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Echo Fall 2016
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The Real Mona Lisa Reagan Johnson
She was a shattered mirror, slowly picking up the pieces of herself but getting shards stuck in her hands and feet during the process. Each remark slashing a bigger wound in her already throbbing palms. Her arms and legs were painted with a galaxy of faded blues and browns. Her body, her mind, her everything was his
masterpiece-yet he was an accidental composer. Each word he spoke, each earthquake he started, each threat he roared was a stroke of paint down the side of her mind. To her peers it was invisible ink, disappearing- like a secret message - just as fast as it had arrived… but to her it flowed brighter and brighter each day. Like neon pain at Lollapalooza or those green glow sticks she used to crack open as a kid. The dye came from his mouth and seeped its way into her ears. It rolled around inside her mind and out her ears until that was the only thing she could see. Until it was the only thing she could feel. Until she herself
Beautiful Words Carson Anderson
When the first page is opened. When the first sentence is read.
The words grab you, pull you within the dusty pages. The words turn to colors, and the colors turn to illustrations more vivid than any physical experience could possibly provide. You feel the sun shining on your face and warming your body, you feel the chill of the night as you hide from danger.
was a glow stick. He made her into his masterpiece. Painting a solar system of his words onto her canvas of
The words melt into focus, each image having separate emotion.
a body. Everything he said, she was. Each word was a stroke of a new color. He was Da Vinci, and that's
Anger, pain, anguish.
why they called her his Mona Lisa.
These beautiful words, release you. As you read the last sentence. As you close the last page. Those beautiful words…
