Smoldering Dreams — a golden shovel poem after Robert Frost, author of Bond and Free  Please, don’t cast your love on me, I fear I’ll splinter. Why has the wide-open country withered to earth and bone. To circling walls. To  snow — smothering that which ventures out. A dream she
In the 90’s my Tia wore her brown glazed lip, gold chains, baggy pants to school; she was called a ghetto, dirty– CHOLA. Now reflected on paler skin. Now its big gold hoops are cute. Now being brunette is trendy.  When did slick hair in a bun, big gold hoops, and Kiley’s gloss drip […
Typing half-churned poetry, touching screens with a tongue, bearing in mind the doomsday clock. Â Putting passive voice on resumes, love letters, and easily hacked apps, I think Romanticism is back. Â The lexicon is overflowing, overtaxing, and overstaying its welcome.The NYC, Luddite teens had a
By Julia Voyt Pages and pages of 12 size Times New Roman are bled across the paper feverishly, introductions and statistics under methods and conclusions. Not eating food and my bicep is smaller this week I talk faster to my family and I write, write, write. The earth outside smells different and sw
By Emma Gail Compton I made the table I eat dinner at. The wood was cheap but sturdy. The stain I chose is a dark oaky red and makes the small round table seem more expensive than it was. One could find something similar at any store, but this table, my table, I made. I […]
By Gabrielle Crone       Only a hillbilly would bring their injured dog to the vet using twine as a leash. At least that’s what our vet, Westley, announced when he saw my grandpa, Charles Bailey, in the lobby of the clinic twine leash in hand. Gizmo had injured his paw, most [&helli
