The Powerful Play

Elijah Lehmann

I wrote the most magnificent play

With beautiful lines and astonishing action

Demonstrating all I wanted to say

Every detail down to a minuscule fraction

I the hero, in triumph and passion

Seizes the day, vanquishing fear and hate

The sunrise my only needed ration

I carried no burdens, no withering weight

Yet the writing was only so much

My acting slowly turned weak and humbled

Distracted and horribly out of touch

Envisioned words whispered and mumbled

The lights screamed and blinded me

My humanity was not up for a perfect role

The lavishing lead, I hesitantly set free

The action freeing me, and my flawed soul

Pastinaca Sativa

Ethan Kober

Cloakèd and conspiring waits the fae.

A cringing smile awakes the day.

Beyond the lane comes one bestowed

With magics, of long hatred growed.

Beware, beware her clutch,

Beware, beware her burn. The umbel of her broom rivals a sun on humid days,

Her golden stare disarms, caution she corrodes.

A harmless stalker betwixt the corn and maize.

The pus of stalk and seed and stem belies inward decay. Beware, beware the broken skin, Beware, beware the raging stain. Her looks may seem blameless, Her bloom a beacon harmless, Herbaceous pest works in mirth, Her touch will prove thy worth.

Beware, beware her allure,

Beware, beware her potion.

With nectars rich she does attract; a swarm of suitors blaze.

Wasps and bees and ants abound; her blooms their fresh abode.

Blisters bubbling, brew billowing In the breeze; onto naked kindling. At noon the wretch will laugh and do her worst: Her caress will work its savage curse.

Beware, beware her clutches, Beware, beware her burns.

Sugar Sea Orme

Grandmother, I’ve come bearing goodies. No, that’s not right.

-

It’s behind you, paws thudding with unrelenting rhythm against the ground. Quiet, soft snarling bears resemblance to laughter. It won’t kill you. She wouldn’t, surely. Is your death that meaningless? Barely a mouthful at best, child.

-

Hours ago, days. Back when you stumbled, back when you fell to your hands and knees, scraped bloody as tenderized meat, back when the scream tore raw from your throat. Back when you laid there, limp upon the moss, cloak spread in a cotton pool of scarlet. You found yourself glad for the redness of your cloak. It would cover the stains. Mother had always hated stains.

You waited. (Run.) You waited. (Run.) The trees did not speak, branches hanging dead in the absence of wind. The teeth remained absent. (Run.) She wouldn’t.

Staggering, limbs aching in protest, scabs stinging, torn apart once more. The growling resumes.

My mistake. Pardon. Mercy be upon me, Lord, for I have sinned. Can you hear the chorus of heavenly angels above? They do not pray for you, child.

Down your cheeks, claw lines of red that bubble and hiss. There remains a lack of regret, leaning towards euphoric. Can you apologize, child?

-

Her teeth grow to sharpened, glittering points, her eyes swell with size, her mouth foams. Fur splits skin. Women can contract rabies if they try hard enough.

-

Her house. Over the river and through the woods. Your grandmother. The wolf. It had seemed an odd lifestyle change in the moment. Abrupt. To be fair, you hadn’t paid her much attention before. Only irritation preceded those trips to her dark, musty hut, far in the woods. Remarking upon her sudden coat might’ve been in poor taste. They used to burn witches, did you know?

-

Go. (Run.) Stumble through the snow, and weep as trees grasp for your hood and scratch at your eyes with those thin, pointed claws they flaunt as collectors of sunlight. Grandmother, I’ve something to tell you.

Cliffside Walk