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  • Poetry > Free Verse
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    i don’t know what to do anymore. ha ha ha, your mouth twisting into a conformation of lip limbs i didn’t know human flesh could conjure. the setting sun laughs with you, shining rays of incredulity into the atmosphere. but really, i don’t know a lot of things i don’t know why every...
  • Poetry > Free Verse
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    you always hated gaps in information -- the “intangible,” you muttered -- huddled there, numbers and figures cascading into dances you could touch, mapping (starless) constellations but what if i showed you those abstract beings you so abhor shapeless fancies, nameless feelings? wh...
  • Fiction > Realistic Fiction
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    It’s hard to command any sense of gravitas with gravy stains on your shirt. My mother points this out to me, indifferently passing by my indignant stance on why Walmart is ruining America, tsk tsk tsk-ing in her signature way. “Why couldn’t I have had a son who could at least have an exis...
  • Poetry > Free Verse
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    I. “Tell me a story.” You said as you traced the lines across my palm, your little mouth curved upwards at the ends. I didn’t tell you about princes or princesses or shiny images on laminated paper, and I didn’t have much of a imagination. I could only tell you what I knew, and for a...
  • Poetry > Sonnet
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    my teacher told me the other day that our whole lives are banalities, platitudes, commonplace and stale sayings on a gumball wrapper. “originality,” he orated, flinging his arms into an unknown wonder, “is dead.” oh. glassy eyes of classmates bored into him. oh. i did not know ...
  • Poetry > Sonnet
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    you always hated gaps in information -- the “intangible,” you muttered -- huddled there, numbers and figures cascading into dances you could touch, mapping (starless) constellations but what if i showed you those abstract beings you so abhor and you liked them? what if i told you the...
  • Poetry > Free Verse
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    i found a lunch bag on the ground of a toilet stall between sixth and seventh period, quietly idling, unassuming. lunchables plastic, ripped, spilling out, contents shaken. wrapped in plain brown bag, half-eaten, cold. i stared at it, the wrinkles etched into the paper seemed rather ...
  • Poetry > Sonnet
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    i found a lunch bag on the ground of a toilet stall between sixth and seventh period, quietly idling, unassuming. lunchables plastic, ripped, spilling out, contents shaken. wrapped in plain brown bag, half-eaten, cold. i stared at it, the wrinkles etched into the paper seemed rather ...
  • Poetry > Sonnet
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    The winding river trickles down a path, The trees, like colonels, watch recurring scenes. Returning water etched in veins, a swath of earth, of sun, in crops of sultry greens. A patch of searing amber; rays of dunes, surround the thicket, enveloping all in hushful tones, inaudible croons. E...
  • Poetry > Free Verse
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    you always hated gaps in information - the “intangible,” you muttered; huddled there, numbers and figures cascading into dances you could touch, could wrap your little head around and breathe but what if i showed you some things - and you liked them? what if i told you the best air res...
  • Hot Topics > Pride & Prejudice
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    Sometimes you just realize the people around you. Not just that they’re there, or that they’re walking by you or that they exist, but the gravity of their existence. That every person has a conscience, and each has their own thoughts and feelings and desires and stories. That for every action yo...
  • Opinion > Spirituality / Religion
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    My parents sent me to a Catholic pre-school. As the belief systems running in my family range from lazy agnosticism to my father’s very Harold Camping-like “I-believe-in-God-just-not-organized-religion” lecture, this decision struck me as curious. When confronted about it, my parents gave the ...
  • Fiction > Realistic Fiction
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    I finally stopped putting the books back where they belonged. After a month of agony, hair-ripping frustration and piles of text in forms of rotting debris, I finally just let it go. Mr. Winderman, the insane old man who ran the wretched shop, chuckled softly as I threw my hands up, waving the whi...
  • Poetry > Song Lyrics
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    lines etched across your face like a roadmap trace every lonely night and cheap liquor you’ve drained to feel nothing. enclaves of creases in the hollows of your cheeks shadow the fact that you’re waiting and you’re still waiting and you’re scared that’s all you’ll ever do...
  • Poetry > Free Verse
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    I don’t believe in school but I believe in education. I don’t believe in the click clack of the ever constant clock or the impatient taps of the foot, monotonous drone and the minutes that seem like hours. I believe in learning weird things that I’ll never use and esoteric words I...
  • Poetry > Free Verse
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    Faith is my grandmother’s hand. Lines trickling like little highways across her palm, enclaves of creases etched onto her skin, honest truths and prayerful wisdom fashioned like a roadway map. It’s not a Bible or a priest or God forbid dreaded mandatory Sunday school but wistful gazes a...
  • Poetry > Free Verse
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    I don't believe in mysticism, but I think I'd like to. How romantic of a notion to believe that the stars align to whisper our fates, to believe that every being has a purpose, a higher calling. That without me, the world would be different. I try to believe in these shady concepts on ...
  • Poetry > Free Verse
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    Mama always told me I lacked a good amount of this thing called “common sense.” I’d believe every vendor on market day, buy every apple they claimed was as sweet as molasses, only to be so sour I’d have to close my eyes when I took a bite. I’d fall for pranks, (when my brother said...
  • Poetry > Free Verse
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    Sometimes I wish my mom and I were like the Gilmore Girls. Talking about nothing, our voices intertwining into pitchy cadences, we'd engage in a shower of pop culture references and a gossip gab for my father to shake his head at. She'd steal my clothes, I'd call her old. We'd fight li...
  • Fiction > Realistic Fiction
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    I wake up on July 15 with this sort of weird, bittersweet feeling in my stomach. Not the Mama-made-my-favorite-meal-but-I-have-to-do-home-work-right-after kind of bittersweet, but an ache I imagine only old men and military officers wake up to. Not the most healthy emotion for a fifteen-year-old gir...

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