in Somewhere, Anywhere, I do love you | 9 no title is title enough is title enough for the earth i envision | 18 - 19
Ode to a dust ball | 11
Ode to a yawn | 24 - 25
Memory | 32
Quinn Brennan
Presley Hinkle
Samantha Gerken
How to be Haunted | 12 - 13
Nighttime Feeding | 14 - 15
Strays | 22 Appointment | 26
Thomas Malinovsky
Bret Wilde-Webster
K
Ann Rodriguez
rules for a bad kid | 28 - 29
Its Snowing Outside | 30
Fangs | 23
Withering Away | 31
ART & PHOTOGRAPHY
Pink Issue | Cover A Hat | 3
Goose the Penguin | 5
Overgrown | 8
Nightstand | 10
Fisherman’s Rib Cage | 17
Handsome Boy | 21
Baba’s Kitchen | 27
Golden Scars | 33
Treesil | 34 - 35
MISSION STATEMENT
Volition serves to elevate the creative capacity of the Mason community by fostering freedom of expression across diverse mediums.
Aakash Nimmala
Emma McGuire
Emi Lundblad
Ann Rodriguez
Letter from the Editor
At Volition, we value the voices of George Mason University students. We value what you have to say, what you feel, the things that scare you, the things you love. We often forget that we’re a journal run by students, made of students’ art, for students. During the process of putting this volume together, I realized just how much this rang true. In trying to maintain structure and meet deadlines, I strayed from the idea that putting together Volition volumes every semester is a passion and a love of mine and my staff’s. What recentered me, brought me back to that idea, was your art.
We have a few inside jokes as a Volition family about this volume, but I’ll let you in on one. As a staff, we called this volume “the pink issue”, because of the color of the beautiful cover, and the aura of the volume as a whole. We kept seeing pink in your words, in your art. Pink in all shades- rose in your love poems, magenta in your prose. This volume is full of truth, nostalgia, growing pains, and the immobilizing realization that you’re getting older. This volume is full of whimsy, curiosity, and fear. This volume is full of love for our planet, and the life on it. The aura that filled the room as we put it together was pink. It swelled and ribboned all around us. I hope you feel it too. I hope it ribbons around you and holds you tight. I hope you feel these words and this art in your chest.
Our contributors are the artists with the palette of pinks that made this beloved pink volume. Thank you for your magic, your imagination, your brilliance. We are so grateful that you’d let us in. We are grateful as art admirers for your ability to say the words we may struggle to. We often forget that we’re all peers. As your peer, I thank you for making me feel less alone. Thank you for bringing pieces to be put together into this volume.
On behalf of the Editorial staff and myself, we’d like to thank the entire staff at Student Media for being the backbone we can lean on to make what we do possible. I would personally like to thank my brilliant staff, who fills every room with color and inspiration. I would like to thank Erin Zellner, our graduating Poetry and Prose Editor for being my right hand this year, your illumination will be missed at Volition. Last, but certainly not least I’d like to thank our faculty advisor Jason Hartsel who sees me well enough to know my potential, and trusts me enough to encourage me to see it too.
I sincerely hope you love this sweet pink volume. We love it dearly. Take care of it, take care of the art inside it, and take care of yourself. We are so thankful you’re here. We are so thankful that you support Volition, and we are right here with you. All the love,
Natalia Romero Executive Editor
A Hat | Aakash Nimmala | Photography
Wild Geese
Reddish, muddy sun marks streaks of dust as it struggles over the frame of the window washing the walls with color.
Slowly, then suddenly, light penetrates the once heavy, dark sky. I am forced to open my eyes. How lovely.
Nature’s easel giving brilliant color to what was hidden even under the passing starlit night.
Who can grow tired after a thousand sunrises?
Do we not all still stop in awe when the harsh night is replaced with golden life?
I’ll never grow tired I think. I’ll paint a thousand sunrises inspiration calling out to me like wild geese.
| Emma McGuire
Goose the Penguin | Aakash Nimmala | Photography
On fences
Good fences make good neighbors, but what happens when the fence grows old?
When my little brother started crawling, my parents knew it was time to build a fence. His little legs whirled as he made his way towards the road teenagers loved to speed through. This was of course before they put the stop sign in front of my house, of which my dad was delighted to have an excuse to yell “SLOW DOWN” at anyone who dared to roll through the intersection. They entered my brother into a crawling competition since he loved to go so fast and on the day of the competition he sat still, as if he knew what they expected of him. He didn’t walk till after he turned one.
Our house was a good hub for parties. We lived on the corner, we had the largest yard, and it was nicely fenced in so the children wouldn’t wander too far. All our family friends in the neighborhood would come over for summer luaus, birthday parties, the Fourth of July, you name it, we hosted it. When we played in the yard, neighbors would walk by and say hello; how are you; and no one felt afraid to talk.
In the first few years after the fence was built, it was important to my dad that it looked presentable. Every year he would buy a bottle of wood stain and him, and my older brother would spray the fence back to its classic cedar color, the sidewalk stained for weeks. The classic wooden fence stood strong, freshly painted, and ready for fence-side conversation.
My first dog Wendy was a tiny little thing. My little brother and I would run with her in circles around the house watching her make great leaps and bounds. The fence was a little rickety by then and she knew just which posts she could squeeze past if we weren’t careful. Occasionally, she’d make a run for it and dash around the neighborhood. We’d find her later with her tail between her legs, shaking and glad to see us. No one really wants to leave home, but they dream of it day and night.
I live on the corner of a cul-de-sac. My dad would set up light shows for Halloween and Christmas, his latest obsession. The whole neighborhood would gather and stand at the fence (of which a loudspeaker sat behind) and ooh and aah at the lights before them. My little brother would spend each night outside with my dad watching the show. I was seventeen and my mom was fifty-six and every night we gained more and more resentment for the songs played over and over till we could recite the lyrics inside and out. My dad’s only source of joy in a silent and loud house, and we hated him for it.
My dog Leo could never dream of leaving the fence. He’s a giant 90-pound lab and yet he
| Megan Cobb
won’t pass beyond the barrier. As a puppy he’d run and jump up on the fence and bark his brains out at passers to come play with him. Funnily enough, people started to avoid the fence. He scared off chatty neighbors and dog walkers alike. Still, we’d have people over occasionally and keep him on a leash so the neighbors would feel comfortable with him being there. Gradually, the gatherings moved beyond the fence, into the cul-de-sac, and then to other homes.
I never quite realized just how much my dad was the connecting piece in it all. It was his outgoing nature that brought people to the fence, that brought our neighbors close together and created a community. My mom and I have always been more reserved. When my mom asks if we can have a summer luau, birthday parties, the Fourth of July, pithy excuses are made, and no plans ever form.
Just beyond the fence though, my dad’s car sits at the neighbor’s house where he catches up with old friends.
Now the rickety old fence is falling apart. In the deep snow, a fence post has fallen to the ground, rusty nails pointed to the sky. My dad is picking me up from my mom’s house and he points out the post.
“Your mom is gonna get sued over that fence if someone steps on the nails. It’s just too old now.”
Overgrown | Emma McGuire | Photography
In Somewhere, Anywhere I do love you
it begins like the rising of the sun. in Somewhere, Anywhere, the sun arcs high above the little things of earth.
there are little tables and little chairs, little houses and little homes. there are little candles and little cakes, little bows and little wishes.
in poetry I have gone to great lengths to find the perfect words to describe the stars in my life. for you I thought of your blue eyes, or your smile, or your laugh, and if I was not too careful it quickly devolved into a love poem.
because I do love you. in every little thing and big thing, I find glimpses of you. whether we are in the same room or in Somewhere, Anywhere, there will always be love for you in my big, big heart.
we are just two little things, little things with big hearts and in Somewhere, Anywhere we are intertwined; a togetherness that transcends physical nearness.
high above Somewhere, Anywhere the sun continues its arc, looking down on little cats with big paws, little flowers with big petals, and little girls with big hearts.
❦
yet even as one has to squint at the sun, so too does the sun have to squint ––the little girls are little things, but not so little as the sun first thought.
like the sun itself, the magnificence of the little things have become blinding. made of love and light, the little girls are not so little; growing into their bigger hearts (more room to love you)
| Mia Morgan
Nightstand | Emi Lundblad | Gouache Paint
Ode to a dust ball
look at your frail edges, how they twist and bend and break. wispy in true nature and filled with the remains
of what was left behind, of what is no longer needed. the crumbs and dirt and grime that goes on and on to feed it.
you are a product of your environment, a child of neglect. a sponge for things around you, collect collect collect.
staying hidden in deep crevices, lost way in the dark. you have a made a home here, found within the murk.
particles persist and become your different parts. collage of an existence until you must depart
original state restored to what you were before the world became part of you and now you are no more.
until life has left your lungs and you are gone henceforth. until your collection is finally done and you are back beneath the earth. goodbye my fuzzy fiend a repetitive friend of that kind you will certainly not be left here, no, you will not be left behind.
| Rachel Allison
How to be Haunted
1. Move In
“The last owner of this apartment died here,” the landlord tells you. He looks almost bored, the only reason he’s saying this is because he legally has to. “How did it happen?” you ask. He glares at you, “No clue. Not my job to know.” You want to argue that actually it is, but the rent is cheap for where it is (no one smart wants to live where someone died) so you shut up and sign the contract.
2. Ignore the Signs
Things aren’t always where you left them. Mugs appear in your tub, pencils in the cabinets, your toothpaste under your pillow. You vow to stop drinking as much; drunk you seems to have some very interesting storage ideas (you ignore that things are still turning up in odd places even as you drink less).
3. Try to Fall Asleep
“Insomnia is a bitch,” you think as you stare up at the ceiling. It’s 2 AM, there’s a dark shape in the corner, and you can’t move. “Sleep paralysis is a bitch,” you correct. (You’ve never had sleep paralysis before—you don’t like it).
4. Clean Up
There is blood (is it blood?) on the mirror. You blink at your reflection below it. GET OUT! it reads. You lean forward and sniff it, it smells like tomatoes. You sigh and grab a paper towel, but before you clean it you send a picture to your friends: “Which one of you did this?” (None of them will admit to it, but you’re sure it’s one of them trying to be funny about your death apartment).
5. Start Hearing Things
The sound of footsteps in the other room. Floors creaking and doors opening in the night. Books falling off the shelf–but when you check they’re all neatly stacked in their places (was Station Eleven always that low down?). Shouting but not words. High pitched ringing, like when a soldier is dissociating in a war movie. A gunshot once.
6. Go to a Therapist
“I think I’m hearing things,” you tell Dr. Jack Crane. He nods and writes something in his notebook. But when you can’t mention any times you’ve heard something outside of your apartment, he just tells you to go out more, to not be a “shut-in.” (You’re not, you go out with friends fairly often, but he ignores this when you tell him).
| Quinn Brennan
7. Try to Watch a Movie
When flipping through channels one night you see Casper is on. You always loved that movie as a kid so you leave it on and settle in. You’re tired though; the noise makes it hard to sleep, so you quickly begin to drift off. You’re brought back with a start though, Casper is no longer on your shitty little TV. Now it’s just static, and not only that but loud static. You fumble for the remote but it won’t turn off and the volume won’t turn down.
8. static in your ears in your head behind your eyes
With static still blaring in the background, and your hands clamped over your ears, you begin to see a shape form. It looks like a person. As the static climbs to an unbearable weight, the shape clarifies into a person—or at least a humanoid. The shape is looking at you, their gaze almost heavier than the static. You feel something wet against your fingers, but you can’t pull your hands away to check if it’s blood.
9. Shot Through the Heart (but you’re not to blame)
In an instant the TV shuts off. You cautiously lower your hands, paling at the red smeared across them. The person in front of you is more a suggestion of a person. There’s the shape and most of the parts but... you can’t tell what they look like or what they’re wearing. The only thing you can see is a violent red bloom spreading out from their heart.
10. Meeting Your New-Old Roommate
Get out. Their voice is wispy, screaming and whispering and everything in between. “How did you die? ” you blurt out, before cringing. They got shot, you can very clearly see that. The blur of their face seems to just stare for a long moment before they break down laughing. Oh, I like you.
Nighttime Feeding
Remember the night when Streetlights stood still along emptied corners.
Remember when crickets chirped down in the pitch-black creek, and the drone of distant cars could be heard as thousands slept tucked beyond their brick laid walls; suburbia almost looks nice when its inhabitants aren’t on display.
Remember the night when food molded over and maggots swarmed potato salad and onion dip and pasta carbonara and feta cheese and it was thrown into the trash can before the PTA parents could text the nextdoor groupchat, “Hey everyone, just wanted to let y’all know not to eat the Jello that Suzy brought to the meeting yesterday, thank you! Much love - Darlean”
Remember when grub bugs wriggled and writhed like malformed worms, their ghastly bodies a vile reminder of luck’s infamous opposite. One day they will become beetles and eat the lawns of your neighbors, of your neighbors, of your neighbors, and at last, greet you with their mandibles splayed wide so that they may observe as you did them under the glow of that persistent streetlight.
| Presley Hinkle
Remember the night when abdomens, thoraxes, and antennas crawled over your body feeding off the flesh you’ve worked so hard to maintain a certain plumpness to that the insects have been waiting for you to give up.
Remember when the moon weeps as sunlight disturbs its murky veil and you are met with the bugs that crawl out from the mud
When no one is watching When no one is listening it will be your bones your flesh the selfish act of living that feeds the multilegged creatures far beneath the earth’s jagged surface.
Beyond the Grass
Beyond the grasses along patches of missing tu and dusty dirt, a sunken rotten log sits painfully in ruins. Since its fall it has waited for its eternal slumber. A seed flutters riding the air.
| Emma McGuire
The trunk watches in wonder and awe of whom it may become. The seed sprouts blossoms and blooms as the log withers decays when eventually a beautiful flower rests now upon a rotted trunk.
no title is title enough is title enough for the earth i envision
—in time, the earth will not bleed so painfully—
—in time, the human body will not be so consumed by plastic—
—in time, our homes will not be so separate—
—in time, the tomatoes will not be manufactured—
–the soil will be soil again in the same way borders will be just lines.
–the flesh will be flesh again in the same way hearts will just be.
–neighbors will be neighbors again in the same way fences will be just lines.
– food will be food again in the same way the soil will be soil again.
| Mia Morgan
{interlude}
infused with nutrients, [i; you; we] will find raw energy again. our minds will no longer crave cold blue screens, but the warm blue of the sky and sea.
perhaps, in this world i envision, people will find no use for guns and shoes. perhaps [my; your; our] feet will not need protection from the soft earth, the soft earth that has no space for violence (perhaps [i; you; we] shipped it off to Mars to be seen no longer). perhaps i will ache no more, no longer hunched in front of something that will seem so far away. perhaps i will discover my car has been turned into a pumpkin, the engine made of innards and seeds. perhaps i will find my chairs are made of moss and my desk turned into saplings.
perhaps [i; you; we] will walk into the street, taken over by a garden grown through laughter and love. perhaps the air smells sweeter, fresher, kinder. perhaps [i; you; we] will sit in the grass and read the clouds and stars. perhaps [i; you; we] will gossip the same way flowers will whisper to each other.
perhaps my vision is hazy, new, something to be protected. i am afraid my fears will taint the earth i envision: an earth of natural pleasures and a time of gentle leisure. but i am not afraid to envision it. i grow a seed of hope for [my; your; our] future (the secret is laughter and love). perhaps [i; you; we] know of uncertainty, but i am most certain that [ ] is the seedling for the earth i envision.
Tracing Smoke
After the lights went out you saw the Smoke in the air. Condescending, mocking you. You reach up towards the curling shadows from under the blankets as if it were really, truly in front of you. The way the darkness curves around your walls, your desk, your dressers and drawers, your posters on the walls and ceilings so eerily mimics the Smoke in the kitchen. Smoke curling around the pots and pans, the oven, out the windows, the flames on the stove.
And you scoop up the dog and run, bare feet slapping against the concrete of the sidewalk, the cul-de-sac, the neighbor’s yard. You bang on their door, plead for help. Your brother’s still upstairs, the Smoke’s sinister tendrils slithering towards him. You clutch your startled dog to your chest. Does she understand what danger you’re in? The door opens and with little time to explain you blurt out all you can think – Fire!
And back across the street you run while the flames morph and grow. Your brother shouts confused, finally catching a whiff of the assaulting charr. Hot oil spills across the floor, the wall, your neighbors’ hands as the pot is rushed outside. The Smoke chokes you as you desperately open windows. It buries itself deep in your lungs, a harsh reminder for the days to come.
The Dark is where the mind wanders most. Thoughts for tomorrow are paralleled with regrets from the day. Tonight, you can only think about the grease fire on the stove, stupidly caused by the lack of parental supervision and kitchen safety. Still, you persist, you learn how to properly steam dumplings, cook with your father, and eventually become the solo chef you thought you could be that day. Years later you’ll laugh and reluctantly tell people about the time you steamed a pot of dumplings with a vat of oil. But for now, you sit in the dark and look at the Smoke and think and regret. Raise up your arms, trace shapes in the Smoke.
| Megan Cobb
Handsome Boy | Emi Lundblad | Gouache Paint
Strays
Sewers are never empty, and neither are alleyways. There’s always something lurking, just beyond the frame. A slender shadow might pass you by, low to the ground as it may be. Or you might see a monstrous mound of fur settle beneath a tree. In midnight, their eyes glow like a ship in a stormy sea. Raging a war to meet their wants and satisfy their needs. You might hear hissing and howling as they fight for some mysterious thing. And you might feel their claws scratch and scrap into skin, leaving scars as warnings for all to heed. A curved tail swishes back and forth, sharp ears open to everything. Whiskers that pierce the air, prodding at its history. Paws on the dirt press against Earth’s skin. Sometimes, they dig and dig to bury something within. Once a moon, you might hear a meow, but often, they remain mute. They prefer to watch and scope the streets before making another move. You know they live in houses, cozy from cuddles and care. Your friends pet them gently, as purring fills the air. But these creatures are not the same, occupying spaces when no one is there. They fill the voids in the world, so a vacuum is never bare. I saw a mother once with her children, peeking out from a drainage hole. Her gray fur of old, with her children close in tow. The sun shined past them as her eyes were dark daggers, dark knives. She knew they had to fend for themselves and she couldn’t stand to see the light. I always wondered if they had a home, or if they were always moving elsewhere. Did they followed the stars like sailors, navigating by moonlight? Or did their intuition guide them, like it does for us through life? I met a stray once on a sidewalk, a black, beautiful being. And although people say they’re unlucky, I could never forget our meeting. I gave her a bowl of milk right outside my door and she stayed on the porch overnight, hoping to find some more. I know they’re always out there, like stars scattered in the sky. We cannot touch them as they run, falling through the air of night. These shadows that lurk in sewers and alleyways can be as dangerous as they come, but I understand them when I see them, a stray with a life not done.
| Samantha Gerken
Fangs
Some people aren’t more than their mistakes
They wear them proudly despite distaste
I have made a mistake
A willing one
And people can only prescribe me grace
I have pierced through someone’s soul
You look up, drops of salivation
Fangs hidden underneath quiet lips don’t need grace. Bring a scolding hot knife to remove my identity, let them burn my incisors, leave no room for them to lend to me,
Any more souls Rid me of my misery
You are a perpetrator if you pity me.
Ode to a yawn
bones ache, for sweet release. knees beg to let it go —and yet until you are a part of me i can see, it was meant to be like this.
my lips open. all i have is you on my tongue. voice filled with air that came from your lungs every breath i breathe has been exchanged — contagious, like disease we share these moments one after another i caught what you had a bug so bad that i breathe and heave all that i can now be is someone who is for you as you are for me beautiful, looming existence that,
| Rachel Allison
distances itself from my reality playing, on my exhaustion using, my basic needs to seek your own completion. at the cost of my ability to leave that state behind and change my frame of mind to unsee what i have seen and stop the spread cut clean but here i stand nowhere near stopping the rampage i call dear —you. and even so, i love you still. without you incomplete i am you as you are me see, this unbinding truth agrees to be a consequence guaranteed, result of my love for the circumstance foreseen.
Appointment
Alyssa followed the doctor into the room she always went into. It was a wide, open rectangle. On her right were five chairs in a row, each one with a white box and a swinging light. The chairs looked towards a wall filled with tall windows, one for each chair. The wall was decorated with stars, hearts, smiley faces, squares, and circles. Although it was white, these shapes were bright splashes of red, yellow, purple, green, and pink. Outside the window, she could see a tree in the morning sunlight with a red bird feeder hanging from it. Sparrows were sitting on its pegs, pecking at the seeds. Beneath the windows, there were stuffed animals in groups of two or three resting on each windowsill. Her favorite couple was a soft brown bear with curly hair and his wife, a pink dog with floppy ears. Alyssa headed towards the chair in front of them where she usually sat, but the doctor called her to come down the hallway behind her. Alyssa turned around and ran down the long, white tunnel, rushing past its plain walls. She slid across the carpeted floor into a room in the back. It had white walls, a white ceiling, a white floor. There was no other color. There were no windows either. Just two ceiling lights above a dark blue chair. She sat in the chair and laid her feet across the plastic footrest. The chair was hard, and she could already feel her body start to ache. The air in the room was cold and stiff. She felt a shiver go through her body as she lay there in wait. On her right, there were sharp gray cabinets with metal handles. On top of them was a white box with blue gloves, the kind that stick to your skin and hurt when you peel them off after a while. To her left, she saw a metal tray with metal tools. The kind her dad would use to make their bird house each spring, or to work on his cars every weekend. The tools were slick, silver, shiny, and sharp. She recognized pliers, a wrench, a needle, a drill, a hammer, a saw. These tools were massive, and the needle stood out the most, although it was the smallest tool. It was long and skinny, like a thin knife. She felt like it could pierce her bones, slowly ripping her skin apart as it travelled down. The drill could do the same, but in a messier way, spurting blood out across her chin and chest. The pliers were thick and clunky at their handle, but the metal came to a razor-like point. It could not only cut her skin but tear out chunks if it wanted to. She could hear the buzz of the saw as it went into her mouth, cracking her teeth apart and making her tongue taste bitter metal. Then, the wrench could screw her teeth out of their socket, while the hammer could bang them back into place. Alyssa heard the door slam behind her; the sound shooting through her heart and rattling her brain apart. Her body was stuck to the chair. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t leave. She was locked in here. From beyond herself, she heard her piercing scream echo throughout the room.
Baba’s Kitchen | Emi Lundblad | Digital Art
Rules for a bad kid
1. take a twenty from the drawer where your mom keeps the bills she’ll take to the laundromat across the street
2. walk rolling, put your weight on the balls of your feet first, like a cat
3. if you have to eat late at night, you can wait
4. if you have to pee late at night, feel your way in the dark
5. if you really have to eat at night, you can wait
6. definitely don’t flush
7. if you missed dinner, just trust me that it isn’t worth it
8. don’t wash your hands, you idiot
9. if you really have to, stick a finger in the rubber seal between the fridge door and the frame and hold it there when you open it so it doesn’t make a noise. next time, get beef jerky from your coworker and eat it in the darkness of your room
10. get a job
11. don’t turn the light on in your room. i don’t care that you’re scared of the dark
12. get a second job
13. if you see shadow figures stalking in the hall, they’re only memories of your father
14. get a third job. do your homework at school. take ap’s. do marching band. do theater if you do enough things, they’ll drown out the breathing you listen to at night
| Thomas Malinovsky
15. sometimes you’ll hear your name. don’t worry; nobody knows your birth name and they wouldn’t be able to pronounce it anyway
16. bike to school before the sun is up and home after it’s down
17. chew and swallow half an edible with your ex in the trunk of their car, lean the side of your face on their upper arm and beg time to stop
18. come running when you hear your baby brother cry
19. sit in the shower when you can’t take it anymore. she usually won’t follow you in there
20. don’t cry to shrinks. don’t call the cops. don’t trust your teachers. children can exaggerate and all their friends will say they love you so much and you’re so troubled
21. if there’s no bruise, there’s no abuse.
22. if you die now, they’ll put the wrong name on your grave
23. when you walk in a room, scan the people. note the exits. imagine how they’ll hur you
24. when the bullies try you, stare at them. open your eyes wide and let them catch a glimpse of what you’ve seen
25. get horror movie dvd’s from the library. watch them on the family computer late at night. fill your mind with fake blood to make up for your empty stomach
26. take another twenty from the drawer
27. take a swig from the bottle in the fridge, but only enough to replace with water without them noticing
28. teach your brother the rules before you leave.
Its snowing outside
And now I’m just a kid in the snow looking around for something to throw.
I think that I can see my childhood in the powder Despite the cold I feel warm And ticklish
Like I can laugh a little louder.
So I lie down to make a snow angel
When I am done I get up and say “Huh, they really do look like angels, the Christmas cookie kind.”
I tried to make a snowman.
Halfway through mushing up a pile of Snow, Slush, and Salt I stopped.
Was it always this hard?
Mom sure never seemed to mind.
But now
All my snow days feel like there’s a curtain coming off of a stage that I could have sworn
I had already seen all of. Whoever's on the stage, drawing the curtains, Leans down to me.
“Yeah, this is nice,” They say, “but it used to be nicer."
Which doesn’t make much sense, because I am having fun. But, then I remember— what happens to snow in the sun.
| Bret Wilde-Webster
Withering Away
A wilted flower, still alive, but rough on the eyes. No guest wishes to see a desaturated pink. It’s embarrassing, and sad. Growing for so long, in a beautiful home, and somehow, It ended up like this.
The lady that cares for it prefers to keep it hidden. Because, what would the neighbors say? How can she not keep something as simple as a flower upright? It is ugly.
Hasn’t been watered enough. The tips of its once soft, bright petals are now crisp, and tearing away from itself. She doesn’t know how to take care of it well. She waters it only when she remembers. She speaks to it only when she is stressed. She sprays off bugs only when they bother her. And yet. It is still alive. Because she at least tries. And it forgives her. All she has is her God and this dying flower. So, the flower doesn’t wish for anything else. Because she is all it’s ever had, as well.
| Ann Rodriguez
Memory
Soft,
Smooth lines move in slow motion
Ripples crash into the loose edge of the grimy, Gritty shore.
Light trickles down into the deepest, Darkest troves
Glowing moonlight, now taking its leave
Sudden silence, stillness
Short chirps and low chatter fill the air.
The dawn has broken, breathing once again
| Rachel Allison
Golden Scars | Emi Lundblad | Gouache Paint And Collage
Treesil | Ann Rodriguez
Treesil | Ann Rodriguez | Procreate
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ARE YOU INTERESTED IN PEER REVIEW, EDITING, GRAPHIC DESIGN, PUBLIC RELATIONS AND/OR SOCIAL MEDIA OUTREACH?
VOLITION MIGHT JUST BE THE RIGHT PLACE FOR YOU
There are four major teams that make up Volition: Art & Photography, Poetry & Prose, Graphic Design, and PR & Social Media. If you would like to gain experience in any of these areas, Volition is a great place to start. We offer positions for volunteer staff, peer reviewers, and student leadership in each section.
For more information on how to apply, visit volition.gmu.edu
