SNAPS
ESCAPE
SNAPS SNAPS SNAPS
A
Poetry Chapbook
From the Undergraduate English Society
Editor-in-Chief
Asha Saha
Director of Publications
Sunny Zhao
Copy Editor
Kaylee Jade Dunn
Layout & Design
Danika Barkey
Submissions Manager
Jules Lee
LETTERFROMTHEEDITOR LETTERFROMTHEEDITOR
Dear reader,
I am beyond excited to introduce you to the ninth volume of SNAPS. This publication exists to celebrate poetry and those who write it. Poetry offers a unique and important way of expressing our ideas, working through our feelings, and finding community with one another, and I feel so honoured to be able to offer a space to celebrate and support the wonderful poets within our school community. With the theme “Escape”, we asked writers to consider the many facets of breaking free. Life often feels like an endless loop repetition dulling our senses, leaving us searching for a way out. But can we ever truly escape the weight of our past? Is escape a physical act, or merely a shift in the mind? Perhaps it’s not about fleeing at all but finding solace in the spaces between. Could art, poetry even, be our way out a refuge from the cyclical grind? Maybe, in creating, we discover that freedom is an illusion. Our writers took this theme in so many exciting directions, producing beautiful and thought-provoking reflections on love, life, and poetry. To the writers who submitted their work, thank you for your contributions, and for putting your trust in us to publish your work. To my Publications team at the Coterie, thank you for your thoughtful selections, your diligent edits, and your keen eye for design in the making of this volume. To student writer-in-residence Jules Lee, thank you for your careful consideration in choosing our prize winners. To our director of publications, Sunny Zhao, thank you for leading this team and for all the work you put into this process. Finally, to the readers of SNAPS, thank you for your support. As you read, I invite you to allow these poems to wash over you and consider what kind of escape the act of reading poetry can provide in itself.
Asha Saha Editor-in-Chief
ByAngelaWang
HollieRosewood
LinaDrummond
ByTaylorM.Branco
MaiaRoss
BIRTHINGWORDS
ByMarilenaEscoto
IWISH
ByAfrahFatima
THERESTLESSSEE ByAlyssaAbouNaoum
ESCAPEFROMTHEEGGSHELL
ByJenHwang
THENATIONALGALLERY,LONDON,UK
ByKayleeJadeDunn
ETERNALSUNSHINE(OFAHAUNTEDMIND)
ByVanessaMcLeod
RASPBERRYSLURPEE
ByClayLocke
MYFAVOURITEMELODY
ByHelenaNikitopolous
TELLMEEVERYTHINGTHERAINSAID
ByMackenzieJohnstone
THEHILLHOUSE ByMabelZhao
DETECTIVEONTHEBUS ByNicoleSchumacher
LITTLERED ByPennyStarling
THEANTTHAT’STRAPPEDINSIDEAMAYOJAR
ByStephKatchabow
THANKSGIVING
ByRileyVanLoon
THECASINOALWAYSWINS THECASINOALWAYSWINS THECASINOALWAYSWINS
By Angela Wang
You are seven, wrestling with the presence of an omnipotent and benevolent god Ketchup, hot water, and stale salted sausages
No heaven for hungry people, we drink our tomato soup
YOU ONLY LOSE if you quit
Ghosts are real if you believe in them, and mine lurk on the bed Mock me from tales past, of riches and respect I glare in the dark, tiny hands gripping sheets, big dreams, small ceilings NEVER LEAVE a winning table
In dim lit department store lighting, hushed glances Shame welts at my heel like a tired dog “They’ll never know” “What a deal!”
Mom is happy, more than she thought she was worth, less than rent Jade cools my skin in ways cheaper glass has before JUST one more spin
Pack myself off the kitchen floor, maimed by stilted shards on dirty tiled floors I’m an optimist, I have to be Bite the bullet, lie a little, a lot Lick every plate clean, my pride fragments at the seams, don’t forget to smile i’m due for a win
You tell me I had a choice Your disappointment tastes of poorly worded contracts, bartered merit Heavier than any salvation
How dare you walk by me and tell me this is life LIVE
So I write.
With discounted prose and borrowed words, the vocabulary of a kid Someone is rolling the dice, I have just one plight
I don’t gamble, I never did
WHENWEGETOUTOFHERE WHENWEGETOUTOFHERE WHENWEGETOUTOFHERE
By Hollie Rosewood FirstPlaceWinner
What about the backyard?
We can make a tipi or an ice fort
Except the dog steals our sticks, And the sun drinks our snow, So we won't get far.
What about the parking lot?
It’s across the street by the tennis court
We can play soccer and throw basketballs, Shoot Nerf guns and climb fences, Until the manager sends us off.
When you’re 16, you’ll have a car, We’ll leave Sarnia, we’ll go far, We’ll be stars, play shows in bars, When we get out of here.
What about New York?
We can rent a studio apartment. We’ll make music and be VIPs, Spot Lady Gaga on a marquee, Go broke, then come back north.
What about Tobermory?
We’ll find a trailer or a loft, We’ll swim, hike and watch TV programs
On breeding bears, copulating cats, And mating monkeys.
I made it out, so why won't you?
Was it for nothing, our hard-knocked youth?
What about our dreams? What we said we'd do When we got out of here?
Then she said, “What about Canada?
When you’re 18, I’ll have my visa. You'll be a writer and I'll be a translator, A boxer, cop, or postal worker
Nothing will stop us.”
I said, “What about the West Coast?
Like British Columbia, or Oregon When I’m old, I'll be a librarian
You'll find me on September 12th With a garden of roses and a cat named Toast.”
We said we would. So why didn't I? I never meant to promise lies For days, it seemed that I would die Before getting out of there.
“What about Europe?” came one year ago. I said, “Might be cold; don't you think so?”
“But you're Canadian Don't you like snow?”
“I used to; but not anymore The sun could drink it up, as far as I go.”
“What about Toronto?” was a little less bold.
“It’s full of life, and it’s less cold. You won't have to drive with the TTC U of T is a great school Why not get enrolled?”
I wonder if you’d keep your word. Sometimes, it’s like you have a bird, Flighty on your arm, so I feel like a third Will we ever get out of here?
“What about Paraguay?” we said one day. “We’ll go in the winter, it’s less hot that way. Just put your bag on your stomach And hold it like you’re pregnant So no one will take it away ”
“What about Tennessee?” was our Plan B.
“It’s been years; let’s see Tiffany. We’ll talk about Wattpad and Twitch, And Twix versus Smarties, And cheer for the USWNT ”
“What about Japan?” came out of the blue. “You wouldn’t go without me, would you? We need to do something new.
Follow my cue, and for goodness’ sake, Eat something besides white food ”
And still I think, what about Germany?
RECOILINGINTHELIGHT RECOILINGINTHELIGHT RECOILINGINTHELIGHT
By Chloe Alexandra Baird
As I lay in bed, I grasp at the night.
Holding on until the day resets
The darkness swirls around my fingertips, Feeling as though a gentleness is in the air. It would be so easy to fall asleep, But then I’d have to wake up. It will be bright, And uncomfortably warm, With the obligation to utter meaningless words.
No, the night is simpler; Quieter, Calmer.
It allows me to truly be free
There are no tasks to do, No people to talk to, Only time to waste doing absolutely nothing.
And then I can escape this world, Into one of infinite possibilities
Just like Barbie, I can do anything, I can be anything, I can make all the wrong decisions and not face a single consequence.
But then I have to wake up, No remnants of night on my hands
The sunlight chased all that away,
Leaving my skin burnt and sore.
For morning is not always your friend, But it’s impossible to stay in the comfortability of the night.
THELUCKYONE THELUCKYONE THELUCKYONE
By Iris Zhao
Yes, I escaped
Yes, I’m the lucky one
In that beautiful cell
They ban each sunset
Reject every darkened word
They play games
Yet people die for real
(For some insignificant things, some light commands)
There is a young poet who is
Swallowing a moon made of iron
On the assembly lines made in China
He has swallowed too many screws and fabrics
Along with other young people
For the success of the nation and global capital
They hammer their bones
On that never-ending line
There is a woman who is
Picking apples, mountain after
Mountain
She has no time for her husband to send her
A pair of gloves
In the late autumn dawns
Frost settles on apples and Her bare hands
How do her fingertips bear the cold of a whole mountain?
In the mountains with no signal and impoverished to pay the bill
She can never tell her husband
Where she is
Reaching out a cold hand for a cold apple
And there are others who Learned to be silent early
(“Stop, we must check your soul.”)
They automatically changed their mother tongue
Making it no longer dance
(“Officer, maybe once there was a bird that loved to sing in my soul and
A touch of spring
But
It’s empty now ”)
Yes, I escaped
Yes, I’m the lucky one
But I lost them all
I can’t get close to the dying anymore
For I escaped their suffering
Living eternally between the two worlds
Where there is nothing at all
OLDRADIO OLDRADIO OLDRADIO
By Heather Stanley
You’re an old radio
You only pick up the strong signals
Did you hear me, no?
Well, silly me, I must have been whispering
Does it ever feel like you’re throwing a boomerang?
It always comes back and it’s always the same, And I get the urge to dye my hair or switch my name–
If for nothing but the illusion of change
These four walls, they protect and restrain me
You wouldn’t know, you’re from too many cities
To rely on your own immutability
And to fear nothing more.
DIONYSIANDAUGHTERS DIONYSIANDAUGHTERS DIONYSIANDAUGHTERS
By Lina Drummond Second Place Winner
Wake up, wake up, you sleepyhead, Gamble your savings for a thrill!
Revelrous laughter spills forth from a weathered bench Dressed in stiletto heels and unfastened blouses, Skirts seducing scandal, while tights preserve modesty.
Point your camera at the dazzling damsels, Dancing with Dionysian abandon toward accelerating cars Empty wallets unable to summon a taxi’s reluctant fare, Their sorrows spent with the last of their savings
Our neighbour’s piano clatters an inebriated tune, Its dissonance harmonizing with their tipsy warbles, Yet you chastise them for their imperfect pitches. Amidst their amusement, your sardonic remarks Claim Bacchic indulgence a hollow vice.
Inside, my wine glass brims with apple juice, A refusal to waste housewarming gifts on the recently sober. Though your hypocritical soul craves intoxicated delight, Oscillating between conscience and compulsion.
You graze against the oven's blistering edge, Flinging charred clothes across our floor
Flames engulf our apartment, Licking the walls with ravenous tongues, How liberating it is to relinquish our cherished possessions!
You drift into slumber on our scorched mattress, “Let it burn,” condemns the rodent, cradled in chaos Flames coil as Orpheus' lyre lingers beyond the window, I wait, braced for tomorrow’s hangover
NOSURPRISESLEFT NOSURPRISESLEFT NOSURPRISESLEFT
By Taylor M. Branco
I’ve become stuck in an endless loop of mediocrity, And the labyrinth of life holds me hostage in his hands. The promise of an escape wraps around my pinky, And I wait for the world to pick me up where I’ve landed. Lies linger in the air and there are no surprises left
With no sense of direction many trains pass by me; Their numbers keep climbing, counting higher and louder. The muffled voice of the conductor worsens my confusion, While the platform between us grows longer and wider. Lies linger in the air and there are no surprises left
I wonder which of these trains I’m meant to board, Or how long I should keep standing alone, waiting. Breathing in the familiar fumes of the mundane, I smell what was left behind in a regretful haze. Lies linger in the air and there are no surprises left
With a tired parasite eating at my skin and bones, I drag my feet toward an exit, looking for a sign to go. I wait for the voice of God or a fade to black, But nothing happens, nothing changes, and I remain. Lies linger in the air and there are no surprises left
WHATISINANAME? WHATISINANAME? WHATISINANAME?
By Maia Ross
when she took the law into her own hands and fought with each everlasting breath she became something else, perhaps even someone else she wasn’t the kind of girl who would go down easy she didn’t always fight with her fists but she fought all the same her words were powerful and they woke us up they taught us: good from evil right from wrong even when she wasn’t there anymore she lived on in each of us who breathe the same air she lives in the sky-high trees watching over all that’s beneath she lives through each of us who can shatter the glass ceilings knowing we would never have made a dent if it wasn’t for her she lives in each story and revelation she is among us in every revolution and rebellion for she was the first to open the jar and unleash the spirits that lived within it. her story will live on through every generation she is among the hunted and the hunters she is all around us for her name is Pandora
BETWEENTHEWALLSANDTHE BETWEENTHEWALLSANDTHE BETWEENTHEWALLSANDTHE WORLD WORLD WORLD
By Lubna Abdallah
Once more, I remain in this tiny, childlike room, within the walls of my adolescence a place that’s always been my sanctuary, melancholy, dreamscape, and prison.
Indeed, I am alone but I will not be lonely.
For I can turn back to the page, where my story awaits, My reading light a lighthouse in the pitch-black, thunderous sea. guiding me into realms filled with strange and wondrous characters, where I lose myself in the wild, unpredictable world of prose. And with each page, I shed the chains of my everyday monotony, the weight of stagnation, my endless, every day.
Once more, I am tethered to my mind its musings, its restless ruminations, its quiet fears of what’s to come, fears of everything, fears of nothing.
But I have an antidote. I slip my headphones over my ears, and just like that, I drown it all out. With each sound, I can steer the story my thoughts tell.
But when my fantasies release me
I return to find I never truly left
Yes, here I am again
Bound by four familiar walls
... waiting for forever to pass
PARADISEHASNOESCAPE PARADISEHASNOESCAPE PARADISEHASNOESCAPE
By Jose Ernesto Gonzalez Sardina
I have escaped, to the place of prayers and dreams
Where tales are written in blood, and stories recited in wails and shrieks
I followed a trail of hope here, a crack in the sky that appeared overnight
A veil that swallowed clouds and stars, to paint with them paradise
A lie that my faithful spirit found in the eyes, hidden in that darkness I climbed out of the cave and my eyes were blinded by light
The one that gave birth to the Sun, and burns cold in the shadow It births truth to the faithful, and to me it gifted true sight
Along with the horrors of knowledge, that enslaving sin which now Crumbles the very pillars of my faith, and aches with Death’s ardent desire
There is no paradise, no garden lies in ruins beyond the heavens Awaiting the return of the fallen angels once expelled from it
We never left paradise, and now I can see, there is no escape
We are doomed to burn it like embers of hellish fire seeking Tartarus Cursed to live knowing nothing, for wanting to know it all
There is no escape from the world we crafted for ourselves,
Because while they burn in their own lights they cannot see, that they March on in oblivion of their sin, towards Time’s forgotten cave,
And from here, there is no escape
VERSEBEFORETHEASCENT VERSEBEFORETHEASCENT VERSEBEFORETHEASCENT
By Jahan Cader
I gashed my tongue
On our dealer’s jagged cavity
I try focusing
On the salty blood in my mouth
To pass the time
The pale walls are sweating
The exhausted fan
Drums fevered in the heat
Summer will end with the sun
N. sits adjacent to me
Lanky legs crossed
One arm rests at his knee
The other wanders the floor
Pus pouring and pebbly face of acne tilted down
Fossilized lips
Feeble eyes drilled deep into their sockets
Spectacles eroded deep into his head
Slimy hair littering
Sweat-pickled Silver Jews shirt
Semen crusted jeans
Sahara idles in his expression
I stare
Into my clammy palms
Hoping to fondle
Some worms
I stare
Into the coarse light
It howls
A promise
HOME HOME HOME
By Sophie Koenig
Home is like a caress on your tongue
Like a mother’s hug
A comfort to be shared
And passed around the table in form of memories and laughter
Home means house to you
It means family
You find solace in your past
A childhood filled with how it should have been
The model of perfect happiness
I’ve tried living in your version of home
I remember wishing
Praying without religion
For change when I was young
That this couldn’t be what the movies and tv shows talked about
Soft was a rarity in my memory
All rough edges
Even as I run from it,
I trip over the cracks in my facade,
Aged after so many years of hiding it
The blood dries on my tongue
And yet I can’t stop calling it home
BUTTHEMAYFLIES BUTTHEMAYFLIES BUTTHEMAYFLIES
COULDN’T COULDN’T COULDN’T
I first read about the mayfly in Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier.
By Sonia Zhang
I caught a glimpse in brief passing, in crestfallen ink and eerie dreams, against a marigold page in my father’s forgotten library, there it was: the mayfly A glimmer of wilderness magic in the green meadows of Manderley. A creature of ephemeral maladies and spring rebirth.
I first saw the mayfly at his cottage. On a cloudy August afternoon, when the air glittered with the aroma of rain-kissed pine, the mushroom forager from out of town left slushy footprints in the mud. When sunshine was swallowed by a starving thunderstorm, we plunged into the lake, swimming and kissing to the hum of rainfall and rage, and there they were: mayflies!
Thousands of forsythia blossom bodies floating on the surface like the bloated liver of an alcoholic. Six-legged creatures with gothic wings of cathedral windows, each vein a brushstroke of frosted glass splintering at the cracks, and tails of mulberry silk trailing in the wake of a faraway pontoon, moving like gossamer ghosts pirouetting to the clouds above.
Suddenly, I felt them brush against me, as if tiny wrigglers burrowed into my spine. I screamed, repulsed by the thought of them mating in waves I swam through, birthing their larvae inches from my skin.
Later, at night, I read the internet called them nuisance pests.
And so the cooler in my hand grew colder and the liquor on my tongue tasted tragic. Why did I fear them?
Why do we scorn them?
The mayfly lives a day or two...reproduces, and then dies. We linger longer, yet perhaps not long enough to ponder their secret soliloquies, only romanticized in the green meadows of Manderley. Not long enough to appreciate the beauty in our likeness.
They are not pests –they are us, alive for a moment, anticipating the mundane, aching to escape and leave a mark, before the thunderstorm swallows them whole I went back to the dock but the mayflies couldn’t
BIRTHINGWORDS BIRTHINGWORDS BIRTHINGWORDS
By Marilena Escoto
My Voice
Hooked itself into the Fleshy Walls of my e s o p h a g u s
Climbed up the Pyre of the back of my throat
Tumbled out of my Cracked lips from behind my Aching Teeth
Came to slowly Raised its head Shaking Body bloody Legs unsure
Only to be Bundled between Crisp lines and swaddled in Soft validation
”What was I ever so afraid of”
My Voice
Asks in awe Still so delicately Naïve.
IWISH IWISH IWISH
By Afrah Fatima
01:44 am April 10th Wednesday, ‘24
I wish you were dead, Or somewhere far away, Wrecking as a cyclone, Or trapped in a jar
I wish you were a cyclone, Then there would be an I. Finally, you’d see me For a brief moment in time Your winds would leave me, After the damage was done You wouldn’t be circling around the flying debris
A new land to set rue upon a lifeless ruin I could be and you’d see me At least with one eye!
I wish you were trapped In a jar, belonging to me
I’d stare at you all day, Long through thin glass like how you did to me. I’d laugh at you finally with your warth gone, the way it should be.
I’d keep you on my mantelpiece, but never would worship your being I’d smile at your misery, And shake till you were dizzy, And live without your fury.
But mostly,
I wish you were dead Only a forgotten memory you’d ever be The day and the months Would rule in glory!
I wouldn’t remember, To worship your sin,
Or to to ask your mercy.
I’d forget your lessons, On how to bend, On how to pretend I’d forget your ways, your nonchalant grace, And how you called me a soiled disgrace. I'd remember to make coffee in the morn with sugar and cream instead of your long black, with a shot of ethanol served with a smile.
I could sleep through the night, not having frenzies of smite If you were dead, I wouldn’t make my bed a tombstone for you or you, my deadly muse. I would breathe, my smoker's lung cleaned, and celebrate my sobriety And welcome the infant That lived inside me, The one I had killed, To brighten your day.
I’d be so many things, I could be, I can be, But only if you were dead, or far away trapped in a jar, or on a desert isle screaming your name
But you live inside of me, Sharing my DNA, polluting every inch of my inside thinking if I were dead, You’d be free But what else can I do? Other than kill you?
For, after all, this life is too young to share!
THERESTLESSSEE THERESTLESSSEE THERESTLESSSEE
By Alyssa Abou Naoum
a siren’s song beckons me echoes dance around like uninvited party guests I hear you like the splashes at the bottom of a well the waves that lap caress the shore flirting hands on a shoulder
the rope hugs me like the teeth of a hungry shark a knife no, scissors are what I need their sharp legs are snipping through the bedside drawer anxious like mice scampering behind thin walls gray clouds hover and hang over drop the anchor before they turn into a river running out of time raise the sails! we can’t be taken into the pharaoh’s den
the song sets into my bones carved and written into me like commandments a voice makes the floors rumble sleep sleep sleep she sings I can’t I can’t I can’t
flirting hands on a shoulder eyelids should flutter but mine just close.
ESCAPEFROMTHEEGGSHELL
By Jen Hwang
Ambitious cracking
As my feet raise high upward daisies greeting me
THENATIONALGALLERY, THENATIONALGALLERY, THENATIONALGALLERY, LONDON,UK LONDON,UK LONDON,UK
By Kaylee Jade Dunn
Plush figures with fingers Indenting smooth thighs. Luminescent landscapes of Cityscapes and riversides That scale a human equal To the size of a working ant Golden through aura or Material kings and gods And their lovers and mothers. Petals, appearing so delicate That I fear they’ll fall off The bud, or whither if I Return my gaze tomorrow The precise dashes, strokes, Blobs, and constructions of Artists, spanning many Decades and levels of renown.
The dimple of the lemon rind; The gleam of youth in her eye; The iridescent impression of a bridge; The realistic grit of the bricks on a monument; The collection at the National Gallery; A visual, immersive escape
ETERNALSUNSHINE(OFA ETERNALSUNSHINE(OFA ETERNALSUNSHINE(OFA HAUNTEDMIND) HAUNTEDMIND) HAUNTEDMIND)
By Vanessa McLeod
there are days when i feel oddly alive but have never looked more dead. rotted dreams split open like sun-skinned fruits like the peeling off of flesh to reveal a fresher, sweeter, intimate version
of someone i somehow used to be. not this sunken, sullen, saddened skeleton that nearly shatters mirrors with its abrasive nature
there is joy in derealizing;
i’ve found that floating outside my corporeal form
affords me a refuge that cannot be sought out, but gifted. i’ve been blessed with it; a saviour from my own mind; an escape.
it’s a privilege to haunt to avoid being the haunted.
RASPBERRYSLURPEE RASPBERRYSLURPEE RASPBERRYSLURPEE
By Clay Locke
My heart tasted like raspberries on your teeth
And you kissed me sweet
Behind the 7/11, red ice melting into blue, melting into you
Like for a second I could swear that the lines
Between where I stopped and you began disappeared
And you kissed me dead center, bullet wound in my forehead
You got in your car, turned around and left
Left me for dead on the side of the interstate and when I said
That I could never stay I had hoped you knew
I was never really talking about you
I hope the raspberries bite your lips and stain your teeth
Tart and sweet in all your dreams
I’m begging you to say you hate me
I hope that you never forget about me
MYFAVOURITEMELODY MYFAVOURITEMELODY MYFAVOURITEMELODY
By Helena Nikitopoulos
I never want to become an overplayed song on the radio
I never want to run out of newness
For you to discover
So i make you drive in silence, humming to my melody
While I’m at home playing yours over And over
And over And over And over
And over again
TELLMEEVERYTHINGTHE TELLMEEVERYTHINGTHE TELLMEEVERYTHINGTHE RAINSAID RAINSAID RAINSAID
By Mackenzie Johnstone
There is something to be said of well-known strangers
To love someone yet remain intangible to them
The reality of something that never was
An empty home filled with possibility
Oh the stories I could tell you
Soft eyes that speak of affection and understanding
A hand to hold when you have slipped through everyone’s fingers
I wish I had someone to share them with
Send me into a dream without sleeping
All I need is to close my eyes and hear your voice
Maybe someday, our paths will cross
I’ll say every right thing like I never could
Except I would never speak to you
Because then you would know me
A warm illusion shattered when stared in the eye
If we met, I would be just like the rest of them to you
There is something to be said of well-known strangers
Perfection is my unknowability in this beautiful reality
The world holds no pain when I lie alone
So please, stay, and tell me everything the rain said.
THEHILLHOUSE THEHILLHOUSE THEHILLHOUSE
By Mabel Zhao
“Whatever walked there, walked alone.”
– Shirley Jackson, The Haunting of Hill House Whatever walked there, walked alone. During the day it stood quite still, Then at night it would groan and moan
Rumours surrounded it’s walls of stone, Yet we knew that atop that hill, Whatever walked there, walked alone.
Some would say in a teasing tone: “It’s just rats, people need to chill!” Then at night it would groan and moan.
If you ask us locals what we’ve known, We’ll tell you this, yes we will: “Whatever walked there, walked alone ”
And should someone live there on their own, The house would torment and then kill, Then at night it would groan and moan.
Last time I saw this house of stone, stately, silent yet I knew that still Whatever walked there, walked alone, And at night it would groan and moan.
DETECTIVEONTHEBUS DETECTIVEONTHEBUS DETECTIVEONTHEBUS
By Nicolle Schumacher
I stepped onto the bus to see a silent film.
To step into an age of old and lose the modern pace.
In front of me, an erratic man pulled and gathered his coat in rushing moves. He looked to be escaped from the pages of a cartoon mystery, Such like a detective he stood in circular frames, all bald on top, In a beige trench coat with a vintage travel bag.
Were he not a little frightening, I would have liked to ask his name and of what story brought him here,
On the bus in a trench coat with a curious travel bag.
He mumbled strangely to himself, In words I could not make out,
And the bus’s patrons averted their gaze and pretended they could not hear. But oddly, I understood him.
Strange traveller, out of step with time, With so much to say and no one to tell it to.
He pulled the stop request cord with such a force, It seemed he meant to take it with him to continue on his story. He ran off the bus, and the bus’s patrons relaxed, But I mourned his loss. For he had much to say and no one to tell it to, And I had much to feel and now nothing to distract
LITTLERED LITTLERED LITTLERED
By Penny Starling
A little red pickup truck takes me nowhere and gets me stuck
Fight or flight, hate the sight, But I understand
I’m just a bull and it’s just a cape, We’re both trying to escape.
Little red lipstick stains
On the coffee cups In the diner, on main
Nothing more romantic, I’ll pretend it’s love, It’s my job to wipe it away What more is there to say?
Little red roses show at my door, cause you’re my valentine or my dog just died or just to say “I love you more”
Little red boots walk back around to remind me who I am and to walk me out of this town to make a great escape.
THEANTTHAT’STRAPPED THEANTTHAT’STRAPPED THEANTTHAT’STRAPPED
INSIDEAMAYOJAR INSIDEAMAYOJAR INSIDEAMAYOJAR
By Steph Katchabaw Third Place Winner
Not sure how I got here, but I’ve come so far I might as well enjoy my time In these odd circumstances I find myself in.
Perhaps I’ll scale these plastic walls. Maybe I’ll find something new up there.
Nope. Just more of the same. I suppose that’s alright, I’ve found what I came for, But then why do I still feel so strange?
I was piloted here by some deep, innate urge. I thought maybe I’d find myself a sense of fulfillment
I’ve got all I could want when I look about. I’m surrounded by slick abundance, But in this glossy prison, I find no satisfaction. No meaning, no plus, no promised rewards. Perhaps I’ll find something different if I burrow down
Still the same.
I should feel different by now.
Gratification really is elusive these days When everything is all the same, It’s hard to feel anything at all.
I don’t think I’m supposed to be here. This wealth, this gain, this trough of glory… It is not what I expected it to be The ground wobbles, my footing slips, It’s nameless, it’s tasteless, it’s all one big mess.
I think I’m going to suffocate.
I am an ant that’s trapped inside a mayo jar Peculiar drives have led me here. Was my instinct a blessing, or was it a curse? I can’t tell anymore.
It’s dreadfully lonely in here
THANKSGIVING THANKSGIVING THANKSGIVING
By Riley Van Loon
Even a domesticated turkey might wish to fly, Plump, pudgy and plucked for picking. What’s wrong with wishing against woe?
Fiendishly foraging for faux freedom, Even when you know what lies in wait
Flesh torn from my bones is the price for giving thanks, Perhaps I enjoy being devoured by dulled canines, The gift of my body bloats bellies.
Do ants even eat mayo?
In my dreams my nimble feet break free from the farm confines, And I have the ability to explore beyond all that I have been taught to know. Instead of being eaten, my wings remain attached to my body and lift me from the dirt, Far enough away that I can mimic sounds of migrating geese.
When I wake up, I am reminded that I am strung from my toes, Blood drains from each crevasse of my skin where it wishes to hide
My guts are scooped out by frigid fingers, My body is displayed for the family to decide my fate.
They gather around the table and interlock their fleshy fingers, Closing their eyes, they sing me a song as a parting gift
For the meal we are about to receive, may God make us truly thankful.