gross, Lanie, says Mom, belting her
shopping bags over to me while she attacks the kid
with wet wipes. Yucky, yucky. It's ten more minutes until we can
actually get in the car, and Mom's started crying anyway, like
maybe I shouldn't take you guys anywhere if it's always going to be a problem,
maybe I should just run us off the road if I'm such a bad mother, and
then I remind her to medicate and she calms down long enough to order burgers
that we eat on the way home, with her grinning and looking
away from the windshield to share fried with us, saying isn't this exciting,
like a real road trip! It gets dark outside, and I'm cramped in the back seat
next to Lane, who wants to lie out, with wet the wet champing of candy
filling my ears. Mom has to wipe her down again on the lawn, and I say
don't worry, I'll bring in our stuff, and I take her purse
and wrestle away Lanie's candy bag that is probably three ounces now
instead of ten. When they hit the table, the medication bottle
bounces out of the pocket and loses its lid, at the same time as
the tie slips off the greasy plastic bag
and makes a lipstick-red mess, rolling everywhere. I know
there's not much time till Mom comes inside and yells,
so I clean them up fast. I'm a good girl
and I didn't want anyone to be mad,
is what I tell Dr. Simmons in the nice white hallway of
the pediatric ER. Mom is screaming and the machines are high-pitched,
beeping, but at least it's not the damp chomping and fake cinnamon smell. It's not
fat toddler feet drumming in my lap forever. I sob,
I thought her bag was still half full. And it would be so easy to mistake,
because benzodiazepines are just like Hot Tamales
if you eat them by the handful.
I ask how Lanie's doing, and Dr. Simmons chews his lip
like a big, rubbery Red Vine. He takes me to the vending machine, lets me pick
as much candy as I want.
the go-ahead, and Lanie's dug the plastic scoop into her favorite basket
already: oblong, gummy lipstick-red candy, a dry slush sound
rusted into her bag and sealed with a
wire tie. It weighs in at ten ounces and Mom looks at her
five dollars, and pins a big-eyed pucker smile on me, the one that means
she could line up another buck, but she'd cry the whole way home.
I bare my teeth, tacky and sweet as Jolly Ranchers. No, Mom,
it's not problem. Lance wanted it more than I did.
She says I'm a good girl and before we're even halfway through
the parking lot, Lane is digging her chubby hands in wrist-deep,
scrunching up warm sugar globs that stain her face and shirt
like a melted candle. Oh, gross, Lanie, says Mom, belting her
shopping bags over to me while she attacks the kid
with wet wipes. Yucky, yucky. It's ten more minutes until we can
actually get in the car, and Mom's started crying anyway, like
maybe I shouldn't take you guys anywhere if it's always going to be a problem,
maybe I should just run us off the road if I'm such a bad mother, and
then I remind her to medicate and she calms down long enough to order burgers
that we eat on the way home, with her grinning and looking
away from the windshield to share fried with us, saying isn't this exciting,
like a real road trip! It gets dark outside, and I'm cramped in the back seat
next to Lane, who wants to lie out, with wet the wet champing of candy
filling my ears. Mom has to wipe her down again on the lawn, and I say
don't worry, I'll bring in our stuff, and I take her purse
and wrestle away Lanie's candy bag that is probably three ounces now
instead of ten. When they hit the table, the medication bottle
bounces out of the pocket and loses its lid, at the same time as
the tie slips off the greasy plastic bag
and makes a lipstick-red mess, rolling everywhere. I know
there's not much time till Mom comes inside and yells,
so I clean them up fast. I'm a good girl
and I didn't want anyone to be mad,
is what I tell Dr. Simmons in the nice white hallway of
the pediatric ER. Mom is screaming and the machines are high-pitched,
beeping, but at least it's not the damp chomping and fake cinnamon smell. It's not
fat toddler feet drumming in my lap forever. I sob,
I thought her bag was still half full. And it would be so easy to mistake,
because benzodiazepines are just like Hot Tamales
if you eat them by the handful.
I ask how Lanie's doing, and Dr. Simmons chews his lip
like a big, rubbery Red Vine. He takes me to the vending machine, lets me pick
as much candy as I want.
The Rotten Pair
Sydni Smith
My dearest Maggie, it's all for us
but we had both gone blind.
You did your part and I did mine,
but our work is far from done.
A father who forgets his daughters
is worth of eleven.
His wife is no mother of mine;
she will have two short of twenty.
Tell them you were sleeping,
and you never heard the screams.
But you helped me with my dress,
you saw blood stained the seams.
I'll say I was sitting in the barn,
alone, and utterly unaware
to the carnage that ensued
as I munched contently on a pear.
Only we knew who was guilty,
we knew little of innocence.
That's why we chose to sit and lie,
so we wouldn't hang by our throats.
When your part was done, she
cast you out, feeling that you were
a rotten traitor. But that was the point,
and the life you've wanted had been born.
All we share now are the secrets
we vowed we'd take to the grave.
After all, they never figured it out:
we shared the axe, we were a rotten pair.
but we had both gone blind.
You did your part and I did mine,
but our work is far from done.
A father who forgets his daughters
is worth of eleven.
His wife is no mother of mine;
she will have two short of twenty.
Tell them you were sleeping,
and you never heard the screams.
But you helped me with my dress,
you saw blood stained the seams.
I'll say I was sitting in the barn,
alone, and utterly unaware
to the carnage that ensued
as I munched contently on a pear.
Only we knew who was guilty,
we knew little of innocence.
That's why we chose to sit and lie,
so we wouldn't hang by our throats.
When your part was done, she
cast you out, feeling that you were
a rotten traitor. But that was the point,
and the life you've wanted had been born.
All we share now are the secrets
we vowed we'd take to the grave.
After all, they never figured it out:
we shared the axe, we were a rotten pair.
Wood Carvings
Maeci Curtis
I hear voices
Yours and theirs
On repeat
Whittled into my brain
Like the precise ornamentation
Chiseled into a wooden figurine.
Only you were careless.
You banged the mallet way too hard
The grain frayed and cracked,
The words forever etched in my mind:
Disappointment,
Ugly,
Brat,
Bitch,
Selfish,
Insignificant.
That is now my truth,
And the only way to fix a damaged wood carving
Is to throw it away,
start anew.
Yours and theirs
On repeat
Whittled into my brain
Like the precise ornamentation
Chiseled into a wooden figurine.
Only you were careless.
You banged the mallet way too hard
The grain frayed and cracked,
The words forever etched in my mind:
Disappointment,
Ugly,
Brat,
Bitch,
Selfish,
Insignificant.
That is now my truth,
And the only way to fix a damaged wood carving
Is to throw it away,
start anew.
Self Love
Ike Higson
I hope when I'm gone, they remember me
As I wasn't.
I hope that during the autopsy,
they find my guts filled with gold and rainbows.
That they get it twisted, and think
I was the best bastard in the history.
Then again, am I not?
I haven't met anyone better so far.
The best feeling in the world
is being yourself, right?
No one else can be me
half as well as I can.
I'm the best at everything I do,
cause I do it the most like I would.
And oh! My excuses! So shapely,
so profound they always turn out.
Each one's a thesis on the world's holes;
they should be me-shaped,
they'd look better that way.
How can I fail, if I fail
the competition first?
Every success akin to
the conquest of a king,
and every falter,
some other dumbass's fast.
I'm invincible.
Until I really lose at literally anything,
then this whole castle comes crashing
right the fuck down.
And I'm the worst again.
A waste of space.
What the hell is the point, again?
Now it's all dutch-angles and
wideshots of windstorms,
a typhoon of loathing from which
there is no escape.
But wait!
Here come my errata and excuses,
driving down from the heavens
that are my fucking excellent brain,
to rescue me from being wrongs.
Angels, magnanimous and mighty.
Just like me.
Ah, there we go, that's better.
As I wasn't.
I hope that during the autopsy,
they find my guts filled with gold and rainbows.
That they get it twisted, and think
I was the best bastard in the history.
Then again, am I not?
I haven't met anyone better so far.
The best feeling in the world
is being yourself, right?
No one else can be me
half as well as I can.
I'm the best at everything I do,
cause I do it the most like I would.
And oh! My excuses! So shapely,
so profound they always turn out.
Each one's a thesis on the world's holes;
they should be me-shaped,
they'd look better that way.
How can I fail, if I fail
the competition first?
Every success akin to
the conquest of a king,
and every falter,
some other dumbass's fast.
I'm invincible.
Until I really lose at literally anything,
then this whole castle comes crashing
right the fuck down.
And I'm the worst again.
A waste of space.
What the hell is the point, again?
Now it's all dutch-angles and
wideshots of windstorms,
a typhoon of loathing from which
there is no escape.
But wait!
Here come my errata and excuses,
driving down from the heavens
that are my fucking excellent brain,
to rescue me from being wrongs.
Angels, magnanimous and mighty.
Just like me.
Ah, there we go, that's better.
The Observer
Ike Higson
I sit here, in my home,
With it's lightbulb, dim and dying,
And its paint, pale and peeling.
I sit at my window, witnessing.
Streaks of color spear past,
Darting and dancing among each other.
I catch them.
I roll them around in my skull.
I eat them.
I hear sounds, from my window.
Deep thrums and beats, ringing, resounding melodies.
I catch them as they go by.
I feel them bounce in my chest.
I eat them.
I see people march past, fire in their faces,
Marching towards great golden statues of themselves.
I glance at my slouched effigy in the corner.
I watch, as their strides strike the ground, and clutch at dust they raise,
Pretending it's mine.
I look at my shoes, by the door covered in clicking brass locks.
They breed dust mites, not broken in, their soles lined with nails.
I shiver and turn back to the window, hungry again,
For streaking lights and pulsing expression.
All I can do is eat.
With it's lightbulb, dim and dying,
And its paint, pale and peeling.
I sit at my window, witnessing.
Streaks of color spear past,
Darting and dancing among each other.
I catch them.
I roll them around in my skull.
I eat them.
I hear sounds, from my window.
Deep thrums and beats, ringing, resounding melodies.
I catch them as they go by.
I feel them bounce in my chest.
I eat them.
I see people march past, fire in their faces,
Marching towards great golden statues of themselves.
I glance at my slouched effigy in the corner.
I watch, as their strides strike the ground, and clutch at dust they raise,
Pretending it's mine.
I look at my shoes, by the door covered in clicking brass locks.
They breed dust mites, not broken in, their soles lined with nails.
I shiver and turn back to the window, hungry again,
For streaking lights and pulsing expression.
All I can do is eat.
Fatality
Olivia Howard
You're the type of person
Who takes grudged to the grave.
Our unfortunate miscommunication
Commemorated in the sorry epitaph:
You've been unfriended.
I wish that I could call you
And tell you that I miss you,
But you've made it clear
With your deafening silence
That our friendship is long dead.
Just when I think I've
Left your ghost behind
That song comes on
And I grieve all over again.
I'm reminded of that Spring.
Driving to your house
Every day after school.
Windows down, Coldplay
Playing full blast.
And you're always in my head.
Now I want to sing along
But the words freeze
From the Winter's bitter chill.
Old friends.
They become a procession
Of monochromatic memories
A tomb of 2 AM thoughts
Unwilling to surrender
And give me peace.
Who takes grudged to the grave.
Our unfortunate miscommunication
Commemorated in the sorry epitaph:
You've been unfriended.
I wish that I could call you
And tell you that I miss you,
But you've made it clear
With your deafening silence
That our friendship is long dead.
Just when I think I've
Left your ghost behind
That song comes on
And I grieve all over again.
I'm reminded of that Spring.
Driving to your house
Every day after school.
Windows down, Coldplay
Playing full blast.
And you're always in my head.
Now I want to sing along
But the words freeze
From the Winter's bitter chill.
Old friends.
They become a procession
Of monochromatic memories
A tomb of 2 AM thoughts
Unwilling to surrender
And give me peace.
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