Paradise, you should know, is but a version
of our world where everything is
just as it should be; hereabouts
brooks flow through lush meadows
frequented by hovering hummingbirds
and butterflies flitting between flowers
as dark-eyed houris, virginal but nubile,
splendidly endowed, outstretch and sun
themselves on lawns or rove vineyards,
ready and eager to ensorcell newcomers
with their wiles and charms, with figures
sinuous and sensuous, lovely to behold.…
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The echo of shackles in motion filled the room with a searing tension. “Kneel,” a guard commanded as he forced it down. The king’s eyes widened in a mix of wonder and terror as he gazed upon what knelt before him. Or, as it felt, what didn’t. It was emptiness in the form of a human body. What knelt before him felt not like a creature, but the lack of one—an inky void from head to toe with the exception of its eyes, like an inferno condensed and solidified into the form of eyeballs.
“What is this?” the king questioned.
“It was found in the walls, no explanation as to how it got in.”
“Who are you? What are you doing here?” the king asked the creature with a tone that held an initial strength, but weakened with every proceeding second of silence.…
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St. Ignatius High School, 2000
Teenagers filled the auditorium, dressed in preppy uniforms. Cheerleaders appeared on stage. They danced to pop hits of vintage hits, B*Witched’s “C’est la Vie,” Mandy Moore’s “Candy,” and Spice Girls’ “Spice Up Your Life.”
The cheerleaders yelled, “We got spirit. How about you?”
Students would yell back, “Yeah, we got spirit. Yes, we do.”
Ezra sat with headphones, unbothered. He had big, funky tortoiseshell glasses and wore a tie and shirt, contrasting his alternative vibe. He listened to the Smashing Pumpkins’ “Muzzle” with the volume way up to drown out the bubble gum pop. It could have worked better. It made a weird smashup between Mandy Moore and the Smashing Pumpkins. Ezra took a bite of his Twix bar, hoping it wouldn’t break a bracket or twist the braces wires.…
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The Sun tries to say hello, but
bid her farewell, she’s not welcome
here. The darkness soothes
the sound of the feral bird rapidly
flapping its wings, beating against
its bone cage. It’s exhausted and
wounded. But it aches to hurt even more.
Shaking its cage. Left. Right. Up. Down.
Trapped. It’s too much for the bones to
bear. As the Sun shines light on the
imperfections of the world. The Moon’s
wickedness caters to the feral bird’s
craters. This is what it comes down to:
always sleeping my days away. This is what
it comes down to. Trying to keep the
feral bird at bay.
– Triniti Brown
Author’s Note: “Escaping the Feral Bird” represents the internal chaos of anxiety and depression. The “feral bird” is a symbol of the frantic, relentless thoughts that cage you, leaving you exhausted and trapped.…
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A weathered penny lay in a blue transparent case on a well-organized shelf, surrounded by books and little knick-knacks. Its edges were worn, its engravings almost erased by years of hardship. This coin was once proudly minted in 1873 with a flying eagle printed on one side.
The coin’s journey began by passing from hand to hand, pocket to pocket, its shiny surface dulled by countless dealings with machines. One dark day the life of the penny took a tragic turn. It was a cold winter evening when its owner dropped it out of their pocket on New York City Street—forgotten and kicked around by bike wheels, bottoms of shoes, and dog paws.
Days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months as the penny lay among the dirt and filth of the ground.…
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Wanderlust
I used to catch falling stars and set them adrift at sea
I formed constellations out of moon dust and traced galaxies into the sand
Waves crested and crashed, and sea foam swirled around my feet
And in the water, I saw the universe inviting me to dive in
Crave
I can still taste your honey on my lips,
your caressing tongue, bitter and pollen-laced.
Whispering bees brush velvet cheeks,
releasing saccharine nectar that floods a willing throat,
savoring your honey
– aelily
Author’s Note: I was born on a sinking island and named after a star. “Wanderlust”’s focus on escapism is a reflection on my wishes to travel and explore. It is also an ode to my mental health struggles—depression, anxiety, and PTSD.…
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“Mama,” Esther sang. “Guess who I saw riding up the road.” Her good eye held a tell-tale sparkle.
“Stop, you,” Jane replied. To cover her discomfort, she took up her towel and whipped it lightly toward her daughter.
Esther laughed—a girl’s giggle with a woman’s knowing. She’d refused braids that morning and the strong springtime winds rushing into Iowa had knotted her hair. She plucked her best embroidered eyepatch and a brown bonnet from the hook by the door, then actually smoothed her hands down her workday skirt before rushing outside, presumably to meet the man—Mr. Isaiah Hall—in nothing more wicked than bare feet and best intentions.
Jane forced her hands to fold the towel and place it neatly on the table. “Oh, Morris,” she whispered.…
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