Category Archives: Prose

Prose, Prosetry

Aerial Views – Matt Grydzuk

And so you were skipping stones across ponds

“Every time I walk past a balcony I think of throwing my phone over it.”

Same, but I think of throwing myself over

For just a split second, then realize it’d be too up-front

Too gaudy, and then it sort of fizzles out


And so you were skipping stones across rivers

Playing records backwards to get the real meaning

“I think maybe I should leave,” you said

But I could never understand how someone could fit

That much sadness in such a small thing


And so you were skipping stones across canals

“They’re all just intersecting lines,” you said

We’re all just intersecting lines

You followed up with

I think that maybe people don’t know you

As well as they should have


And so you were skipping stones across lakes

Hands tied behind your back, you were writhing

“I don’t want to be here!” You said, taken out of context

Were placed anywhere else

You didn’t know how to address matters outside of literal meaning

So you just stopped talking

So you just stopped addressing the bleach stains


And so you were skipping stones across deltas

Frozen over for a long while, now thawed, you turned to me and said

“I think this is where depression stops and starts”

And so I am standing at the edge of the balcony

For the first time thinking of throwing something else over

Thinking, “Maybe”

“Just maybe, one can make a monologue out of anything.”


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Prose

Looking for Lost Words – Elena Barrera-Waters

I think there’s a reason I’ve always loved mornings when no one is awake yet, or sentences that take up half a page, or sitting cross-legged in the dark of my room at one in the morning. There’s something significant to me that comes from being entirely taken away from the world, in the literal sense and also the figurative. I read a book recently that quoted Henry David Thoreau, “Not till we are lost, in other words, not till we are lost from the world, do we begin to find ourselves, and realize where we are in the infinite extent of our relations”, who was able to speak everything I think about in words more elegant, more reflective, more well put together than mine could ever be. And that itself was able to take me away from the world, just a little snippet of words mushed together that were able to make mine feel insignificant, but in just the right kind of motivational way. I write when I’m alone, and that’s always been for a reason. That’s when I see most clearly, that’s when everything blocking my mind suddenly is able to poof into dust that will not return until I am finished. Of course, it’s not just writing, it’s an endless number of things that I do better on my own, no matter how much I sometimes wish and hope and dream of the day I could do everything in the presence of people, and do it well. I can’t yet, though. And that’s ok. It only takes Henry David Thoreau to convince me that, yes, my desire to be taken away and separated from so many of life’s busy tasks is just a part of life, and eventually it will be these little lost moments that help me to discover those words I’ve been hoping to write all along. 

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Prose

Worldly Pleasures – Karlee Sanders

She filled her life with worldly pleasures. She knew she was frequently disturbing the lives of cautious do-gooders, but she didn’t care. And although she didn’t care, she would send them letters purposely laced with the scent of her vodka telling just how “sorry she was for accidentally running over their mailbox” or how “she didn’t mean to slash their tires, she thought it was her ex’s truck, naturally anybody could make that mistake.” All in sarcasm, you could presume. She was carefree and having the time of her life even when everything seemed to be going wrong. Obviously, I knew her well. She was my best friend; and those were her glory years.
Now, I call her at work and she complains to me how her students are too “wild” and it makes me chuckle because all of that alcohol she indulged in just might have erased the memories of her crazy days. She was a teenager once.

Remember that your teachers were once the people you are now. They may seem like fuddy-duddies and old hags, but if you look in their eyes, you might just see the same teen spirit lurking in your eyes, in theirs. She filled her life with worldly pleasures. She knew she was frequently disturbing the lives of cautious do-gooders, but she didn’t care. And although she didn’t care, she would send them letters purposely laced with the scent of her vodka telling just how “sorry she was for accidentally running over their mailbox” or how “she didn’t mean to slash their tires, she thought it was her ex’s truck, naturally anybody could make that mistake.” All in sarcasm, you could presume. She was carefree and having the time of her life even when everything seemed to be going wrong. Obviously, I knew her well. She was my best friend; and those were her glory years. 

Now, I call her at work and she complains to me how her students are too “wild” and it makes me chuckle because all of that alcohol she indulged in just might have erased the memories of her crazy days. She was a teenager once.
Remember that your teachers were once the people you are now. They may seem like fuddy-duddies and old hags, but if you look in their eyes, you might just see the same teen spirit lurking in your eyes, in theirs.
She filled her life with worldly pleasures. She knew she was frequently disturbing the lives of cautious do-gooders, but she didn’t care. And although she didn’t care, she would send them letters purposely laced with the scent of her vodka telling just how “sorry she was for accidentally running over their mailbox” or how “she didn’t mean to slash their tires, she thought it was her ex’s truck, naturally anybody could make that mistake.” All in sarcasm, you could presume. She was carefree and having the time of her life even when everything seemed to be going wrong. Obviously, I knew her well. She was my best friend; and those were her glory years. Now, I call her at work and she complains to me how her students are too “wild” and it makes me chuckle because all of that alcohol she indulged in just might have erased the memories of her crazy days. She was a teenager once. Remember that your teachers were once the people you are now. They may seem like fuddy-duddies and old hags, but if you look in their eyes, you might just see the same teen spirit lurking in your eyes, in theirs.
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Prose, Prosetry

You Called Me the Sun – Ivy Juniper Manchester

The world does not breathe until I do. 

I send out love like I know what I’m looking for but the plants and animals soak in the rays, never once wondering where the heat comes from never once feeling blessed but god isn’t it just so human to pretend? When it rains they beg me not to be sad and when it thunders they all run and hide. But when it doesn’t, and the sky stays clear, I don’t matter again. The curtains are pulled aside and thank god the people can continue their lives. All i want to do is love you but if i love you too much, you spite me for my warmth; when I give you space, you beg me to come back. 

Forgive my indiscretion but why do you keep saying it’s okay?

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Prose

the adventure I wish I could have – Elena Barrera-Waters

spring break, I’m flooded with everyone’s pictures.
all of their shots of the waves at the beach,
or of the castles or the food of the new country they’re visiting, 
or the ski lifts above those gorgeous green pines.

it’s a little bit hard,
to be able to submit my own to this
grand collection of memories when I know that you
won’t get yours.

it’s not my fault, i know that.
but more than anything, I wish you were here.
I wish you were my adventure, 
or at least a part of it.
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Prose

the back of a book I will never write – Karlee Sanders

you know that feeling when you step outside for the first time on a snowy morning? that awe-striking moment when you can’t breathe because of the intensely fresh air flooding into your lungs? well, that’s what he was to me. he was my breath of fresh air. he was my new start. and honestly, nothing else mattered

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Prose

Don’t Look at That Boy From Across The Room – Alex Esterline

Don’t look at that boy from across the room. I don’t care how many times you tell yourself that you’re just curious, or that you just want to take a glance, because a glance will always ruin you.

Don’t stare at that boy from across the room. Because that boy’s eyes might be a little too different from anything you’ve seen before, and you might look for too long. You’ll start to notice the color of his eyes, and the shape of his lips. And if you look for too long, you might see more than his eyes.

Don’t smile back at that boy from across the room. He’s going to flash you that smile. The one you don’t quite know yet, but still the one that will cause you to throw your head back and laugh alongside him. It’ll be the one that makes everything around him seem dull. Because that smile is when you ride the biggest roller coaster first, and then everything else becomes tame.

Don’t talk to that boy from across the room. Because that boy is going to talk to you. And his voice is going to be that feeling you get when you hear a great song on the radio, but you never can quite figure out what it is. His voice is going to be a constant chorus stuck in your head in the middle of class. And you’ll be begging for more.

Don’t let that boy from across the room get close to you. He’s going to sit next to you one day, and move his leg so it just barely touches yours. He’s going to ask you for high fives after he makes his stupid jokes that are going to make you smile. You’ll high five him and feel the warmth of his hand for just a little longer than what would seem normal. You’ll then both pull away slowly out of fear. This time, you won’t be able to forget about the way his hand felt and the feelings that lead up to it. And you’re going to start noticing his smile, and when he’s laughing at something that’s so stupid and doesn’t make any sense, you’ll notice his smile. And when you notice his smile, you’re just going to give in and start cracking up alongside him. You’ll both look like complete idiots but you will not care. 

Don’t go to the movies with that boy from across the room. Soon, you’ll both sit down, almost late to the movie, because he was so confident he could win that stuffed animal- if he could “just have one more shot at it”. You’re going to sit down with him and laugh and make jokes at the previews for movies to come. You’re going to realize that this movie is a little scarier than he led you to believe. Soon, you’ll find out that this was his plan all along. You’ll probably find out when he takes your hand, or when he gently places his hand on your leg, rubbing his thumb back and forth. When you realize that he didn’t put anything on the cup holder in between you two, he’ll pull you close to him. 

Don’t go to that boy’s house after the movie. He’ll take your hand and lead you through the house. You’ll pass his mom, who’s going to love you like your own mother. But he’ll leave no time for introductions, he tells her that you two are tired. You’ll walk into his room, looking around. You’ll have no time to sightsee, however, because he’ll turn off the lights quickly, and the room will be just slightly brighter than the movie theater. He’ll tell you to sit on your bed and he’ll get you some clothes to sleep in, he says. He gets you the clothes which you put on. You’ll notice they’re baggy, but they feel comfortable. He’s going to sit you down on the bed and hold your hands. You’ll look at each other and see the pattern of the moonlight from the blinds dividing his pale skin into glowing lines.

Don’t let that boy kiss you. Because he will kiss you. You’re going to notice his face coming closer. He’s going to use his hand to push back your hair. And he’s going to lean in fast, and kiss you softly. And then you’ll both get that feeling in your back, sending alarms throughout your entire body. He’s going to keep kissing you, his lips growing stronger and more secure as every second passes. Eventually, he’ll lay you down without taking his lips off of you. The kissing will die down as you both try and suppress your laughter. He’s going to lust after you and keep leaning in, but you’ll be smiling so widely he’s going to have no option but to laugh at you. And you’ll think to yourself “thank god I looked at this boy from across the room.”

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Poetry, Prose, Prosetry

Ending – Haley Ingram

December 23 1888:

Vincent Van Gogh takes a sharp edge against his head Successfully cutting off his ear.

On May 8 1889,

He admits himself into the Saint Paul de Mausole lunatic asylum.

It is here,

In the catacombs of his wax coated, pressed-to-package heart

Where his blood streams the will of his hand creating his most famous, and beautiful masterpieces.

My darling, you are not the dried up paint

Cracked off to flake into the air

Particle by particle

Being inhaled by those unworthy of your scent.

Don’t you ever feel like the symptoms of death-

The left over, missed nibbles of creation.

He ate yellow Paint

We eat yellow Paint

You are my yellow Paint.

The only reason my body has not fallen victim to toxins in my bloodstream

As he did

Is because

You have a direct biological correlation to my happiness

The fumes of paint mix and dance with the fumes of my despair

Organs made canvas

Premature shapes

Colors splattered

Product is you.

You don’t just coat my stomach with prosthetic beauty

You are the irises

You are MY irises

My darling,

I can see the starry view from my asylum window.

I am having my first out of body experience

That will not scar me physically as I shove my hand through the window

Just to try and touch the fire of night.

I look so,

Desperate.

Gasping for a single breath hoping I finally reach the passion

Every time I try to paint starry night it comes out as your face.

I carved it into my skin

Melted my flesh and bone

Molding myself into what beauty could be

But I am a 2D appreciating enthusiast.

I notice the fluorescent lights

pulsating

I think of your eyes and the way they retract and grow as you go from crying to

Discussing the way the flowers in your brain

Tickle the inside of your ears.

May whoever try to rip them from the pores of your skin

Rot in Hell.

Even I in all my idiocy know how

It feels to get lost in the

Tranquil trance of fragrance.

To be completely fine with disarray.

My darling,

You are my music.

I’m chugging gallons of paint closing my ears shut.

Whatever Van Gogh tried to silence

Will not infest my brain

Not while you remain a pesticide.

Not while you’re here.

Whispering. Humming. Kissing.

Breathing

The oxygen from your own plants

Giving me CPR

trying to clean out my lungs hoping my ears pop

But my hands stop you.

You’d make it too easy.

I want to make sure every word that falls into the cavern of my aching body

Leaves a seed that can only be watered by the paint that I feed on.

Insanity for a being.

Insanity for being.

I’ll admit myself.

The view is so nice here.

The view is so pretty here.

Self designed, molded by Pygmalion.

The view is so beautiful here.

July 29, 1890:

Van Gogh dies from two gunshot wounds to the chest from 2 days earlier.

The package, has been opened.

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Prose

Thoughts from The Grand Canyon – Reilly Wieland

The Grand Canyon seems to become more and more transcendentally ‘grand’, and the word appears to be more and more precise. This road trip seems to have become fantastical, like everything we have seen thus far cannot be explained in words. I am waiting for the greenscreen to fall and the stage producer is about to pop up and cut the scene.

In my life personally, I’ve tried to focus on “pleasure”. That word has a singularly sexual meaning but that’s not it. This trip has seemed to show me a lot of extraordinary things and people (or at least different sides of family) that I had not seen before that remind me that every moment of my peculiar and transient life is something so spectacular and meant to be celebrated.

I’ve seen a lot of beautiful things and I know it’s cheesy, but something about standing in front of the kind of place that makes me wonder how I have the audacity to feel anything but hopeful when a place like this is here is really amazing.

On that, I saw my first real dome sky, the kind that writers can pen novels about and you see as desktop backgrounds. The Earth was so flat that I could see the exact horizon arise and the sky rise like a bird’s nest, encasing me in. Skies like that will give you a strangely acute sense of reference in what the world can be. It seemed like the smog parted and everything came to me, like the little puzzle that I couldn’t find the last piece to anytime before.

This cross country adventure has seemed to teach me relevance, or at least made me comprehend the importance of giving my attention to the things that truly matter. In preparation for this trip, I focused too intently on outcomes: upcoming injuries, gas station food, sleepless nights.

The things that I thought would be big events at the beginning of the trip are, in fact, non-events of everyday life, all which I am not in control of. These non-events have made up this trip and my life. The irrelevancy of these miniscule annoyances seems to be overwhelming as I think about it.

What is relevant are the things that have come along with the injuries, the seemingly already perfectly preserved memories of the trip: the exact feeling you get staring at Zion, or at the Grand Canyon, or a dome sunset.

But in that, it seems short sighted to mark these non-events as unimportant. The non-events are also the events that act as catalysts for me to see the major happenings around me.
And those happenings in these moments are my life, and I want to take pleasure in them all.

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