North Fork–Right Fork

May 6, 2015 § Leave a comment

Four kids inhaled the star-brushed sky as they lay with their backs against the warm road, tar digging into whatever exposed skin it could reach like chiggers. This was a night like no other. They sensed it in the magic of the night, the gaudium essendi. Laying there with an eager sense of anticipation, a giddiness, a feeling in their gut that was not to be reduced down to a college-wide virus, they asked questions best discussed under such a sky: What is art? What is beauty? They were no longer freshmen; as newly college sophomores they were more daring. Matthew pulled out his pipe and a tin of tobacco, packed some in, and lit the quaint wooden pipe. He offered a smoke, and one girl took him up on the offer. She gingerly took the pipe from him and tentatively sucked in and blew the stinging residue out. Interesting but definitely not a lifetime habit.

When they realized their conversation was never-ending, the four acquaintances decided to take a nighttime walk. They could still soak in the stars, but not be as restless. They walked along the winding road, coddled by the mountain range. The giant’s steps quarried in the back of the mountain were cloaked by night’s absent star. A yellow glow appeared on the road, like a piece of broken car mirror reflecting distant headlights. The peculiar sight intrigued them. They hurried closer, not totally convinced they hadn’t imagined the thing.

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Elena Rose

January 12, 2015 § Leave a comment

Matthew stood in the center of the wood floor, brown eyes darting around, deciding what she should wear today. Elena Rose was pitching the fit of a toddler, but he continued, trying to dress her decently. Mothballs and rodent remnants punctuated the air, a scent which never became familiar to him, though he cared for his wife daily. Although she was crazy, he loved and cared for her unconditionally. His frail white hands, textured in wrinkles, gingerly dressed the cream figure in a flowered sundress and colorful plastic beads, topped with a green hat to accent her strawberry-blonde hair. A tasteful outfit, much like the Elena he knew as a younger man would wear. Summer swept in quicker than expected, pinching off spring’s delicate flowers and moderate temperature. The husband and wife felt suffocated by the boxes and trunks encompassing them. The items were piled from floor to ceiling, spewing forth the remains of his wife’s legacy. She didn’t get out much anymore; she told him that she preferred the attic of their home more than town or the rest of it, because her belongings gleefully decorated every corner of the stuffy wooden room.

“How do you like your outfit today Laney?”

She smiled.

“That much, huh?”

“I’m glad you approve,” he winked at her. “I’m thinking about cleaning out this old attic and storing some things in the basement. What do you think?”

She smiled again and gave a slight head nod like a queen acknowledging the presence of her inferior.

Sweat droplets slid down his forehead, leaving trails like slugs, reminding him of the reality he must enter into once again. Matthew wiped his brow in staccato with the back of his forearm. He glanced back at his wife. She had nodded off. He trudged down the attic stairs.

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Ode to a Lost Sock

May 4, 2014 § 1 Comment


Were the best,

My dearest.

And now that you’re gone,

I see just how much


Mean to me.

Your bright colors,

Salmon and sky blue argyle,

And soft, faded fabric

Cradled my feet

Catching my toes in loose strings.

I doubt you really loved me,

For your other half

Captured your affections

Long before I could,

But your loyalty stayed.

O cruel world ripped



Others tormented

By our bond,


The laundry room

And careless college students

Plotted against,

To separate us



Were the best,

My dearest.

And I’ll never forget



By Emilie Brooker and Mercia Tremblac

Heartache Presses On

February 6, 2014 § 1 Comment

A broken heart
is like a house settling.
The cracks
are never mended.
Shock splits them
I feel fire
in my core,
a pool of lava seething.
It burns and cauterizes
my thoughts,
separating them
from logic in the air.
These feelings
reason desperately
infuses them,
but are cauterized
When did I become
so dependent
on technology.

Heart-Cracking (this is what it feels like– for the first time)

December 14, 2013 § 6 Comments

It creeps across
the water of my soul.
it pervades.
Freezing face
in perpetual
The pretense
Questions bat
at my mind with
sharpened claws.
Let the pouncing
Should I have said this?
Done that?
Tried more?
Been different?
No, they tell me;
yes, I think.
is a word.
A true, significant
Body violently shakes,
mind dazed.
Unearthly noises,
pain conveyed
(to self and God alone).
I am not
Am I?
no (they say).
But yes.
across my soul.
in a hurricane.
I wish
I wish

Literature as True Art

December 13, 2013 § Leave a comment

C.S. Lewis points out, “Agape is all giving, not getting….Giving money is only one way of showing charity; to give time and toil is far better and (for most of us) harder.”

Sacrifice and love are rituals; however, rituals which initially carried meaning now stand in action alone. Love is a ritual and a commitment; C.S. Lewis also recognizes the importance of rituals in our everyday lives. Rituals have lost their meaning because we don’t recognize the truth behind them; they are symbols, and these representatives are used so often that they become viewed as the intentions. The world needs myths and truth-sayers to show the underlying meaning and significance behind actions performed.

When discussing the components of life that humanize, Campbell brings up, “The unbiblical point, the humanity, the thing that makes you human and not supernatural and immortal—that’s what’s lovable. That is why some people have a very hard time loving God, because there’s no imperfection there. You can be in awe, but that would not be real love. It’s Christ on the cross that becomes lovable.” Because humans are imperfect, they must make a habit of love until it becomes a true agape, service-oriented love. The danger in this lies in the acts of service becoming tasks which must be completed; however, literature aids the recovery of meaning in ritual.

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Juxtaposition of Soul and Earth

November 8, 2013 § Leave a comment

Here I sit, amidst the tattle of leaves,

burning bushes atop the trees. The chill slows

us as it slows molecules. The bell hails

the orange mountains—

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