By Sara Xibos
in the dust covered, buckling
Goodwill
shelves
you bury
the fondest
scraps of your childhood ́s scuffed pale face
and frayed curlicues
under
other ́s rubble
for me to
ponder what will
happen to
my
children.
Photograph by Emily McCormick
By Hunter Potts
Numbers oozed from the clock’s miniscule grip, 1’s and 2’s slipping between the fingers of time. His hand slammed down in an adamant thump. The desk spoke well of it, squeaks and cracks emanating the omnipresent mouths. Please sir, may I have a sip of water? My mind raced. Who would win?
Photograph by Emily McCormick
By Lauryn K. Powell
For someone who once built
cathedrals with their lips,
igniting the words like
liquid fire, you made lies
seem like a feather bed that
I was content to
lay in.
Photograph by Brynn Simon
By Jason Fucanan
A
t
h
i
n
sliver
of marbled white soap
still has cleaning to give.
Photograph by Emily McCormick
By Taylor Creollo
The mirrors are smudged.
There is dust in the grout
and fingerprints litter the glass.
The pane has cracked,
and scratches make themselves
a home within the lights.
But my reflection looks no different.
Photograph by Emily McCormick
By Anthony Duraski
When we run under bridges how can we be sure we aren’t running into someone’s last breath? Is the bridge the bridge they never crossed — the life they never could’ve had.
Photograph by Emily McCormick
By Brynn Simon
Candles in windows flickered as a soft November’s night breeze sent fallen leaves
dancing. A streetlamp peering over crossroads cascaded a soft glow over the meeting
point as another breeze drew in a woman made of shadows. She dressed in black wisps
of the night sky as stars shone in her eyes.
Photograph by Emily McCormick
By Hunter Potts
Often coffins flowing
down the stream share
a single bone between the lot of them.
Photograph by Emily McCormick
By Veronica Banks
In the one way ticket to
the end of the world
you take a seat and
watch as the clock stops
ticking. But you still
feel the world
moving beneath your feet.
Painting by Grace Marion
By Erica Lamar
Screams of terror and fear
filled the four walled room
as she cried his name.
Kicking and screaming
with bloodshot eyes,
you just stood there and
watched
behind the thick glass door
too thin for her
screams.
Photograph by Emily McCormick
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