The editor wishes to thank Western Michigan University’s Carl and Winifred Lee Honors College.
The mission of the Carl and Winifred Lee Honors College is to provide an exceptional undergraduate experience for academically motivated students, to inspire in our graduates a thirst for the lifelong pursuit of creative inquiry and discovery, to provide our students with the skill and passion to address critical challenges, and to foster personal responsibility informed by a global perspective.
The Laureate’s mission is to provide undergraduates at Western Michigan University a medium through which to publish their fiction, poetry, nonfiction, and other creative works. The Laureate strives to be a professional and engaging journal that appeals to all.
Letter from the Editor
Dear Readers of The Laureate,
I don’t know if I can truly put into words how grateful I am to have had the opportunity to work on the 24th edition of The Laureate. It’s been such a wonderful experience, witnessing and reading so many works of creativity. Each edition has brought its own unique voice, but this edition is something so vibrant and full of a genuine passion for the arts. Each story, poem, photograph, shares a unique perspective. The talent that these undergraduate students possess never fails to amaze me. I am proud to have had the opportunity to work on this year's edition of The Laureate.
I want to thank every single person who has helped guide me throughout this journey. Becky Cooper, Jennifer Townsend, my assistant editor, Madelyn Mill, and everyone on the design team, your direction, advice, and neverending support has taught me so much. I couldn’t have done this edition without you all, and I thank you for the hard work and hours you’ve poured into The Laureate.
Foreword
The Laureate is and always has been more than just an arts journal, it's a living conversation. Every sentence shares bravery and vulnerability, inviting other readers to reflect and pause. Each poem, photo, and short story, acts as a two-sided mirror showing you small bits of someone else's life, all while giving you a reflection of your past. The Laureate displays stories of hopes, dreams, despair, complexities, and joy that come with being a human. As you turn these pages we invite you to read slowly, feel every emotion, and discover something unexpected. We hope you enjoy and feel as deeply as we did about these pieces.
Table of Contents
8 Unquiet Mornings Will Fernandez
10 Winter’s Seize of Spring Bailey Tenney
12 Rebirth Cash Rabley
14 Darla Bailey Tenney
15 the flame keeps on flickering, i fear leah hochhalter
16 Winter (ater Katie Richards’ “Unfurl”) Oliver Morgan
18 Untitled - Photo Madelyn Mill
19 Freedom Clara Winstanley
24 So much more. Maria G. Hernandez
26 Pergamino Maria G. Hernandez
28 Pergamino (Translation) Maria G. Hernandez
30 Untitled - Photo Jiivan Manoharan
31 UNTITLED (the loser’s remorse) Jwesi
32 Orchid/Magnolia Nic Buccilli
33 wickedness Hunter Myers
34 hate me Hunter Myers
35 Self Portrait Jessica Lin
37 Sunset in Alabama Vivian Marie Williams
38 Prayer Jwesi
39 How to Ad Nauseam: A How to on How to Write a How to Write a How to Write a How to Caleb Clauer
41 Cat Portraits Leah Hochhalter
42 The Lost Life of a Nameless Being Clara Winstanley
48 Souls & Silhouettes. Shelby Vaughn
49 Perfectionism Madelyn Mill
50 Untitled - Photo Madelyn Mill
51 Caring v. Trying Shawna Schmandt
52 Adopted Madelyn Mill
53 ichor Hunter Myers
54 Womanhood Emily Watson
55 Things Left Unsaid Jessica Lin
67 Hair Holds Memories Emily Watson
68 Love...About that... Lucas Barnes
70 When the Whisper Fades Will Fernandez
72 71%: America, the Trans Community, and a Lack of Understanding. Oliver O’Dell
76 A Sister’s Guide: How (Not) to Anger Your Sister Sharley Bilot
79 A Nearly Missed Sight Vivian Marie Williams
80 Together v. Opposing Shawna Schmandt
81 Letter To My Cocoon Bridget Hesse
84 Murky Dilemma Khloe Kempker
85 Flames Khloe Kempker
86 Untitled - Photo Madelyn Mill
88 Crocodile Tears Isabella Hamade
90 Shedding Cameron Conroy
91 On Rittenhouse Square Nic Buccilli
92 Desire Path Vivian Marie Williams
93 “Stop and Smell the Flowers” Shawna Schmandt
Unquiet Mornings
Seeping through the ventilation, the aroma of pumpkin spice and maple wax jolt your nose to life again. Leaves and sunlight fuse into cathedral light, a gleaming warmth that’s loving.
The glowing pile of completed assignments radiates from your desk in the corner, a sign of a productive evening and the signal of a relaxing morning. These are the mornings you wish were consistent. But so often, your room feels like a destroyed sanctum.
Crusty eyes, a parched mouth, a lifeless leg dangling off your bed.
A torturous bang from a collapsed pan and the creak of that one cursed step.
Sluggish movements haunt the house, zombies who groan until at least 8 am, Since that’s when the coffee-stained beeping refuses to be silent.
All you wish for is to be wrapped up again, but that’s never what happens.
You yearn for the day you will wake up on your own, with a work-free desk, and your own glamorous scent. But those days are too far away.
Right now, you need to leave, but your gilded cage is too alluring. It’s a soldier of cotton and fabric, assigned to protect you regardless of the weather. It’s the foundation of your sanctum.
Reluctantly, you emerge from your cocoon and flee your fragile refuge. You pass your dim, paper-covered desk and darkened curtains, before moving swiftly past the zombies to start your unquiet morning.
Bailey Tenney
Winter’s Seize of Spring
Newly native flowers n’ babes of Nature’s spring palace Succumb to the hibernal touch of Time’s winter chalice.
As April’s sunken sun falls back into bitter March, Frozen sap soaks into the breasts of trees, while the Entangled chocolate roots of an antique larch Are ripped and wrung out by Earth’s mad decree.
Frost scrimmages with warm soil and nips at soft petals. Stems of budding flora are skinned by the cruel arctic seize. Villages of flowers are plundered by sleet, while snow settles On branches of sticky pine, embracing their mother trees.
The scarcity of warmth startles the somber strays and timid rabbits, as they are flanked by the blistering bite of frigid winter wiles. Returning to a muddy slush invading the dens of suckling kits, Creatures of Nature’s womb forced to submit to Earth’s foolish trials.
Rebirth
When I die, do not call a priest. His prayers are not wanted here. Why would I want a man of God? God has no power over me. He is not my Lord and Master. I serve no man, even in death. Do not pray to Him that I shall enter into His false kingdom.
No, feed my body to the land. Let my bones sink into the earth. Allow me to become the dirt. My body disintegrating, returning to our true Mother. She shall soak in my soul and corpse, rejuvenating her children with the remnants of my being.
Where I lie, let flowers blossom. Let roots puncture my cold, dead flesh. The flowers flourishing above, brilliant purples, whites, and reds, absorb from me their life and more, the hues of my lips, skin, and blood. As my vibrancy fades away, give it once again to the earth.
There may not be an afterlife, but after my life, more will bloom. Grass and flowers will be the first. How quickly will they cover me? Enveloping my place of rest in a tender, loving caress where sparrows pluck free the thick worms that wriggle through my hollow breast.
This is how I shall be reborn. If not into a human form, then, in the gently suckling moth who sips nectar above my grave. Allow my life to be passed on by a chain of devouring beasts. Transfer it now to The Swallow that swallows my Carrier Moth.
Bailey Tenney Darla
the flame keeps on flickering, i fear
the worst part of watching someone go is when you realize that they’re not gone for good and they’re still around you just won’t see them anymore
you were my light i didn’t know i needed once it was lit i never wanted it to burn out every spring, i need you to bring the gasoline i want it to end i want it all to end but the flame keeps on flickering, i fear.
it doesn’t go out no matter what you do your skin will still burn it will always find you just when it’s fine and you’re ready to put it out
someone brings more gasoline it’s not like you can just leave looking for the ocean but stuck in the desert
i don’t want more kindling but the flame keeps on flickering, i fear.
Winter (ater Katie Richards’ “Unfurl”)
Everything we said blurs together like snow in the wind.
You’re worried about the flowers that haven’t grown yet,
their roots still new and shoots too small.
There’s so much I want to tell you; that I was never angry, just alone and afraid.
What I missed when I still believed that this would be easy.
I’m still fighting to grow
like those stubborn weeds in the frost.
Winter will end, and we won’t talk about any of this ever again.
Oliver Morgan
You’ll ignore the signs that winter is almost over and that spring is finally here.
Tomorrow, you’ll wake up, scrape ice off the windshield, and pretend nothing has changed.
Tomorrow, I’ll wake up and try again, remembering where to walk so I don’t crush the flowers growing at my feet.
Untitled - Photo
Madelyn Mill
Clara Winstanley
Freedom
No matter how long I stare, the clock won’t stop. The numbers glare down at me, the 6 blinking into a 7 after a moment, the fluorescent lines rearranging, as they had done the minute before. And the one before that. And the one before that. And every minute since the pieces were fit together with small hands ten years ago in some factory oceans away. Does it matter where the clock came from? After all, the clocks all serve the same purpose, ticking away in unison until the world blends together into one whirlwind of a mess, ticking, ticking, ticking...
“Can I help you?” My head whips around, finding a middle-aged woman standing there, her hair pulled back into a loose ponytail. . I duly note the apron; she must be an employee.
“I’m okay, thank you...” My eyes wander over to the tag on her shirt, the name MEREDITH printed across in corporate block font. That is... longer than I expected. Maybe I don’t need to say her name?
“Yes?” Her voice rises. I mentally curse.
“Nothing.” I hurry, rushing back into the maze of shelves that make up the Home Depot where I’m currently persuing. Even for those who are not middle-class fathers looking for a new project, home repair refuge can be a safe haven. It is because of the previous demographic that makes the hardware store so great. They don’t ask questions, they aren’t too creepy, and the abundance of children mixed with fellow Father Sympathy Syndrome™ keeps them from getting too loud and brash. One can slip into the long rows and hide indefinitely, peacefully. I check my phone and see the digits 3:47 glowing back. I lift up my bag, slinging the printed canvas over my shoulder as I finally slip out of the sheltered area, heading toward the front. After all, no matter how long we spend pretending, time is always ticking on.
My thoughts fill my head, growing and growing as my cage of a mind sits overflowing with task after task it keeps going when can I escape from this hell without slowing my thoughts or my work or my job always pulling my flesh out of body without peace to take my mind and my soul with it to break.
I sit at my desk, in the same room I remodeled ages ago. It has seen me in every stage of life, every situation as they loop and loop and Wham
I groan, picking my head up from the desk to stare at the offending Calculus problem dangling before me. Why did I decide to take the hardest possible class again? Independence. College acceptance. A good job. A break. I turn back to my problem, snagging the insulated coffee cup off the corner of my desk and raising it towards the computer screen.
“To freedom.”
It’s finally getting to me and I can’t do anything at all. My eyes flit around the edges of my room, unable to rest on anything solid but determined to avoid the leter clamped in two hands that no longer feel like my own. I joined everything I possibly could, took every opportunity available, tried the hardest I could time after time all in the name of a better life. I’ve poured every last inch of myself into this school, into these programs using my soul till it dried out, moving onto blood. Each thought and moment has been dictated by the goal and the time, always moving and moving and moving without a second to breathe. I have become a slave to my future, and yet here it stands, printed in a large red blocked font. Everything I missed, everything I did wrong. They used the word lacking. My work, my time, never enough, no matter what.
You know, maybe it didn’t matter that I was rejected. Even if this letter arrived with a big green checkmark and a smile, I wouldn’t be happy. I am supposed to strive for excellence. Supposed to achieve these goals. Any sense of reward has long lost its flavor. And the grand narrative keeps on ticking, leading me on until I slowly crumble into nothing but flesh and bones.
What am I doing? I stand out here, watching the gray sky from the gaps in the canopy. I should be working on my Literature essay, I should be working on the second round of admissions, pouring my energy into a new, perfect resume. One that is so undeniably perfect that I’ll be a shoo-in to even the most prestigious of schools. All I need to do is work harder. And yet, here I am. Standing in the middle of a random patch of forest I found on Google Maps, with no sense of direction and no real plan to get home. I continue walking, picking a random direction. The crunch of leaves is repetitive, nice. I go to check my phone, but the screen refuses to light up. And oddly, I don’t even care. If the phone is dead, let it be dead, resting in peace. I continue to wander aimlessly as time slips by. As I’m strolling, I notice a faint light seeping in from the trees: stars. Huh. I’ve never seen those before. I continue walking for a moment before pausing. Why am I still walking? If I want to look at the stars, their glittering shapes, I can. There is no place to go, nothing to do. I tilt my head upwards, lying down on the packed floor of leaves and sticks to get a better view. It truly is beautiful.
Once I get bored, I stand up, continuing to work my way through the area. At some point the sun peeks out above the horizon, rising to the middle of the sky as I continue on my journey to away. As I stroll, something catches my eye. I turn around to see a cabin standing in the woods. It appears to be old, a relic of a time long gone. I walk over, observing the outward appearance. The rustic wooden panels hold together the shelter, a
deep ticking sound pulsing from within. Without a second thought, I pull open the door and step inside.
Tick
I scan my surroundings, eyes catching on the door in the corner. Long gashes dug into the wood, splintering away from the impact in a hazardous tangle.
Tick
The ceiling is surprisingly tall for such a rickety structure, each wooden plank groaning under the weight of the next.
Tick
My shoes scuff the floorboards as I walk further inside, slipping on the planks rubbed smooth from age. The oak, (or is it hickory?) panels were clearly once masterfully cut and placed into the floors, a style at one time or another. In fact hickory was quite in fashion.
Tick
Quite in fashion when I was younger. We had floors just like this at my grandparents’ house, meticulously cleaned every weekend. If I could get a closer look I would definitely be able to tell. I kneel down on the floor, running my hand over it to try and feel the lost grain. The pattern is faint but
Tick
I think I can feel it, the slight concentration and dip every small while. The pattern curls around, blending into the each other
Tick
I draw my hand back with a quick exhale, a splinter stuck in the pad, odd
Tick
I haven’t had one of these in years, I mean
Tick
I mean the last time I had one was what
Tick
What fifth grade and Grandma
Tick
Grandma was there and she said
Tick
She said that it
Tick
It would all
Tick
All be
Tick
Okay
Tick
Tick
Tick
My eyes catch on a wired mechanism. Oh
Tick
Clocks don’t typically tick down, do they
Tick
I should run
Tick
But I won’t
Boom
Oh. Oh, I wasn’t expecting this. This floating life. I can lay still. Stay. Listen. Wait for the world to slowly fade. There is no pulse. No skipping. No pull. Just me. Me and the wide open arms into nothingness on the other side. All I have to do is ... stop.
So much more.
Maria G. Hernandez
I promised myself I wouldn’t do this. And I feel the same feeling every day. Every single October of my life Comes flooded with the same redundant, overwhelming feeling, That there is always so much more.
I’ve said this so many times And I think it is finally catching up with me.
There is always so much more.
I can speak three languages, But I only want to speak of you. That I’ve been around the world, But I only want to be with you And all my actions are guided blindly by the mere possibility that our paths may cross today. And my mind is tired of never being rewarded with your presence because I can never seem to find you. And my mind, she works so hard. And she’s tried to forget, but she knows there is still so much more.
So much more to see To tell To live You are my unfinished story.
Let me see you one more time before you leave.
I think you might have encompassed all the sweetness and the love my humanity had always expected. You spoke to me in the language of love I had always dreamt of. But maybe this is all in my head.
I’ve written to you before, and I’ll probably write to you again. I write to you on scraps of paper from old notebooks. I write to you in my room, on the bus, in the classroom. I write to you in languages you don’t even speak, In the hopes that somehow, some way, you feel what I feel, Disregarding the distance, time, and conditions that separate us.
I’ve kept everything I have ever written to you; I fold them and hide them neatly under my bed, Where only God and I will ever find them. But you might never know this.
This load is tremendously heavy. Perhaps this is the last thing I write to you. I’m sure I’ll still have a lot to say.
Pergamino
Septiembre siempre llega con puertas que todavía no sé abrir. Hace tiempo que no escribo; ya he escrito demasiado.
¿Dónde me viste por última vez?
¿Te acuerdas de mí?
Soy escritora, soy poeta, nunca seré escritora ni poeta.
Si leyeras todo lo que he escrito, ¿me seguirías amando?
Si te diera un pedacito de mi cabeza, ¿te quedarías?
¿Entenderías?
¿Entenderías por qué amo tanto la luna?
Y por qué amo tanto a Dios, y cuanto quisiera ser la hija perfecta, ¿seguir el plan que El tiene para mí?
¿Sabes lo que es la impotencia?
¿La has sentido alguna vez?
Tal Vez el sol se siente asi
Cuando conoce a alguien
De ojos color miel
Y a pesar de que quisiera quedarse mirándole, hablándole, contemplándole, Debe seguir girando.
Porque para eso está el sol.
Y muchos saldrían heridos si el sol se quedarà hablando en un lugar,
Con alguien de ojos color miel. Le estaría negando la luz, a quien probablemente más la merece.
Hoy solo soy.
Pero mañana seré mejor.
Maria G. Hernandez
Maria G. Hernandez
Pergamino (Translation)
September always arrives with doors I still don’t know how to open.
It’s been a while since I’ve written; I’ve already written too much. Where did you last see me? Do you remember me?
I’m a writer, I’m a poet. I’ll never be a writer or a poet. If you read everything I have ever written, would you still be there?
If I gave you a piece of my mind, would you stay?
Would you understand?
Would you understand why I love the moon so much?
And the reason I love God,
and how much I wish I could be the perfect daughter, follow the plan He has for me?
Do you know what impotence is? Have you ever felt it before?
Perhaps the sun feels impotent when it runs into someone.
Someone whose eyes are a mixture of warm honey and malachite green. And even though it wants to stay looking at them, talking to them, contemplating them, it must keep moving.
Because that’s what the sun is for. It has to keep going.
And many would be hurt if the sun lingered in one single place, distracted by someone with honey-colored eyes. For it would be denying its light to the one who probably deserves it the most.
Today, I only am.
But tomorrow I will be better.
- Photo
Untitled
Jiivan Manoharan
UNTITLED (the loser’s remorse)
i still talk of him in the present as if the flame of desire exists in real time imagining us still our future i’ve scratched away every dried cell from my flesh as i await his return epidermis yearning for him
i beg for him i beg i watch as the sun exits its place in the sky to make space for all the other stars and re-enters it again and again and again allowing myself to follow its pace and slip into his orbit again
i still talk of you as if your transgressions occurred only yesterday as if there is a possibility of a simple explanation for every misdemeanor i watch the road for your car sit on my lawn hoping you’ll pass awaiting your exclamations of desire from your lips into my ears accept me as yours once again.
Orchid/Magnolia
Orchid
You are new to me, but familiar in our love for the city that hurt us both, the dreams that hold us captive, our upward gaze.
Your story overlaps with mine, shared details. Your mouth tells my life, from a different point of view.
When our lips come together, our stories are interwoven. When we undress, I show you parts of me that feel familiar to you. My faded ink has been lying in wait for you. You have been a part of me since before we knew the other existed, some part of our beings aligned, waiting to be uncovered.
Magnolia
I see him standing by the railing, a gate to our past, looking over the sound towards the sun setting on what we used to be. The orange and purple reflects the startling warm blue in his eyes, focused at a distance I can’t reach.
It’s been a year, or ten; time hasn’t seemed to pass at all. I feel a longing to remain in this present, stuck in the past. We used to time travel, losing track of time racing forward while we lingered in precious moments in each other’s arms, souls. Now time slows, as if our souls had been saving all the time we were apart, waiting, searching.
His hand brushes my forearm, where memories of sweet summer days live in ink not yet faded.
wickedness
Myers
i don’t know how they don’t see it the fangs behind my lips, the claws on each finger, the horns that sprout, grotesque and jagged from skin that strains to be treated gently i don’t know how they don’t see the monster how i contort in the sunlight struggling to stand without pain, clutching onto things that i shouldn’t how i flinch like i’ve been beaten if someone gently tells me what i’ve done wrong i don’t know how i’ve lasted this long sickness pours out of me coats everything i touch, poisons everything i try to do, slowly revealing the wickedness i know i am, even when everyone claims it’s far from the truth how much longer until they finally believe me?
Hunter
hate me sometimes i find myself wondering what if i made you hate me? not all at once, or even enough for it to be obvious but slowly. how would i even do it? ask for too much? dig my heels into habits i know you hate? press my fingers into things i know i have no right to? muster up the energy to be angry? maybe i could drive my car too fast down roads i don’t know, or wander away into the blinding rain and call you to pick me up? do it over and over again until one day you stopped responding. maybe i’m too much of a coward, that i wouldn’t be able to do it. but i think about it, just sometimes about what would happen if i tried i don’t know why i would want to.
Self Portrait
Jessica Lin
Sunset in Alabama
Vivian Marie Williams
Prayer
Won’t you hide your face from God again? Complain that the sun’s heat cannot reach you while residing in a freezer. Lock your mind from emotion and turn the key until the grooves are rubbed off. Circumventing feelings like observing them abstains you from committing. My only crime is not being present. My favorite sin is vanity. My greatest deception is the bitch. I wear only a mask. May God not see my face again. For if He saw me, the disappointed sigh would reverse a galaxy’s rotation. Spinning out in Margiela. May my fabrics always be luxurious. My skin may not know the pleasure of another against it. But my tears will soak into designer bags. May my deception always hold. My mask knows no bounds. My abstinence from vulnerability has no end.
Caleb Clauer
How
to Ad
Nauseam: A How to on How to Write a How to Write a How to Write a How to
Learning how to write a how to is one thing, learning how to write a How to Write a How to is a second thing. However, learning how to write a how to write a how to write a how to, that is a third. Before you can begin this not at all esoteric activity, you must be in the right headspace. Make yourself delirious, either by lack of sleep, or by some illicit substance (not an endorsement). Once you have emptied your head of sanity, you must refill the space with your how and your to. Say these words over and over until you breathe in how and breathe out to. Once only you understand your how and to, you can begin. Of course, once you begin your how to write a how to write a how to write a how to, you will promptly forget how to how to as the how and the to have a tendency to mix in the head. This is, unfortunately, inevitable, so you must make every effort to get your how straight and your to equally straight (for instructions on straightening prepositions and adverbs, see “How to Straighten a To and a How, Too.” If this work is unavailable, a clothing iron works as a substitute). Now, with our words straightened, it is paramount that you have every how and every to you can gather (there are likely some extras somewhere up the paragraph if you are in need of one). With your materials gathered and your letters freshly ironed, you can finally begin to write your how to on how to write a how to write a how to. It is more necessary than you could imagine to speak clearly when you write your how to write a how to write a how to write a how to, for if you begin to struggle and stumble over your words, it is likely that the student of your instruction may not learn how to write their how to write a how to. It is also probable that this student may confuse themselves and forget how to know how to write a how to in the first place if you cannot properly teach them how to teach others how to write a how to. If you are struggling to speak clearly, perhaps take some tips from the particularly precise wording of this work, as clearer language on how to write a how to write a how to write a how to do not exist anywhere else. As for the actual construction of the how to write a how to write
a how to, you must begin at the beginning, and continue chronologically. Next, you must write all of the steps of how to write a how to as you are educating them on this topic, despite the fact that you already know how to write a how to. In case you forgot, or do not know, some of the steps of teaching someone how to write a how to write a how to are things such as telling your reader how to tell their readers how to write a how to, or telling your reader how to tell their reader how to construct their how to.
Information on how to write a how to should be provided by you when instructing your readers how to write a how to write a how to. Once you have instructed your reader on how to write a how to write a how to, you can send them off on their way with some words of encouragement. It is up to you how to encourage your readers to keep writing. Now as for the reader of this how to themed how to, armed with clear speech, a bucket of vowels and consonants, and an ability to know how to how when you must how, how to to when you must to, and how to how to when the time calls for you to know how to how to during your writing of a how to write a how to write a how to write a how to, you are ready. Take some Motrin to fight the headache you and I are both feeling (not an endorsement) and begin your most important and also not esoteric writing of a how to write a how to write a how to write a how to.
Cat Portraits
Leah Hochhalter
Clara Winstanley
The Lost Life of a Nameless Being
Title #2
Don’t you think I’m pretty?
Don’t you love my carved figure and sculpted plains? No?
Well how about the roads you walk on every day, the flowers that push their way through the cracks in the tough rock to speckle stardust onto the expanse of monotonous grey?
Oh. You never noticed.
Well don’t worry, of course it’s fine! Silly me, we’re all busy doing what we can to keep the world going around... right? How about the clouds? I hear they have been busy, wisping across the sky in a never ending cosmic race and... you never saw the point of looking up. Well, you know, sometimes it’s really hard to look on the bright side, don’t blame you one bit. Just, ah, how about my trees, the ones that change with the seasons, emotions seeping through each new branch, once bare yet now springing with life as the sun comes around to shine once again. Right? Hey, the trees? Or, or maybe my fruits that feed you on a cool day? Or the glittering of the sun during golden hour? Or the perfect twist of the wind on a warm summer day? Please, isn’t it beautiful? Hey, look at me, please, I’m begging you LOOK AT ME. “Huh, it looks different here.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, could have sworn it used to have more...life.”
“Oh. Weird.”
Title #3
They call me pure.
My lands stand far and alone as I hear your ‘praise’ echo from worlds away
They call me pure
While the toxins by which you poison my sister creep onto my land, choking me in my grief
They call me pure
And document my skin to share with the world
They call me pure
Then developers stand, their mouths salivating at the thought of capturing me to call me their own
They call me pure rolling it off the tongue like a compliment
They call me pure
A word they have created to define my worth
They call me pure
Knowing full well that they are the only ones who can taint me
They call me pure
While waiting greedily for my downfall at their own hands
Title #5: (Original text from Unleashing American Energy)
By the authority vested in me as President by the Constitution and the laws of the United States of America, it is hereby ordered:
Section 1 . Background. America is blessed with an abundance of energy and natural resources that have historically powered our Nation’s economic prosperity. In recent years, burdensome and ideologically motivated regulations have impeded the development of these resources, limited the generation of reliable and affordable electricity, reduced job creation, and inflicted high energy costs upon our citizens. These high energy costs devastate American consumers by driving up the cost of transportation, heating, utilities, farming, and manufacturing, while weakening our national security.
It is thus in the national interest to unleash America’s affordable and reliable energy and natural resources. This will restore American prosperity—including for those men and women who have been forgotten by our economy in recent years. It will also rebuild our Nation’s economic and military security, which will deliver peace through strength.
Sec. 5 . Unleashing Energy Dominance through Efficient Permitting. (a) Executive Order 11991 of May 24, 1977 (Relating to protection and enhancement of environmental quality) is hereby revoked.
(b) To expedite and simplify the permitting process, within 30 days of the date of this order, the Chairman of the Council on Environmental Quality (CEQ) shall provide guidance on implementing the National Environmental Policy Act (NEPA), 42 U.S.C. 4321 et seq., and propose rescinding CEQ’s NEPA regulations found at 40 CFR 1500 et seq.
(c) Following the provision of the guidance, the Chairman
of CEQ shall convene a working group to coordinate the revision of agency-level implementing regulations for consistency. The guidance in subsection (b) and any resulting implementing regulations must expedite permitting approvals and meet deadlines established in the Fiscal Responsibility Act of 2023 (Public Law 1185). Consistent with applicable law, all agencies must prioritize efficiency and certainty over any other objectives, including those of activist groups, that do not align with the policy goals set forth in section 2 of this order or that could otherwise add delays and ambiguity to the permitting process.
(d) The Secretaries of Defense, Interior, Agriculture, Commerce, Housing and Urban Development, Transportation, Energy, Homeland Security, the Administrator of the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA), the Chairman of CEQ, and the heads of any other relevant agencies shall undertake all available efforts to eliminate all delays within their respective permitting processes, including through, but not limited to, the use of general permitting and permit by rule. For any project an agency head deems essential for the Nation’s economy or national security, agencies shall use all possible authorities, including emergency authorities, to expedite the adjudication of Federal permits. Agencies shall work closely with project sponsors to realize the ultimate construction or development of permitted projects.
(e) The Director of the NEC and the Director of the Office of Legislative Affairs shall jointly prepare recommendations to Congress, which shall:
(i) facilitate the permitting and construction of interstate energy transportation and other critical energy infrastructure, including, but not limited to, pipelines, particularly in regions of the Nation that have lacked such development in recent years; and
(ii) provide greater certainty in the Federal permitting process, including, but not limited to, streamlining the judicial review of the application of NEPA.
Sec. 6 . Prioritizing Accuracy in Environmental Analyses.
(a) In all Federal permitting adjudications or regulatory processes, all agencies shall adhere to only the relevant legislated requirements for environmental considerations and any considerations beyond these requirements are eliminated. In fulfilling all such requirements, agencies shall strictly use the most robust methodologies of assessment at their disposal and shall not use methodologies that are arbitrary or ideologically motivated
(b) The Interagency Working Group on the Social Cost of Greenhouse Gases (IWG), which was established pursuant to Executive Order 13990, is hereby disbanded, and any guidance, instruction, recommendation, or document issued by the IWG is withdrawn as no longer representative of governmental policy including:
(i) the Presidential Memorandum of January 27, 2021 (Restoring Trust in Government Through Scientific Integrity and Evidence-Based Policymaking);
(ii) the Report of the Greenhouse Gas Monitoring and Measurement Interagency Working Group of November 2023 (National Strategy to Advance an Integrated U.S. Greenhouse Gas Measurement, Monitoring, and Information System);
(iii) the Technical Support Document of February 2021 (Social Cost of Carbon, Methane, and Nitrous Oxide Interim Estimates under Executive Order 13990); and
(iv) estimates of the social cost of greenhouse gases, including the estimates for the social cost of carbon, the social cost of methane, or the social cost of nitrous oxide based, in whole or in part, on the IWG’s work or guidance.
(c) The calculation of the “social cost of carbon” is marked by logical deficiencies, a poor basis in empirical science, politicization, and the absence of a foundation in legislation. Its abuse arbitrarily slows regulatory decisions and, by rendering the United States economy internationally uncompetitive, encourages a greater human impact on the environment by affording less efficient foreign energy producers a greater share of the global energy and natural resource market. Consequently, within 60 days of the date of this order, the Administrator of the EPA shall issue guidance to address these harmful and detrimental inadequacies, including consideration of eliminating the “social cost of carbon” calculation from any Federal permitting or regulatory decision.
(d) Prior to the guidance issued pursuant to subsection (c) of this section, agencies shall ensure estimates to assess the value of changes in greenhouse gas emissions resulting from agency actions, including with respect to the consideration of domestic versus international effects and evaluating appropriate discount rates, are, to the extent permitted by law, consistent with the guidance contained in OMB Circular A-4 of September 17, 2003 (Regulatory Analysis).
(e) Furthermore, the head of each agency shall, as appropriate and consistent with applicable law, initiate a process to make such changes to any rule, regulation, policy or action as may be necessary to ensure consistency with the Regulatory Analysis.
(f) Within 30 days of the date of this order, the Administrator of the EPA, in collaboration with the heads of any other relevant agencies, shall submit joint recommendations to the Director of OMB on the legality and continuing applicability of the Administrator’s findings, “Endangerment and Cause or Contribute Findings for Greenhouse Gases Under Section 202(a) of the Clean Air Act,” Final Rule, 74 FR 66496 (December 15, 2009).
Souls & Silhouettes.
Learn to love me.
Not just my curves
My creases
My physical attributes.
Learn to cherish me
But not for my body
Not for my eyes or skin or hair or nails.
Learn to admire me
Not for my hips or lips or the dips you might enjoy
Please learn to love the introvert who makes an effort to be confident
The nurturer who will walk a mile to make sure everyone continues to smile
Learn to love the sincere soul who tries to do it all
The generous spirit who will put herself out to make sure she can come when someone calls
Learn to love the hardworking employee desperately trying to make ends meet
And the cheerleader who’s running to be on everyone’s sideline so that person can feel complete.
Learn to love the victim of depression that seems to suppress her to her own bedsheet
And the anxiety-ridden human who is always thinking of the worst
Learn to love the little girl in her suffering from PTSD because her past let her to believe her life will never be pain-free
Learn to love the overthinker she has come to be
And all of her insecurities she tries to keep from being seen.
Learn to love the resilient creature who doesn’t let her past define her.
Please learn to love the brave human who does the unimaginable each and every day.
Learn to love the authenticity that comes with me.
Shelby Vaughn
Madelyn Mill
Perfectionism
A whisper that gives sweet nothings, A whisper that winds you like a clock,
A whisper that hums with good intentions,
A whisper that molds you like fine rock.
It dresses like discipline, It smiles like success.
You call it motivation, It makes me second-guess.
A voice that becomes deceiving,
A voice that knocks and never stops,
A voice that twists how you’re perceiving,
A voice that shadows your every thought.
Sleepless nights studying,
Sleepless nights worrying,
Sleepless nights starving
Every success hides a crack,
Every ‘almost’ steers me off track.
All to appease the constant voice.
Was it all worth it?
As its grip becomes my choice.
Untitled - Photo
Madelyn Mill
Schmandt
Caring v. Trying love caring
Sometimes I love myself for caring Hate trying
Shawna
Madelyn Mill
Adopted
I was born on a day I’ll never know, a candle unlit, only one picture to show. A picture I hold dear, filled with memories to bear— the only piece of me that connects me to me, in a silence too heavy to share. A single choice made by a weeping mother A single choice that gave me life but took away another. One mother wept as I left her arms while another mother welcomed me with open arms. Each scar I bear, a silent plea: “Will you stay, or unchoose me?” I wear a smile like a borrowed coat, trying to match a culture I never wrote. I laugh on cue, I play the part, but I don’t know where to place my heart. I hold my head up and, my strides are never short. Abandonment lingers like winter air, trust is a wound that needs gentle care. Many people tell me I am lucky— It is true, I am, please believe me. But still, I hope— not for answers tied in a perfect bow, but for someone to see what I don’t show. To read the story behind my eyes, where forgotten birthdays never die. So here I stand, a patchwork soul, stitched from love, stitched from holes. And though I may not know my start, I carry every scar close to my heart.
ichor sometimes i wonder, if something were to cut you what color would you bleed? my blood pours out of me with every step i take, every breath i leave a mess of red in my trail the liquid that flows in your veins is it red or is it gold? sometimes, just sometimes i think about the trail you would leave and if i could lift the ichor to my mouth and let it burn me from within
Hunter Myers
Emily Watson
Womanhood Moonlight pours through the window onto the flesh that binds me to violence, condemnation, and shame, to an identity that isn’t mine. Yet, I have to brand myself, adhere to the confines of this prison, and accept my fate.
Hair Holds Memories
Wild wisps wind around my face and ears withstanding the beams of the sun, the tears of the fall, and the crystallization of winter.
My ends split, weak, worn down. I don’t cut them off just yet. They say the past serves as a reminder. Maybe I can learn from them. I familiarize myself with the memories. Each inch is a different season, but as I finger through the strands they are filthy tangled matted.
I can’t wash them away, So every year I cut my hair.
Emily Watson
Love...About that...
Love is a furniture tag you glimpsed as a child saying ”not to be removed except by the consumer”, Awaiting a familiar face in the local orphanage, And later at the bar.
Love is the eclectic sea of bodies with gyrating kneecaps on coffee grounds. Bodies in rigid Flexion, Some, just standing...... yes, standing Alone...... Bodies slinging pineapple juice on porch fronts upside down. Bodies, no....... No more bodies.
Love is an iatrogenic beetroot, an organic superfood nitrate soaking up all that made you forcing puffed pirouettes from the crumb vacuum as your diaphragm wheezes, a hair raising hackle shaking in chassis suspension.
Love is the weeping zipper of a body bag.
Useful only in death.
A gourd with rusted bear trap teeth shimmering between abandoned Cocomelon throw pillows and velvet Tamagotchi wallets. Is that love too?....... huh?
Love is being gluten-free for the health benefits, but smoking a pack whenever anxiety spikes.
It makes no fucking sense.
Lucas Barnes
Love is 51 card pick-up inside a frozen gallon of milk. You sort that one out yourself.
Most of all, love is the fact that I never removed the furniture tag. That it’s still waiting to go missing.
To unleash the flood-freighted flakes. A boondoggle of emotion, chambered off, Saying, Indeed, I did pick you.
When the Whisper Fades
I was told nobody is perfect. That every soul has scraped a knee, tasted the salt of loss, or heard the sting of an argument. But I guess I never listened.
I’ve spent my life chasing a horizon made of thin ice, every step cutting my feet. I sharpened pencils, until they splintered in my palms. I wrote until crimson marks appeared on my hands. Those marks frightened me.
Every line begged for revision, every word demanded a polish that stole away the serenity from its sound. I erased until the paper thinned, but it’s still never blank.
Perfection lingers tonight, a patient shadow whispering again, nourishing the ache already growing in my chest. For years I obeyed, but that night was different.
My eyes will never forget, the stranger in the mirror, a petrified boy who made himself a monster. A person who covered themself in oozing red stains. Someone who’s thin ice finally broke.
I now let the whisper fade away. I open the window and let the wind wrinkle the sheets. I let the lamp spill where it pleases, and leave my pages full.
I breathe. and in the imperfect air my heart finds its uneven rhythm. Finally, at long last, I’m back.
71%: America, the Trans Community, and a Lack of Understanding.
The first time I ever heard the word “transgender” was in the wake of North Carolina’s 2016 “bathroom bill.” I was thirteen. My parents, grandparents, and private school teachers—all of them loud and proud conservatives— closely followed the controversy, litigation, and the bill’s eventual repeal. Fox News and talk radio segments demonizing trans people and their allies became the background noise of my middle school years. The adults nodded along and agreed, occasionally parroting the information as their own opinions. I sat there, the sick feeling in my stomach growing worse with each discussion. I was only thirteen, but I knew. My earliest memories of what I would later learn was gender dysphoria began at nine years old. At thirteen, I was still in denial, still trying to cram myself into the box the adults around me expected me to fit into. But I always knew. And for the next several years, that feeling threatened to eat me alive unless I did something about it. But with every adult I was supposed to trust meeting any mention of transgender people with disgust or anger, I didn’t even know where to begin.
I didn’t meet another trans person until three years later, when I was a sophomore in high school. I was new to the area, and we happened to sit near each other in Drama. Eventually, we found ourselves working on the school musical together, and sitting in the same group at lunch. Unlike me, they came out in middle school, had a mom that accepted them, and continued their transition throughout and well after high school despite social pressure and stigma. They played a huge part in how my beliefs (and my own identity) changed in high school.
In a 2024 survey, the Gay and Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation (GLAAD) reported that up to 71% of Americans say they have never met someone who is transgender. Transgender people make up less than 2% of the nation’s population. 71% of Americans are forming their opinions on 2% of the population without having said a word to a single one of them. Their information comes from the
news, political commentators, and other cisgender people. Granted, these people aren’t transphobic simply because they’ve never met a trans person before. Some of the information they hear may very well be positive, and they can be allies at best or indifferent at worst. But within the last few years, it’s been very hard to ignore the flood of negative information circulating regarding transness. Some of the information is simply dated, much more of it is misinformation, and even more is downright inflammatory or completely false.
When I think of this statistic, I think of politicians like Nancy Mace and her frequent use of transphobic slurs. I think of the dozens of other political figures labeling us everything from mentally ill to “nihilistic violent extremists.” I think of celebrities and public figures like JK Rowling and Elon Musk using their platforms to purposefully spread harmful rhetoric and misinformation while their money buys support for anti-trans legislation. I think of the rapidly growing number of anti-trans laws across the country since 2022. I think of that night of the 2024 election, when I spent the last two and a half hours before my alarm went off crying in Instagram voice memos to my friends wondering how the Hell any of us were going to make it out of this. And worst of all, I think of people like the people I grew up around, who are taking it all in without hearing the other side of things.
I know that not everyone’s opinions will change after a simple conversation with a trans person. That’s not how this works, and I don’t expect it to. But I believe a lot can happen if people only took the time to listen. If people took the time to listen to trans people, their minds may change. They might see that we are nothing like what we are made out to be. We aren’t terrorists hell bent on destroying whatever their idea of America is. We’re just people. We’re someone’s children, we’re someone’s friends, we’re someone’s parents. We’re doctors and engineers and teachers. We’re artists and scientists and activists. We have lives and families. We don’t fit the standard definitions of what “makes” a man or a woman. But that isn’t a flaw or something that makes us dangerous. It’s what makes us human.
When I finally came out to my parents last year, I made it clear that I knew things between us wouldn’t change overnight. I didn’t want to argue or debate my identity or what they thought was best for me. I wanted them to hear what I had to say, take it all in, and try. I wanted them to try and understand how I felt, and how what they believed affected me. I wanted them to challenge themselves and their beliefs because they were my parents. I wanted them to change, but I wasn’t going to force them to.
People are often quick to fear what they don’t understand. They jump to conclusions and make assumptions and try to look for a danger that isn’t there. And understanding transness and each trans person’s view of it is a lot, I know. But I think that the beauty of humanity is our capacity to try. I have seen so much good come from the simple act of trying to understand something—or someone. Some people never will, but that doesn’t mean no one ever will.
I want to say that the story between my family and me ends happily. I wish I could say that my parents accepted me without hesitation, and their beliefs are dramatically different today than they were when I was thirteen and too afraid to even admit to myself that I was transgender. Unfortunately, that isn’t what happened. My open door was met with a brick wall and several different versions of “we love you, but....” Their own argument was backed up by enough misinformation and personal theories to fill its own essay. In short, it did not go well. It hurt, of course, but I knew what I was getting into when I told myself that I was going to come out. And no matter the outcome, I knew that their reaction wasn’t going to stop me from being myself.
A year later, I still hold onto the hope that one day, maybe, my family will be open to understanding who I am. It might be next week, next year, or a decade from now. Some of them might come around, and some of them might not. But however and whenever it gets to that point, I’ll be ready to talk to them and hope that eventually, they’ll understand.
A Sister’s Guide: How (Not) to Anger Your Sister
Your sister’s incessant voice drones off in the distance. You know she’s probably doing something important, but you still have the urge nevertheless; You must go bother her! Now hold your horses. Are your parents around? Is your sister stronger than you? How do your fighting skills look? There are too many risks at hand. Maybe annoying her is the wrong move. But that’s all you know how to do! Well, let us help you with our step-to-step guide designed for sisters: How (Not) to Anger Your Sister.*
Step 1: Don’t bother her with randomness when she is in the middle of something. You must remember she is doing something important. It may seem tempting to mess up her stuff, but without meaning she will just get mad at you. Try subtly messing with her instead. Pose questions that spark curiosity, confusion, or even annoyance. For example, asking “What’s the capital of Italy? Do you hear sirens? Do you smell smoke? How do you spell onomatopoeia?” cause interruptions to her work while not instantly creating anger.
Step 2: Never rudely correct her. Who likes to be corrected? Have a little fun. If she says something wrong, try correcting her incorrectly. “No, Venice isn’t the capital of Italy, Florence is!” This avoids the screaming that you don’t have to be such a know it all.
Now that you’ve interacted with her twice in one sitting, she may be on the edge of irritation. You must tread carefully from here on out. It’s important to note that if you keep poking the bear, you may wake the bear. Taking a break from speaking to her may be just enough to stay in the clear.
Step 3: Never steal her candy. Not when she is looking at least. Always sneak it. If she is working on homework at the dining room table, guess what! Her room is left unguarded. Or if she is doing her own thing in her room, wait until she leaves to go to the bathroom. You may be hanging in her room and her bag of M&Ms are sitting on her
Sharley
desk wide open. It would be so easy to snatch a handful quickly and shove it in your mouth. But I’ll let you in on a secret. The consequences of those actions will be your sister getting very angry with you and then as time goes on you’ll condition her to hide her candy when you are in sight. It will become increasingly more difficult to snatch her goods. Therefore, you must be sneaky. Listen carefully: Never take a noticeable amount, never alter the packaging, and always leave it how you found it. This way your sister won’t notice, and you can save yourself the angry tirade.
Now that you know how to not anger your sister, there are other ways you can succeed at not angering her. Instead of making her mad, do you want to make her feel like she’s losing her mind? There is a simple way to do this! How, you ask? Well, through her wardrobe of course! But like always, you must be careful.
Step 4: Similar to step three, don’t steal her clothes and wear them in front of her. If you’re really keen on not angering her then you must ask for permission. But you’re her sister, chances are she will say no. So why ask? Better to ask for forgiveness than permission! Shove her sweater in your bag or cover up her shirt with a jacket. Out of sight out of mind. This way she is left pondering where her clothing could possibly be. You can then sit back and enjoy the show as she marches around the house opening random cupboards. Just make sure to return the clothing promptly. If she finds her favorite sweater in your dirty clothes, it’s game over.
We have now guided you through many stages of avoiding anger from your sister. We’ve shown you how you can ask simple questions and sneak things to your advantage. These steps are ways to mess with your sister, but we know it isn’t satisfactory enough. She’s your sister for crying out loud! She deserves only the best, and what is better than insults! So now we come to our last step.
Step 5: Don’t constantly call her stupid. Switch it up, of course. There are many others words for stupid. Like idiot, for example. Using synonyms will keep her on her toes. How can she be angry when you call her a noodle head, and it takes her a minute to process it’s an insult. This way you can insult her whenever you please without the backlash!
Follow these steps, and you are sure to have a less angry sister.
*By buying this step-by-step guide you agree to our terms and conditions including the following: We are not responsible for other negative outcomes or bodily harm received in the attempt to follow our guide. All actions are your own and must be carried out with individual discretion. You cannot sue us for failed results. You may buy and reference from our book, “User Error,” if this occurs.
A Nearly Missed Sight
Vivian Marie Williams
Together v. Opposing
Together unite
Opposing we destroy each other
Opposing destroy
Shawna Schmandt
Letter To My Cocoon
I
You’re in a blueberry field chasing butterflies.
A giver of fruit, a shrunken bug, a weird girl who needs a hug. Surrounded by people, lonely. You are hiding yourself from energetic predation. Secrecy, your shield.
You feel like an insect dodging slapping hands as you buzz annoyingly. You wish for the power of invisibility as guts boil under your skin. You turn to self deprecation, further wounding the one within.
Perceived flaws flood your plate, you choke on them, you suffocate. “Too much," people berate as judgement waves its wind in your face. You’re caught in the societal spider web unable to escape self hate.
Your brain is a universe of its own. The mind of a squashed fly, you view. The toxic air you inhale consumes you, it poisons petals so you cannot bloom.
You are overtaken by unseen forces that quake you into quiet. The rumbling rocks, striking lightning, frayed membranes, prickly thorns. Your awareness is lost in a storm, torn.
Bridget Hesse
II
You live in a cookie cutter town, a carnival of facade where warped mirrors paint you a mirage. You ride the carousel of life, dizzy. The round and round spin as you fall to the ground lifetimes pass and memories pull. When your soul hits the earth, your mind materializes in a girl.
A prize in disguise by the tiltawhirl. A rebirth in the vibrant dirt. You lose yourself in the moon. Gone in peaceful solitude. A caterpillar wrapping itself in its cocoon. A natural hermit, you.
You survive in solitude, dissociate into dreams. In a secret spiritual grove, unmasked but tethered to the past you. The world attempts to refracture your self view but fails to conquer you. You are stretched out in surrender to your soul, breaking away from a life of control.
You outgrown your habitat through the time passed. Deadlocked in despondence, ready for resonance. You resurface in the green, ready to fly and taste the word under your feet. Your consciousness is a butterfly leaving the monkey masquerade to board a train to free-spirited days.
Your cocoon is unwrapping. Wings, unfolding.
You are no longer trapped in a box as you wait to be sliced with a saw. You are inside out, raw, a sprained skeleton bending, an escapee from the carnival of self-made insanity. You are a butterfly seeing herself for the first time in a vanity. Not a funhouse mirror. This is clarity.
A metamorphosis of perception, a whimsical refusal of depression amidst the withering and lessons. You are warm in the rain as your heart is embraced. The rainbow in the mirror refracts from your face.
Upon the sun, your fears liquidate and dry. Your spirit is here to do more than survive. Adventure is your nectar, you live to fly. You are an anomaly following her story. Flaring in fire, wings stretched out in a symphony, fingers intertwined with the stars. You are free.
You are a woman with an essence that shimmers through skin. Your heart is in your hands, an extension of the soul within.
Murky Dilemma
At what point does a profound people pleaser attempt to please oneself? How much weight of other people’s problems does it take before I snap, and break, and am crushed to my core?
An invisible noose lives around my throat slowly suffocating the authentic parts of myself.
How am I, a people pleaser meant to remain myself when my authentic being is distorted in the fog of a steam-soaked mirror?
The temperature rises, and I know this is my last chance. I can either be asphyxiated by the haze of others' burdens, or I can open the door and breathe in self-preservation.
The choice is mine. Or is it theirs?
Khloe Kempker
Flames I light this candle for my childhood self. She believed that growing up seemed surreal, that youth and tranquility would forever remain still.
With each passing year, the candle began to melt and flicker; the subtle evaporation of my girlhood. I blinked, and the bonfire of reality began.
In acceptance of aging, I discover a new candle. With a match, I light profound potential. I watch the flame grow, feel its gentle presence. Purpose through the smoke, fear fleeing from my mind.
Senses and surroundings unexpectedly resurface memories of her. Playgrounds with crooked, rusted swing sets. Trees with deep roots, wilted leaves. Artificially sugared stuck cotton served at carnivals.
I’ll always miss that sickly sweet taste.
Khloe Kempker
Untitled - Photo
Madelyn Mill
Crocodile Tears
Spikes of green
Arise in this night.
Blades of the mother
Marching the shallow Land, wet mud smearing plants, But the muck-filled pond Still glimmers in this light.
And along the pointed edges
Guarding their shore, Appears the spark of another Submerged deeper. Yet it tore
The first page of water, Rippling as it folds Onto the moving surface, Mirroring its deep, warmer breaths.
Warmer, now heavy, Yet from those shallow nostrils still. I imagine it heaving As the mucky bubbles peel Away, an approach from beneath. Like a sword unsheathing, Sight captures the might of that piercing form.
Alike to the tinier tracks of grass, The object appears an earthly taste of green. But now the hue appears to fragment, Disjointed, cracking Rising from down low. Thick, wrinkled skin, Rough like shattered glass, Emerge from the window below.
Isabella Hamade
The liquid’s reflection to hide In circles, “run away” runs away. Faster in time
As the broken monster
Contaminates with its growing lines.
Lines dug deep into its fleshy, algae soul Aligning like squares, tiny and piling Up, as the creature arises like storm. With a muddy shine to stain
The grass-blade scales in vain, Like a vanity of gold, Drooping from its dirty body, Reptilian body of old.
It dares to look at its reflection, Narrow-pointed pupils
Peering from slivered skin.
Only finding the grotesque form staring back, Otherworldly, frightening, yet earthly borne limbs
Colored with the mushy pond it’s always lived in.
And despite it being so strange, So sad in its image, It will not turn to stone When looking at its eyes.
Instead, the eyes will shrink And attempt to swallow the glances away
With one final blink, One final flush Down.
But the water only lies below, And keeps the horror alive. In the aching, drying hollow
Of crocodile eyes.
Shedding
I bought a one-way ticket. Not because I didn’t plan on going back to where I was supposed to but to see how long it would take—
Three weeks, it turns out, is how long it takes to lose track of who you once were; but more importantly, it was the lack of funds.
Okinawa aquariums are really pretty. See the bubbles, the scales the humans on display not knowing they’re trapped too.
A dark corner sat at the exit. Where stairs led up and no one glanced. Steps gloomed but sunlight loomed above. But I did not go to somewhere I did not buy a ticket to and that’s okay.
Cameron Conroy
On Rittenhouse Square
Rittenhouse Square
Luciérnagas que bailan en Rittenhouse Only people that make me glow, shine
Verdades de mi ser, pertenencia
Evening chatter, luxurious leisure
Spring Break
Pedaling against forty-five mile-per-hour gusts, I still felt like I was being carried to the Square. I walked past the magnolia tree that reminded me I still belonged, that part of the city still owned me. The Lilies of the Valley, newly pushed through the soil, hinted at the possibility of another luxurious, never-ending summer. Instead of empty, brown grass, I saw moonlit picnics in the glow of fireflies.
I saw you.
Someone passed, breaking my lily-induced trance. It was a cellist, but not the one I wanted it to be. You follow me even where I’m most content being alone.
In my desperation for growth, regeneration, spring, I find comfort in the complexity of my love for you.
Nic Buccilli
Desire Path
Vivian Marie Williams
“Stop and Smell the Flowers”
The common phrase “stop and smell the flowers” makes me think about lying in a field for hours. I could simply sit there for all of time with nothing on my mind except making a new rhyme. I would sleep and read and write and sing and live in bliss while it is still spring. And even though winter is coming soon, with its long nights and shining moon, I am content to wait through the storms and snow because after the cold and dark I know That the flowers bloom quickly after and I will again be filled with happiness and laughter.
