Archive for the ‘2013 — 5.2 (Spring)’ Category

Tabloids


23 Apr

by:  Megan Finsel

We are not amused! In this joke of yours

This reality you’ve made

Where the cost of popularity is higher than virginity

We are not amused

In your swag and your ‘tude

Yolo? Oh no! Mad bro? Ya know!

This reality isn’t real

Fake! Faux! False!

It’s a mirage in the desert distance,

A drink eluding your thirsty lips

We are not amused

In what you define as beauty

Beauty of skin, beauty on skin, injected in skin, and cut from skin

Or in what you consider stylish

It is appalling

How an open door, an open hand, a smile, a tipping hat

Has become so obsolete

We are not amused

In how you judge us, how you see us, how you hold us to paper cutouts, paper thin, and tell us: “look this way!” or “act this way if you want to be accepted!”

Do this! Do that! Cut this! Crimp that! Who are you to tell us how to be?

We are who we are the way we are for a reason beyond what your shortsighted eyes can view

We are not amused

How can I describe me? If you’ve seen me around campus I always have a paintbrush in my hair. I am an artist and a writer and (whether with words or with paint) telling stories is one of my greatest passions. I strongly believe that words can make a difference, and if my work can make at least one person smile, then I have done my job. I hope someday to be a Special Education teacher, but I know I will always tell stories. Now you know me 🙂

~I Return the Favor~


23 Apr

by: Sesshy Sensation

Lilly, the girl everyone finds so silly

She knows what she does, and does it willingly

She offers her services and coax him arduously

Knowing that he in fact belongs to me

She comes off as thoughtless, but she is sly

She makes it her duty to befriend you-you ask why

She knows how you feel for him; information she’s learned

In her mind none of that matters, for a moment he’s yours. Now it is her turn.

Yes Lilly, I know your work from experience, I watch you in depth

Your guard is down, head held high, confidence in every step

You’ve done this for years, you consider yourself a professional

With years I find my eyes cunning, what I have in store is indeed exceptional

You’ve come to settle down, the life you’ve lead not condoned for a wife

I’ve come to befriend, share memories, and learn about your life

You introduce with glee, you’ve been with so many, must have forgotten what you had done

I will never forget, in my mind your neck I have wrung

I see him, offer my services, and coax him arduously

He belongs to you, it’s my turn.

I return the favor Lilly

Psych


23 Apr

As if being forced to explain and justify herself to some shrink that she wasn’t completely crazy, just stressed to a breaking point (there was a difference after all), wasn’t bad enough.  Articulating fundamental truths about her inner most being was verging on some level of Hell, she was sure.  Talk about the weather, talk about school, talk about work, or sports even… anything but about herself and about her life especially.  It was no one’s business.  Hopefully this guy would be smart enough to keep any Freudian theory speculation to himself.

Brenda sat looking out a window at the spots of sunlight that had fought their way through the trees to illuminate the dead fallen leaves on the ground below, and she appreciated the beauty of it.  This fleeting moment was summarily ended with the approach of a tricked out SUV booming some racket masquerading as “music” at levels that caused the windows of the small office to shake.  The driver of the offending vehicle lingered at the stop sign, just in case anyone on the street had missed him.  That figures.  She’s willing the noise to eventually vibrate the rolling irritant to pieces.

“Tell me a little about why you’re here Brenda”.

She resists the set up to ask Captain Obvious if he could have been bothered to read the chart before speaking.  “I was told that my eligibility depended on it.”

“Fair enough, but specifically I’d like to hear why it is you feel that your being alive is a mistake.”

Brenda pauses to carefully consider where exactly to begin.  After gathering her thoughts she says “Life’s positives haven’t outweighed the negatives for longer than I care to recall, which quite frankly isn’t anything new.  I’ve contemplated my death since early childhood, somewhere around the ages of seven and nine, which is right about when the nightmares started.”

The doctor leans forward, intrigued, and encourages Brenda, “go on.”

“In these dreams it was never clear how exactly it was that I died; the specific means by which that came to be were never defined.  The only common thread between them was that whatever happened did so after I turned 18 but before I could graduate high school.  I can only imagine that someone might easily assume that a kid would be terrified by such morbid thoughts… but not me.  In fact, to be perfectly honest, I looked forward to it.”

He stares at Brenda momentarily in a state of stunned disbelief.  “I see here that the nightmares eventually stopped.  Tell me more about that.”

“Yup, right on cue too, between turning 18 and graduating high school.  Life went on, and like a good soldier I trudged through it.  On the day of my 18th birthday, I withdrew myself from my old high school in Southeast Georgia, and the very next day I was standing at the Grey Hound station, holding a ticket in my hand and waiting to catch the 10am bus to Venice Florida where I enrolled back into school and completed my senior year, even though I desperately wanted to quit.  I was in Florida for three months when I had that dream for the very last time; and never again.”

“So what happened after that?  What was it that made you feel guilty for living?”

Once again, Brenda resisted the urge to rise from the couch where she was sitting, look him square in the eye and slap him for having the gall to collect $150 per hour to ask patients stupid questions.  Repeating herself was a major pet peeve and she had just gone over all of this in the lengthy paperwork that greeted her upon arrival at his office.  This merely served as further proof that someone didn’t bother doing their due diligence before walking into a room with an accepted new client, regardless of the reason behind it.  She felt it irresponsible.

“On Memorial Day weekend, one week prior to graduation, Carly, her fiancé Justin and another woman, Ms. Trevor who I had attended church with at one point were all murdered.”  For a long time I carried the guilt for what happened to her, feeling that it should have, was supposed to have been me to take my leave of this world and not her.  By then I’d been prepared for nearly a decade after all.  I never bothered applying to colleges since (a) I hated school, (b) my family had no money to pay for it and most importantly (c) it hadn’t occurred to me that I would still be breathing, so why even bother?  Then a funny and inconvenient thing happened… nothing, nothing at all.  What was worse, I found that she was too chicken to do the deed myself, having been imbued with various denominations of Christianity in which such things are considered a no-no along the way with the so called ‘fear of God’ thanks to growing up in the Bible-belt and all.”

At this point Mr. Shrink concludes that Brenda is suffering from is something called survivor’s guilt or a type of posttraumatic stress disorder and silently circles the little diagnostic code box indicating same for billing purposes.  She thinks to herself, well isn’t that all nice and tidy.

Leaving the office, she reflects on the session as she makes her way out to her car, satisfied that she had accomplished the deed she was sent to do.  Curiosity about how and when her inevitable demise would finally come eventually brought Brenda around to embracing a philosophy imparted on her by her dear departed friend Carly, whose idea it was to live life as though it were one big adventure and as often as possible, without regret.  And so she did.  Already suffering from a number of known conditions and likely a number of additional undiagnosed issues as of yet that may just as well remain unknown.  None of the things of which she is aware of are curable and all affect the quality of her life in a negative way with no significant improvement anywhere in sight.  Brenda fumbles with her keys when a smile spreads across her face at an all too rare moment of enlightenment.  The realization that the plus side to all of this is that there’s a 50/50 chance that she won’t be breathing ten years from now anyway thanks to a history of short lifespans in her family DNA.  She had already outlived her biological father by two years at this point and was fast closing in on the next deceased relative longevity milestone.

Sadly Brenda has had a front row seat to watching people she loved slowly rot away into nothingness; the wonders of modern medicine prolonging life far beyond the scope of any meaningful quality.  People are so focused on longevity that they agree to subject themselves to treatments that are more horrible than the diseases themselves.  It’s not until later that they regret their decisions and wait in hopeful anticipation of a merciful death that never seems to come.   Her epitaph would simply be that she’d “had enough”.  Sitting in the driver’s seat and having turned the key in the ignition, the engine purring gently, she pats the dashboard with affection as though talking to a cherished pet and says “Ok, Bessie, let’s go home.”

Bio: The past eighteen months have been, to put it politely, challenging. Essentially the end of life as I previously knew it. The return to college life following more than a decade hiatus has been, well… let’s call it colorful. I managed to survive my first semester back in the swing of things and am currently working on a second. It is my goal to complete an Associate in Arts Degree by December 2013 and continue on to study Criminal Justice Forensics.

Life and Love in a Junk Drawer


23 Apr

By: Shannon Powell

Counting pennies to save for a new car

Popping the cork on a new millennium

On pins and needles wondering if it’s a boy or a girl

Lighting candles year after year…it’s amazing how time passes you by

Calculating the risks in choosing happiness

Could I comb out the tangled mess I’d create?

Would this magic eraser take away the stain?

Could this super glue mend the pieces of his shattered heart…

Would there be enough left for hers?

Oh, there’s just not enough tissue to dry up these tears

I think I’m ready to put it all behind me though, and shuffle a new deck of cards

Ahhhh… the colorful rainbows and butterflies he will paint on my soul.

Our Apocalypse; What Became of Us


23 Apr

This is what truly happened to my race.

But do not pity us for we are a strong people.

Our legend will live on now in you.

~ Re-Ida

 

The invasion began three Earth days ago. I can remember they just appeared out of nowhere. The luminescent glow of their crafts materialized in the eastern sky between the distant shape of Earth’s crest and Moon’s craters. At first, we did not know what to think, but when we realized it proved too late.

Then, two Earth days afterwards, our extermination began… and in those brief forty-eight hours her life was eternally altered. The world she knew, the people she loved, all of it was lost. I am Re-Ida, one of the final survivors of my people.

Here she was, crouched behind the barrels, amongst the rubble, in a deserted alley, clutching a gun. Old, decrepit buildings loomed around her, shrouded in mournful veils of red dust. The whole planet seemed to be mourning; the already crimson soil was soaked with so much blood. She squinted at the empty entrances, at the doors swinging limply on broken hinges. The city was in ruin. Windows were shattered and the buildings were wounded, maimed. All was eerily quiet.

I could not help but wonder, what was the cost of a life, whether familiar or alien? Was fear of the unknown a suitable enough excuse to kill? Did it warrant this planet-wide annihilation? So quickly her people had fallen, so rapidly had her reality unraveled that it was easy to succumb to shock. We used to be such a strong, proud race, now we are nothing but particles in the wind.

Shifting, her knees burning, sweat trickled between her shoulder blades even though the air was frigid. Her paws trembled as she reached up to adjust the scarf she had fixed about her head, concealing all but her vermillion eyes. All this because of Humans…

If I had learned anything over the past few hours, it was that Humans were all the same. Her heart had been hardened watching every one of her family, her friends; everyone gradually fall to their knees. They are all murderers, cold-hearted, cold-blooded murderers.

That was when she heard it, the distinct whine of their patrol vehicles. She tensed, cocked her gun, and glared over the barrels. As the rover bounded into view their headlights sliced through the clouds of never settling dust. They drew closer and closer, and then…

She jumped up and fired. Three shots erupted, two in the dirt, one glancing off the hood of the approaching lunar rover. She reloaded with a flick of her wrist, fired again, and one of the men fell. Reload. Shoot. Reload. Shoot. She missed more than she hit, but as the rover whizzed by she clipped them twice more and caught the second man in the shoulder. Then the rover spun out — its tires struck a patch of loose dust — and careened into the street.

Re-Ida ducked down amongst the barrels. The only sound was her raspy breathing. She could hear a voice shouting, hear the crackle of radio static, and then there were footsteps. She peeked over the barrels’ rusty rims to see the rover was still and a body lay crumbled on the ground. The second Human sat in the rover, clutching his arm. A third Human was inspecting the wound.

Now was her chance for vengeance! Re-Ida leapt to her feet and clutched her shotgun tightly, her finger resting comfortably on the trigger. She fired. But nothing happened. She realized; the laser cartridge is jammed! Quickly, she ducked down again, before they spotted her.

She knew she had to get out of there while she still could. Time was of the essence. So she began to separate from the barrels, walking backwards while keeping herself in the shadows. With one hand clutching her gun, the other traced the cold stone wall behind her. She kept her eyes on the two Humans; the second was now lying on the ground while the third crouched over him. Then the third Human stood up.

She quickened her pace.

He turned and his helmet reflected her retreating figure.

Holstering her gun, she swung around and began to run. She could hear him shouting into his radio, but she didn’t stop to listen. Light on her feet, Re-Ida dashed down the alley, swung around the corner, and suddenly collided with another body.

Stumbling away, she looked up into the shiny, reflective surface of a black helmet. She caught her breath and reached for her gun, but his large hand clamped down upon her wrist.

“I won’t hurt you.” His voice, spoken in a whisper through the speaker in his helmet, made her heart jolt. “Listen to me, I can help you.”

“Humans do not help. You are all killers!” Whipping out her dagger Re-Ida slashed at his face, going for his throat, but the man was too quick and ducked away. He disappeared into the haze.

Suddenly, there came shouts behind her. Re-Ida swung around to see three Humans breaking through the rusty clouds of dust, silhouetted by the sun’s waning light. She couldn’t run anymore, they would eventually find her again. She watched them approach, watched as they cocked their lasers, and she sank into a fighting position.

Red light erupted from their guns.

She used her dagger to knock two shots aside and ducked the third.

Re-Ida was doing well and the fight looked promising, until she stumbled. Then a laser clipped her side. The dirt bit her palms and her knees; she couldn’t breathe. Pain was blossoming in various places as blood poured from her wounds. She quickly realized she was about to lose.

I knew I was about to die then. I remember I was not pleased, however I accepted the inevitable. As the Humans bore down upon her, she was aware she was about to reunite with her people and an unexplainable longing filled her. In my mind’s eye I could see my Mama smiling, I could hear my Papa and my siblings laughing and calling to me. I anticipated joining them…

Just then, something swung into her field of vision and landed in between her and the approaching Humans. Through rapidly deteriorating sight she watched as a man with a gun, haloed by the setting Martian sun, began to fend off the Humans. Then she rested her head against the cold ground and the darkness descended upon her.

She came to when something wet splashed her face. Sitting up, Re-Ida coughed violently and blinked, wiping her eyes.

“Are you alright?” a voice above her asked.

She looked up into her reflection in a black helmet. I was horrified to see a Human standing over me. Before she could react he held up his hands and exclaimed, “I am a friend.”

“Traitor!” she spat. “You claimed you came in peace!”

“I know…”

“What happened?” she demanded venomously. “Your people turned on us! You killed us all!” In her rage she tried to sit up again, but a burning pain screamed in her side. She gasped and clutched herself.

“Don’t move,” there was an ache in his voice, as if he felt her pain, “you’re wounded and bleeding.” he said, but she had already recognized the feeling of a laser lesion.

He reached into his pocket. Her heart jolted, as moonlight flashed off something metallic. A knife! She tried to move away and tried to kick. He grabbed her ankle.

“Wait!” he exclaimed. “I won’t hurt you.”

She glared at him and snapped, “Every human tongue lies!”

“No. I am not one of them!”

“You are not a human?” she demanded, looking him over.

He shook his head, “no, I am. But I fight with the Martians!”

“Implausible!”

“I’m a part of a Resistance against Earth, on the Martians’ behalf!”

“Lies! You are killers.”

“But I saved your life.”

That statement struck me harder than a deathblow. It had not occurred to me he was the reason I had not been killed. At the time I was unsure whether I should thank him or not…I was unsure whether I wanted to live. Slowly, she pulled her foot out of his hand. He held up the device and she realized it was a medical wand. Pressing a button, leaning in, he applied a warm light to her side and she felt her wounded flesh begin to repair itself.

“The Resistance offers safety and protection for war refugees. You can join us.” he offered. “You would be sheltered and cared for; we have food, water, and a safe place to sleep…”

“I can take care of myself. I do not need help from a Human!” she snapped.

He reclined and gazed down at his gloves, the black of his suit morphing with the darkening sky behind him. Re-Ida struggled to see where he ended and the night began. “Not all Humans are the same.” he said his voice cracking.

At that moment a brilliant light, like a star gone supernova, blinded them both. Re-Ida squinted against what were rover headlights.

“Marcus! Why?” A voice boomed.

The man stood up, positioning himself so his body shielded her from the light. Sitting in his shadow, Re-Ida tried to peek around to see their attackers.

“This is wrong!” Marcus declared. “We shouldn’t even be here!”

“We can’t return, you know this, Earth is dead.”

Slowly, Marcus waded into the light. Keeping his voice level he claimed, “We’ve gone about this all wrong. They don’t deserve to die!” As the headlights were averted, Re-Ida could see his comrades surrounding him, some listening, some brandishing their weapons. She climbed to her feet.

It was in that moment I finally understood the Humans. Re-Ida’s heart pounded. If my native planet was dead and I was seeking a home, I would do what I had to, to help my people survive. His species were homeless, and desperate, and perhaps her people had been less-than hospitable. Maybe our extinction was the result of a planetary war, rather than a species’ massacre. She felt her blindness begin to lift.

“You’re a traitor, Marcus.” The others accused sharply.

Marcus raised his chin and declared, “perhaps, but not in their eyes.”

“You would risk your freedom and your life, for that?” One asked, aiming his gun at Re-Ida. Marcus turned to look at her. Re-Ida clenched her fists and glared back.

“Yes.” He declared.

I never imagined a Human would speak such honorable words as those. It went against everything I had assumed of them. Re-Ida just stared at Marcus, the Human, the traitor of his people and the hero of hers, enthralled. But maybe acting upon our assumptions had been our first mistake.

Whether it was accidental, although she doubted it, or intentional, which was more likely, the unthinkable happened. The Human still pointing his gun at her suddenly fired. Re-Ida saw it, a fixating bolt of red light hurtling towards her, and she prepared to die for a second time.

That was when Marcus lunged in front of her, without a cry or hesitation, and Re-Ida watched in horror as the laser dissolved in his chest. His body crumbled to the ground.

The plaza was still, none quite sure how to react. Re-Ida gazed down at Marcus’s body, then up at the others. Her instincts told her she should run while she could, but she was stunned by the fact Marcus was dead. I could not explain this new emotion I felt; I was in disbelief that he had willingly died for me. Perhaps we were wrong…

Turning, she forced her feet into a run and bounded across the plaza. Laser fire ricocheted off the rock around her. Perhaps not all Humans are the same. She ducked into an alleyway and allowed the shadows to consume her.

Bio: How can I describe me? If you’ve seen me around campus I always have a paintbrush in my hair. I am an artist and a writer and (whether with words or with paint) telling stories is one of my greatest passions. I strongly believe that words can make a difference, and if my work can make at least one person smile, then I have done my job. I hope someday to be a Special Education teacher, but I know I will always tell stories. Now you know me 🙂

 

All Because of a Penis


23 Apr

A ray of sunshine poured through the crevice of a long draped burgundy curtain, and landed between two coconut shells tightly strapped around Myrna’s breasts. It gradually rose to the crease of her hair line, exposing her to the light. As it did so, she abruptly awoke with a throbbing headache and the sound of ACDC’s, “Big Balls” repetitively skipping on Jim Parker’s record player in the next room. With a failed attempt to disregard the noise, Myrna found herself in her best friend, Connie Pendergast’s house lying on the floor beside two middle age men. Myrna turned to them and noticed they were covered in regurgitated chunks of chyme, preserved from the night before on their excessively hairy chests. While the stench initially repulsed Myrna, she found their lack of consideration for their propriety, let alone her own, mainly concerning.

One of the men lying on the floor, who appeared boisterous and ill-mannered to Myrna the night before, continued grasping an empty bottle of Jameson that was heavily smeared with black ink around the rim, but Myrna failed to notice this detail. Instead, her attention focused on the man’s blue name tag that read, “Hello, my name is Dick”. She muttered his name to herself five times, and each time she said his name, she seemed disgusted more than the time before as the bitter taste of the word ran off her tongue. She hated the resonating sound of his name, and everything associated with it, but made no effort to avoid it.

#

A few moments later, Myrna noticed a strange bright orange wristband around her scrawny wrist stamped with the phrase, “First Priority”. It reminded her of Patrick Bronskey, who was the first man to cover the entire scope of their firm, and the second man to ever break Myrna’s heart.

Two months prior to Connie’s gathering, Patrick and Myrna were perceived as a completely happy and functional couple by all who knew them.  However, this changed when Myrna came home to find Patrick in their bedroom with his bare ass on top of her stepsister’s fiancé, Fred Lloyd. Myrna was horrified by the sight dwelling in her memory, partially because of her lack of judgment then, but mainly because of the signs she recollected afterwards. All of which included: Patrick’s Owl City albums scattered throughout their apartment,  All My Children displayed on the recently watched portion of his Netflix account, his hidden feminine product collection, but most importantly, his fixation with embracing her in a “doggie-style” position, of which Myrna was hardly fond of.

Myrna desperately wanted to forget all of it. However, her attempt to remove him from her memory resulted in two coconut shells tightly strapped around her breasts, suffocating her into a state of panic.

Myrna quickly barged into Connie’s room yelling, “Connie! Connie, get up!”

“I’m trying to sleep here.” Connie said as she drowned her head into her pillow.

“Get up! I need to know what happened last night!”

“You had a good time for once in your life, and it helped you get over Patrick, didn’t it? Now, go back to bed.” she said with her back towards Myrna.

“That’s beside the point, Connie, and I can’t go back to sleep. I have a job to get to, and now I’m in no condition to work thanks to you! Just look at me! Do I not look ridiculous?”

Connie didn’t reply.

“I knew I should have never let you talk me into…”

Myrna paused as she looked over at Connie’s alarm clock.

“I’m late!” she screamed.

Myrna ran into Connie’s closet and found a bra one size larger than what she was accustom to, a white button down blouse with a harsh yellow stain protruding from the inside of the sleeve, and a charcoal pencil skirt with a slit running up farther than Myrna’s usual liking. However, Myrna was desperate to get to work promptly, so she wore the dreadful ensemble. She  rushed out of Connie’s house, stumbling over the bodies still lying on the floor, and hopped into her old beat up 2003 Mazda Protégé. It took her three times to start her ignition until it finally gave in. Myrna then drove to her law firm, but in the process, she approached five continuous red lights. At the last red light, she encountered a Prowler to the right of her. The man inside gently rolled down his window uncovering his fully grown beard. Myrna hated beards. More importantly though, she loathed the intense volume of his roommate’s metal band streaming out from the man’s car, because it drowned the sound of the whistle he directed towards her.

“Hey, sweet cheeks.” he said.

Only Patrick had ever called her that before, but she didn’t mind hearing the same words cross another man’s lips. She indulged in the moment very briefly, but then returned to reality. She slowly turned her head towards him, and rolled her eyes so far back that the color white shined brighter than her day. The man uncontrollably burst into laughter.

“What’s so funny?” she thought.

The man continued laughing, and as the light turned green, she bore as much weight into the gas petal as her body would allow.

#

Soon after, Myrna pulled into the parking lot and immediately found a spot close to the front entrance of the firm. She hurried out of her car and rushed up the long flight of stairs leading to the doorway. On her way up, she bumped into Patrick.

“Hey, sweet cheeks” he said.

“Hey, Patrick. I’m really late, so we’ll have to catch up some other time.” Myrna said as she rushed to open the door.

“I just wanted to say congratulations”

Myrna turned towards him.

“For what?” she said.

“For your little escapade last night at Connie’s house.  I heard all about it from Dick. It’s about time you let loose, Myrna.”

“How did you hear about that? And you know Dick?”

Patrick watched Myrna profoundly, finding the qualities written all over her face very enticing.

“Word gets around, and yeah. I like Dick.” Patrick said.

“That’s the problem…” she muttered.

“What was that?” he asked.

“Oh, nothing. I really must be going now.” she said as she opens the door.

“Oh, alright.” Patrick said, and as she walked away, he glided his tongue over his top lip very slowly.

#

Myrna hurriedly entered her scheduled meeting in Union Hall, where Miranda, her assisted secretary approached her with a folder filled with paperwork needing to be signed. She handed Myrna the folder, and as she looked up at her, it fell to the ground.

Miranda said, “Myrna, sweetie, let’s go to the bathroom. There’s something I need to show you.” as she picked up the remaining papers.

“No, the meeting is about to start. We can’t go now.”

“They will just have to wait,” she said as she pushed Myrna out of the room.

Miranda took her into the nearest restroom grabbing Myrna by the forearm.

“Ok, brace yourself” Miranda said.

Myrna entered the bathroom and approached the mirror. She intently gazed at her reflection where she found the silhouette of a giant penis drawn across her forehead with permanent marker. It stared directly back at her with a void expression as she stood in front of it motionless, and exposed. Myrna quickly turned to Miranda.  Myrna began to shriek, but in the process she slipped in a puddle of water. As she fell, the slit in her skirt completely ripped. Myrna then turned to Miranda, and burst into tears.

“Let’s try to get this off of you.” Miranda said as she bends down to wipe her forehead with a napkin.

“It’s no use. It must be drawn on with permanent marker.”

“Are you going back into the meeting looking like that?”

“I suppose” Myrna stated. “What other option do I have?”

#

Miranda and Myrna walked into Union Hall and approached a round table surrounded by all perfectly groomed middle aged men. As they sat down in their seats, the men stared intently at Myrna’s forehead, and the silence soon filled the entire circumference of the room. She gulped. The silence compelled her to say something, anything to revive the moment.

So she screamed, “Penis!!”

Myrna turned to Miranda with a smile.

“Penis!!” Miranda screamed even louder.

Soon, a few gentlemen from the round table followed the pattern. Myrna then listened intensely to the word, and the more she did so, the more appealing it became to her.

Bio: April Newcity is orginally from Savannah, Georgia where she studied and majored in dance and minored in theater at Savannah Arts Academy. She has choreographed eight pieces of works and has performed many leading roles. One of which was the Tin-Man in her school’s full length ballet, The Wizard of Oz. During her education at Savannah Arts, she attended many open mics at the school as well as within the community to support her sister and brother. However, she hadn’t promoted her own works of poetry and fiction until she attended the State College of Florida. There she hopes to further her education as well as expand her creativity in other realms of art.

Spring 2013 – Visual Arts


23 Apr

Duel by Elizabeth Ramos

Turtle Time by Elizabeth Ramos

Falls Park, Greenville by Woody McCree

 

Spring 2013–Fiction


23 Apr

The Labyrinth by William Hugel

Nice Guys Finish Last by Doug Kolakowski

The Shedding of Love by Chloe Churchill

All Because of a Penis by April Newcity

Our Apocalypse; What Became of Us by Megan Finsel

Eternal Revenge by Catiana Jean

Psych by Brandie Hyde

 

Where I Come From…


23 Apr

by: Megan Briggs

I come from washed out wranglers and rugged brown boots
From sweet tea and fried pickled okra

I come from that “not-so-good” neighborhood
From greyhounds running lose and
Wal-Mart seems just a step away

I come from the eyes of the Birds of Paradise
From swaying palm trees
And the stench of cow pastures making my nose scrunch

I come from the Tidmores and the Briggs
From my grandpa who I never knew
From the “don’t make me get the paddle” and the
“Bobby don’t teach them that”

I come from freezing winter and sizzling summer nights of Seng High Rum
And an adopted aunt
From the emeralds that hold my memories of my granny
From the tombstone of my aunt I will never meet
From the old wooden house where once my Great Grandmother bartered with Indians

I come from slammed doors and broken glass
From the fights and the divorces and the tears and the pain
From my great uncle I won’t be able to share memories with because of a still born birth
From the baptism and confirmation
Where I became a true Lutheran

I come from mama’s hope chest where our ancestors are kept inside
From the shoeboxes of pictures especially the snapshots of my great
Grandmother and Father dancing under the moonlight
From the home videos of sweet 16’s and 15 year anniversaries

I come from all of this…

My name is Megan Briggs and I am a Florida native born and raised here in Bradenton. Living in a somewhat small town, growing up everyone knows everyone and I know a lot of people can relate to my poem about my life and “Where I Come From”. The poem is about little memories I have from my childhood, and also about family traditions. I come from a southern raised family, where family value and morals are beaten into your head until you got it. I enjoyed writing about my life and everything I can remember as a small child because it puts everything in perspective.

A Witch Hunt


23 Apr

by: Devin Christy
The shining sun sets

A crowd gathers around

The accused woman sweats

While a thick fog comes down

The quiet Earth is still

A blazing fire erupts

Fighting with the air so chill

Among them all are corrupt

Screams of pain echo in the night

Then screams slowly stop

They all believe that they are right

As the body goes with a flop

The crowd returns home again

Thinking a job well done

Not knowing one of them

Will be the next on the run

I am an eighteen year old college student submitting this poem as an assignment.