J.L. von Ende

I don’t consider myself a poet

I like to think I’m a mathematician;

There’s something burning inside her

That I can’t quite calculate.

Each time she speaks

I listen closely for hidden x’s and y’s

Maybe a z or two

But my mind is distracted by the movement of her lips

A cosine curve in dark red.

She ties her hair up into deep chestnut twists

My abstract geometry professor wasn’t lying

Fibonacci spirals do exist everywhere.

I love mathematics

Puzzles, missing pieces, transformations through numeral planes

God, this is the most challenging puzzle of them all

I scribble out equations over and over

And smear graphite on my fingertips

But my final conclusion is always the same:

I love this girl more than I ever could the numbers.

 

 

J.L. Von Ende is eighteen-year-old writer from Washington, D.C. His hobbies include: feeding pigeons, studying mathematics, writing, and riding the subway for fun.

The king of Hollywood— the main event, the star—

Demands the roaring crowd’s attention. Royal pain

Awaits the swooning girls who beg to stroke his mane.

He bares his teeth, a predatory smile, and paws

His prey behind the scenes. He feasts on wild applause

And box office revenues, claims the lion’s share

Of praise, and blames his bombs on brands his costars wear.

He reigns a concrete kingdom, prowling past the mates

He ruled by stalking, spiking drinks, and skipping dates.

The paparazzi poach a picture, hunting news

To mount on magazines and garner website views.

He snarls and roars at newsroom queens, his pride destroyed,

As channels pounce on stories. Fade to black. A void

Consumes his fans and fame. The scavenger remains

Encaged. He dreams of breeding, meat, and private planes.

The girls remember beastly nights, each one a scar.

 

 

 

Emily Dorffer is a current undergraduate at Johns Hopkins University. When she isn’t busy reading or writing, she loves spoiling her cat and baking with her mom. Her works have previously appeared in Cicada, Breath & Shadow, and The Lyric.

Preparing blackened boy, I heat a house

with matches struck by boredom. Hungry flames

escape and gnaw the door. The boy can’t douse

the fire that licks the walls and ends his games.

 

I marinate a girl in salty brine.

As coral traps her foot, some kelp and weeds

entangle legs. A shark’s sharp teeth confine

her thrashing limbs. She trails from jaws and bleeds.

 

Methinks it’s best to serve outdoorsmen chilled.

As snowflakes season skin, the hiker slips.

The crack of bone on stone announces spilled

ingredients, and frostbite tints his lips.

 

One day, dear reader, you shall make a fine,

delicious dish, and I alone shall dine.

 

 

Emily Dorffer is a current undergraduate at Johns Hopkins University. When she isn’t busy reading or writing, she loves spoiling her cat and baking with her mom. Her works have previously appeared in Cicada, Breath & Shadow, and The Lyric.

I like to paint / over a painting / just to see / if the story it tells / the one with the purple sky / and below it / a pair of silhouettes / changes into one / where I’m actually in. / It’s fine if I’m stood / behind the trunks of the autumn trees / or in the form of a lone sparrow / or even hidden in the crevices of the minds of two children. There’s a bottle of tears / under my bed / and as I let the substance spill / onto my fingers / and slither / into the nooks of the frame / I watch a blue-gray sea / of scattered memories / ripple against its own waves. / The landscape / now is darkness. / Perhaps there was nothing / to begin with / and so I’ll start / my own journey. / The brushes / on blank canvas / pave a never ending / road.

 

 

Adam Zhou has been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards at the National Level and his work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Rising Phoenix Review, What Rough Beast, The Kill List Chronicles, Eunoia Review, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, among others. As a high school sophomore at the International School Manila, he has been subject to the wide array of exhibitions cultural perspectives have to offer and aims to share these through writing.

To be vulnerable is to block the breathing tube of regret

with a wad of sticky tack and tell the truth.

Tell your mother you’re lonely.

Tell the neighbor you’re worried that everyone’s going to die.

Tell your best friend that you’re afraid that everyone’s going to die lonely.

 

truth has always been inside of you, and so has vulnerability,

sitting with their knees pulled up to their chest in the corner

of your heart, waiting to hitchhike through your mouth

so they won’t weigh down your chest anymore.

 

To be vulnerable is to stop using 2nd person,

because it distances the reader from the writer.

So I’ll tell my mother I’m lonely,

and I’ll tell my neighbor that everyone’s going to die,

and I’ll tell you that I’m worried we’ll die lonely.

but I know that you hear me, and that is the opposite

of lonely.

 

brush off the winter from your shoulders so you won’t

be so cold and rip off your skin to show everyone

your bleeding heart. the Spring spilled blood brings

is so warm and wet and intimate.

 

Vivian Parkin DeRosa is an editor, writer, blogger, and intern at Project Write Now. Her work has appeared on the HuffPost and in several small literary magazines. She’s currently working on a novel.

 

 

I fell into the pond,

body pearled and flickering.

 

A painless death would be a

miracle, something to bear.

 

The night pretended vulnerability

and even this was too much.

 

I collected my glossy truths;

I pretended this would not last.

 

I was still learning to live but then,

this happened and I want to know why.

 

My tongue lay trapped, lazy like a

frog boiling in its sweat.

 

I hungered for melted chocolate

as my fear stained the water.

 

The upturned faces of our mothers

shone in the light. It was hard to

 

apologize for this intentional mistake.

I had to tear apart the truth, maybe

 

dress it up like a ghost story.

I buttered my lips so it would slide

 

out easily. Late that night, I walked

back into the pond. Leaves swirled

 

around my ankles as I floated,

dress dragging me down.

 

Rachana Hegde is an 18 year old Indian writer from Hong Kong. Her poetry has appeared in DIALOGIST, Diode Poetry Journal, and The Blueshift Journal. Her work has been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards and nominated for Best of the Net. Find her at www.rachanahegde.weebly.com.