Category Archives: Prose

Poetry, Prose, Prosetry

Can He? – Bianca Stelian

Ode to the poet

Whose wretched insides

Ache to create symphonies

Concertos of rhyme, seasoned with reason

But keeps it a secret.

His voice, a flame

Of passion and vigor

Vinegar

Rubbing salt in the wound

Makes a particular thickener

Raw with anticipation

Elation

The creation of patience the world’s friendliest patron

Sensation

But if he calms down or slows then nobody knows

For the pros who use prose are just masked by the blows

Of the older yet bolder visionaries with line breaks

Oh shit, there’s no rhyme

He scribbles and scrabbles till he comes up with one fine

Enough to make sense without being too bent that no heavenly sent angel likes what he’s crying

Dying

A dead profession

Parents said doctor or lawyer et cetera

But his mind is awash with the words it’s a plethora

Line after line he debates if he’s trying so hard that his eyeballs might pop off their retinas

But he’s not a slacker, a cheat who’s insane

He’s just a poor kid with too much right brain

He yearns to make words that will serve all his purposes

Verbages swirling all over his surfaces

Fortresses built with the strength of a circus kid

Everyone hates how his nerves give him worthlessness

Murderous curses so urgent he swerves into learning concerning new tactics for perfectness

Fervently churning away what he’s working on

Soon he’ll be ruler of burnouts and mirthlessness

STOP!

His fingers won’t work, they’re refusing to write

He curls up alone, all his demons in sight

He needs to get help before his psyche ignites

A torrent of pain and percussion alike

See, he’s just a guy with way too much to fight

He knows what to write but just not what is right

So sad but he won’t give up, laugh but he won’t trip up, slipping and skipping is not for what he signed up

Sickly, he mixes the words of his wisdom with intimate diction so smooth it needs no clean up

Finally found it, his voice that resounds it so fine he’s astounded he’s no longer grounded,

It’s a fight, it’s a battle, a kick in the asshole, a call to the action that makes him an animal

Now he’s on top of the world he’s a natural

Maybe the fame will make his voice speak national

Rationally tactical, tactically radical

Practically casual, casually masterful

Now he’s infallible, crazy, unflappable

Not giving up was his key to the capital

Till he collapses his mind will spit rhapsodies

Badder than travesties, synapses snapping the

Aura of more than can ever be scored rushing in through his system so sonic it’s alchemy

Finally here, he’s made himself clear, there’s no turning back and no, nothing to fear

A life filled with obstacles, hardships galore

Has turned him into something he’d always hoped for

And so, when he sits down

He knows there’s no shit now

He’s on the right path, yeah, his life is his wits now

Dying had made him much more of a man

Immortality nearing, all part of the plan

A symbol, an idol, as big as the Bible

Survival his life goal, a poet’s last stand –

A poet, he knows it, he’s broke it, he shows it

From boyhood to manhood, he can do it

He can.

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Poetry, Prose, Prosetry

Blurred San Fransisco – Casey Miller

In the earlier hours before the gates are open and lights are on
He stays back near the ocean, avoiding the sting of solid ground
But slowly he must creep forth, and envelop those beyond the bridges
Into the city before dawn, creeping down past Maiden Lane
Surrounding the chatty store owners of the Embarcadero
Confusing the seals, who look around for their mates through the haze
Then past the city, onto the mainland
Cargo loading dock crew members shout through his mist
And men on their way to work must push through his gloom
Can he make it over the Oakland Hills today?
But yes, he must push past Berkeley and climb the uneven mass
Traveling along the highway, he forces himself to settle dew upon cars
As young drivers struggle to make their way to school
But he must continue, on to Mount Diablo
And when he finally reaches the foothills
The fog knows he has done his job.

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Poetry, Prose, Prosetry

Fallen In Love – Elena Barrera-Waters

fallen in love

 

i’ve fallen in love

a few times, i think.

 

the first, with my 8 year old birthday present.

that puppy,

selfish and golden both in spirit and in color,

saved my life. when my second grade self

suddenly had to be the terrified person i shouldn’t have had to be,

i had a baby dog to remind me i was still a baby human

and i’d be just as ok as he was.

 

the second, with a boy.

a boy who didn’t care, and who convinced me i didn’t care,

that he loved a lot more people than just

  1. a boy who made us code names, because

that’s all we could ever be to each other. a boy who knew every

inch of my soul, until he didn’t anymore.

 

then, guess what? another boy.

i can’t say if it was love for sure, i only know it felt like it

once it was over. once i was listening to that song

and pretending he hadn’t called me all of those things,

over and over and over. then forgiving him and then hating him

and forgiving him. finally telling myself

that even if it was love, it wasn’t the good kind.

 

i fell in love with school.

with binders full of study tips and summer reading lists created entirely by myself,

because school doesn’t go away.

with reading everything i could get my hands on,

with reading everything and letting the idea of college carry me.

i fell in love with working.

finding as many internships as i could get my hands on,

because all these people i worked with were as in love

with it as i was,

their lives just as wrapped up in balancing work and school and

life as mine.

 

i fell in love with happiness.

middle school wasn’t happiness, so once i’d found it again,

i was in love. yelling songs at the top of my lungs

like you see in those movies and having a group of friends

that felt like forever and ever

and baking cookies for fun like i used to love to do.

but as in most love stories, that goes away.

friends go away.

happiness has to go away so you can feel it and know it

when it comes back.

 

and it does come back.

most recently, i’ve fallen in love with you.

the one who told me that if you ever acted like boy 1 or boy 2,

that I should just be done with you.

the one who helps my world perception clear,

the one who listens and really hears.

and even if tomorrow this one decided it was no more,

at least this boy loved me like they hadn’t before.

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Poetry, Prose

Slut Wall – Alex Esterline

If high school walls could talk; they’d probably say: “Why are you using ‘gay’ like that?” or maybe “Why do you keep calling people ‘sluts’?”

 

For the last week, our school’s gender-sexuality alliance has been working on a mural that was recently approved by our principal. Murals had been painted on the walls before, so at first; this was nothing too unusual.

 

The design centralizes around two eyes; one closed, and one wide open. On the closed eye are all of the detrimental words and phrases people use, such as “Slut”, “That’s gay”, or “What a wimp”. The bolder, more colorful eye that is open uses words such as “Beautiful” and “Strong” and centralizes around the word “HUMAN”. Below it is a quote from Laverne Cox, which says “…We are not what other people say we are, we are what we know ourselves to be, and we are what we love”.

 

Soon, however, this design started sparking controversy in the school. The use of the word “Slut” had been criticized by a couple of people before spreading like wildfire in the school. If you look at the wall, however, “Slut” is actually the smallest word on the entire wall- and it’s being taken out of context. Soon twitter featured lots of people from our school planning to petition to get the word “slut” removed. I like to imagine the controversy starting like this:

Person 1: “Wow the word ‘slut’ is on that new mural”

 

Person 2: “Woah, they painted ‘slut’ on the wall?”

 

Person 3: “I CAN’T BELIEVE THE WALL SAYS SLUT ON IT WE CAN’T HAVE A SLUT WALL IN THIS SCHOOL WHAT THE HECK”

 

So, naturally, the entire school is now up in arms about the mural. We’re hoping that the attitude will change once the wall is completely done. One thing we have certainly learned throughout all of this is that good art generates good discussion.

 

Many people have come up to me and the artist, asking about the wall, with generally underdeveloped arguments.

 

Their side consists of this argument solely: “What if children walk by and ask their parents what that word means? I want this high school to be a good place for everyone”

 

Our side goes like this: “First of all, ‘slut’ is not the only bad word on that wall- in fact, it’s one of the less significant ones to children. One child, in particular, walked by and asked his mom about the word “stupid” and talked about how that’s a bad word that people shouldn’t say. His mom simply responded, ‘That’s right, and the painting tells you that you shouldn’t’. The son’s only response: ‘Oh.”. Second, we combat the use of the word ‘slut’ by proving that it is only a negative word when that power is given behind it, much like the use of the phrase ‘That’s gay’. There is no negative connotation to it when people realize the true implications of what they’re saying. If you want to remove the stigma, support the mural. Finally; Art is supposed to make an impact on your life. Good art will raise discussion, and you may have differing viewpoints, but this mural is our space to express our ideas. Do not fight our movement unless you truly see it as corrupt, and do not interfere with others’ beliefs if it might not coincide with yours; because after all, that doesn’t make you opinionated; that makes you a scumbag.”

 

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Poetry, Prose

I Pick Me – Brooke Safferman

 

I longed for the days we used to have

Back when we were free from our shadows

And the things that existed beneath the surface

But quite subtly but yet so boldly all at once, you had

Changed.

 

You were always my favorite escape

Until I knew all there was to know about you

Or so I thought.

Or so I thought.

 

You imprisoned me, kept me in a cage with steel bars built of your emotions

Some metallic alloy composed of your cruelty and my acceptance of something Primitive and unforgiving

Your rules were Creed and Scripture and Rhythm

Every word you spoke dictated the very substance of my life,

All actions traced back to you.

 

But could you blame me, really?

Spellbound by the authoritative way your lips moved across my own

I lost myself somewhere

In between the “I love you”’s and the “You’re the best”’s

I knew who you really were:

A ruler and a tyrannical dictator

Control was your elixir, Power, your mighty Pandora’s Box

 

As much as I crave you, sublime in all your mercilessness,

There is something I must tell you:

I Pick Me.

And I must walk away.

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Prose, Prosetry

Respiratory Arrest – Samantha Forsyth

Mother is dying and you’re watching her. You’re left sputtering, coughing up tarred lungs in sterile hallways. Meanwhile, your face is tearstained, spilling out faster than it can dry. The back of your hand wipes across your face hard and the air is thin with anesthesia and disinfectant. There is a responsibility in your asphyxiation, an obligation you’re held to.

Last night, you went to bed without dinner, without saying goodnight. You knew you’d be sorry by morning, but it was supposed to be because mother would stay up worrying about you. Who will drive you to school tomorrow and who will yell at you for coming home late and who will you steal cigarettes from anymore.

One might question your upbringing, leaning in doorways like that. Waiting all hated and damned in intensive care, the ending won’t come easily for either of you. Tracheostomies are trying to heal behind gauze thick and damp. Blood spreading from behind, ugly and scarring and not how someone should look before they die.

But she was a daughter once too, wasn’t born into the poison skin she’s in now. Stealing cigarettes and smelling like smoke must have been hereditary, handed down and yours for the taking. That’s all you’ve ever been good at. In between the flatline tones and your first breath afterwards, the smoke hits back hard.

Lungs wrung out, you’re the only one left with chest heaving and breaths struggling. They soon surrender to sighs set so deep inside you, they once were your mother’s ashen inhales. But you don’t have to share those with her anymore, don’t have to tell anyone how you really feel about your mother’s death, and now you’re both feeling better.

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Prose, Prosetry

Sacrilegious – Reilly Wieland

You’re the proverbs in my mind, the John 3:16 that turns over inside of me- even if that’s

sacrilegious

I am religious in a way that my god does not wear white,

but drinks his coffee black because his lips are like sugar

 

You are the sin I am confessing, the word that comes to me in my time of need and the being I say my Hail Marys for

Your lips are like wine, blessed, and they are mouthing something to me while I scroll through the pages in a fruitless attempt to find parables that justify this

 

I’ve found Eden in your breath, and it feels like my skin is etched with gold, like North Star of your love.

I am not a saint, but a martyr, and even when I fail to find my faith, you resurrect like on Easter Sunday- gifting your wisdom that reeks like like gold, frankincense and myrrh.

The letters according to you stating that it will be okay have been written on my mind in permanent ash, running deep in my veins with the way that you make me feel like I could turn water to wine.

 

When you’re around me I feel sacrilegious, the way you have your hand wrapped around my thoughts makes me question my beliefs because

 

the facts aren’t as easy to fall asleep with as heaven is, sometimes

and I don’t want to ever read scripture again if it isn’t about the way that you look during the summers

 

My church has no damnation or forbidden fruit, it has stories and you, and the prophetic power that I felt when you asked me who my god was

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Prose

Kaleidoscope – Casey Miller

It was like an old, unfinished film
With the melody and tune
A lea full of kaleidoscopic posy
It was like a dream to her
Boys and girls gathered in rhythm,
Lovers and friends and colors swirling
And flowing and happy and warm
Drinking and eating and inhaling and believing
Frolicking in fields of wildflowers, feeling as free
As the petals escaping with the breeze
Petals flying far away, skipping over countries
And continents until they find their match, their lover
She dances, eyes shut, waiting for hers
To take her by the hand and to whisper in her ear
To tell her where they are going, without saying why

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Prose

Talk Again Soon- Brooke Safferman

While pots and pans were clattering in the sink by the pressure of the water that was spewing out forcefully, Ralph smirked. For a 46-year-old who was just left by his wife last week, he was carrying on with his life just fine without her.
​“That bitch,” he muttered, tugging on the sprinkle of hairs around his cherry of a belly button. Hmm, I should probably take it a little easier on the beer, though.
​With one hand, he set down his Ronzoni tri-colored penne that was honestly a little too al dente for anyone’s taste – Ralph shrugged when he tried it – and pan-fried chicken on his beloved coffee table that he purchased twenty years ago at Bob’s Discount Furniture, while his other hand was occupied with far more pressing matters. There were no tissues in sight, so he selected Option 2 by jamming his finger up his nose. Plopping his rotund self onto the couch, he saw ESPN was already on the television, waiting for him.
​“Hey, thanks,” Ralph said running one of his meaty paws, including that same unfortunately just-occupied finger, through his shockingly red tuft of a receding hairline.
​“Don’t mention it.”
​“How’ve you been? We haven’t talked in a while…”
Silence.
“C’mon, answer me! I miss having you to talk to. You understand me. Not many people do, you know.”
​“I know. But you and I also know that us talking is wrong, Ralph. We both know this. Doctor Schroeder told us we gotta quit talking like this.”
​“I don’t see anything wrong with it,” Ralph pouted. “You and I have a great connection.”
He looked up at the television, which was getting a bit staticky. Bad connection. He sighed heavily as he rose off the couch the way a helicopter does from a helipad – rather grotesquely but all the while with an element of grace.
“Prepare for lift-off!”
“Hey, we promised Doctor Schroeder you’d talk nicer to me.”
“Or did we promise we’d stop talking in general?”
“Stop that!”
“Stop that!”
“Don’t mock me, I mean it.”
“How are the pills, Ralph? I wasn’t aware you didn’t want me around anymore.”
“I haven’t taken them in a week! C’mon, you know that. That’s how you’re here right now!”
“Are you lonely, Ralph? Why do you only talk to me when you feel lonely?”
“Don’t do this to me. You just kept saying how we ought to stop, and now you’re acting so needy… Wait! WAIT! I’m so sorry, wait, stop! Don’t go!”
Ralph rubbed his temples. He was alone now. From his throne in the living room, he had an unobstructed view of his bedroom. He angrily eyed the bottle of untouched pills that stood stoically upon his nightstand. He’d be damned if he ever took those again. Quite quickly, his original sense of sadness disappeared as a small smile manifested itself on his sweaty face. He knew they’d talk again soon.

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Prose

The Regalities of Plainness — Bryn Bluth

I promised not to intrude, not to pull you apart thread by thread, only to restitch you into something you aren’t, someone more beautiful and poetic than you are, but I’m breaking that promise, Dear Friend, breaking one thing to fortify another, and I am sorry, because I hate to rift our friendship, but I need to do this. You will forgive me, I am sure of it, and if you don’t, that is your character in question. P

Through cascades of colored ribbon that are our voices, mine a solid forest green, yours, a vivid purple, I found you intriguing, a person of interest, someone I wished to know. My aspirations of friendship were eased through common threads in the textiles that we are made of; a favorite author, a fondness for music, and corresponding views on society made me comfortable with the concept of you.

Although I realize you may not see me as much, just a childish plaything there for your amusement, to talk to and soon forget about, I will have you know that I disregard your pretension, I am blind to every negative thing about you. This is not denial, it is the way I choose to live my life, and I hope that you might see this through your oblivion to the positive.

Hearing you hum out the emotions of you, plucking away six-stringed anxieties, I find myself thinking. You may say that I am always thinking, but in all honesty, I am really only over-thinking, which is so different from the trim, organized thoughts I think when a tune of yours is there to sift them out for me. I can’t remember serenity, what it feels like, but music takes my cluttered mind as close to it as possible, and yours is not the exception. Keep it coming, I long to hear your solemn expressions.

You, in one word, are an outlier, perpetually engaged in silent mental warfare with your own person, yet trying to contend with the frustrations and simple agitation of the world. There is no need to find yourself, only express it. I think you do a marvelous job, slipping snarky comments between utterances of pure comprehension, throwing us all off just enough to continue on with your independent cognition. I see what you are doing, and although I find it harder to communicate day by day, and my internal brilliance is held captive in a shell of naïve gaiety, I know the strategies of cerebral combat you are using, for I practically created them.

I realize you’d rather be left alone, rather recluse to the depth of your logic and never be human, but you don’t, and I am so thankful for that, because although at times I find you to be a conundrum, like the infinitely unsolved Rubik’s Cube sitting on my desk. I will always be here, me and my empty compliments, my empty compliments and I, we’ll wait for you. Until the day comes that you find yourself in need of justification, I will wait.

I realize now that I haven’t broken the aforementioned promise, that is, that I wouldn’t write you as something you aren’t. I haven’t broken it because everything I’ve written here is valid and honest, no author’s license needed, just a few metaphors. This epiphany does not counteract my firm stance that you will never read this, that is a promise that will remain standing, you will never read this, and I am sorry. I look forward to the day you wear those impeccable flaws on your sleeve, the day you show everyone and me past the tip of the iceberg, the day I know will come, because your webs of pretension and modesty cannot shield me from the depth of you.

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