Summer 2018

A straw nose

struck by wanderlust,

ventures from the concerned brow.

Dr. Gachet, did you mind sitting long enough

For the painter to paint? The pedestrians

pattered by, those Parisians

with prim shoes and prim shadows, and still

you sat still,

considering your considerer as he condensed

that wandering beak in sad, staccato strokes

of ochre and oxidized bronze.

buttons down your front;

eyes in your head.

Consolation:

at least you’ve been noticed, yellows and seasick greens, in a

canvas the same cotton as your coat.

 

Nathalie M. is a rising sophomore at Lakeside Upper School in Seattle, Washington. She loves living in the Pacific Northwest, where she enjoys getting out onto its beautiful lakes. Nathalie is an avid reader and has enjoyed writing for several years now.

The white sweat burns, stiffens my spine,

stains white bedsheets in the shape

of an un-motivated-bothered body.

 

Standing up, my eyes glazed over

with white static, head flipped

like an hourglass, white chemical

sands trickle and transmit through the hour.

 

After each cycle of step,

the breath in my chest is white cold;

a vast cathedral with pitter patter hallowing tolls.

 

Sclera are wide open, red dead trees

spawn against a white sunset.

The skin underneath is wrinkled

like a white water current. Mother

rafts around me. Her speech

is delayed subtitles, white outlines

that blend into bedroom walls.

 

I pretend I am in control,

watching myself crawl fetal

back into bed. White light

merry-goes round me,

leaves me in the night.

 

The day is done and I am dirty

like fresh linen. White is the daze

that paints the inside of my head.

 

CG Marchl is currently sixteen years old and attends Pittsburgh CAPA 6-12 as a Literary Arts major. Besides writing, her hobbies include jewelry making, embroidery, and watching movies.

 

After an afternoon

Of long talks,

And boardwalks,

I found myself at your door

Trying to change

Something I knew

I couldn’t.

The ocean seemed

To pulsate behind me

Like my chest

As I took a deep breath

Before knocking on your

door.

And when you opened,

My heart stopped

And I crumpled to

dust.

 

 

Charlie Weerts is a fifteen-year old, trans boy. He is a poet who plays ukulele and enjoys wearing tropical print shirts.

Our conversations have narrowed

What were once wide

And busy highways

Are now dirt country

Backroads, almost

bike paths or walking trails

They are slender streets with

Unlit lampposts

We’ve been reduced to talk of

Cigarette prices and

“How’s your mother been?”

“Good, thanks for asking”

Sometimes I catch you on roads

We’ve been down before

You’ve asked me questions

Three or four times since

I met you and the answer hasn’t

Changed. Our lanes are lacking

Soon I suppose

we will meet a dead end

But when I think of how

Our spacious streets were once

Open and endless, like we’d

Be driving forever,

I cannot stop the car.

 

 

Alexa Bocek is a young writer from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania whose work has appeared in The Claremont Review, Literary Heist, Mystic Blue Review, and Pulp Literary magazine. She’s an editor and staff member of BatCat Press. She has also won several awards and honorable mentions for her poetry, fiction, and screenwriting. She’s been writing for several years and attends the Lincoln Park Performing Arts school as a Literary Arts student.

 

LOVE is a hot steamy shower after an

afternoon of sled riding.

 

LOVE is Dad singing U2 songs you have heard 27,000 times before

and grilling steaks, saving the rib eye for you.

 

LOVE is a thin slice of vanilla cake with sugar-sweet pink icing,

 

LOVE is only having to pay 25 cents for a gumball,

$5 for a thrift store orange dress,

and $0 for a hug from your second grade best friend.

 

LOVE is clean linen sheets pulled tight over a medium firm mattress

and the smell of lavender,

the “click-click” of heels on tile,

blue and orange squawking macaws.

 

LOVE is anything that makes you feel like you are hurtling 100 miles per hour over the moon,

even when your teal-painted toes are resting firmly on the ground.

 

Anna Weber is a senior at North Royalton High School. She loves writing, and her work has been published in Inkwell, her school’s literary magazine and she has taken the creative writing course this year. Anna will be attending Calvin College and plans on majoring in Speech-Language Pathology. She has not been previously professionally published.