Wednesday, December 21, 2016

Quote of the Week


Quote of the Week

"Happiness is . . .
not having 
to set the
alarm for
the next day"

Happy Holidays Everyone!! :) 

Confinement by Julia Johnson


     Socks. Socks were the problem. At least they were my problem. I’m not sure what it was about them, but I didn’t like them. They made my feet feel claustrophobic, it’s like some people are scared about being confined in a small space, but for me, it’s just my feet that don’t like this imprisonment.
     The sun was beginning to set when I got the call. I had an interview for the Penguin Books publishing firm in New York City. At first I wasn’t sure if it was real, I mean these types of opportunities don’t just happen everyday. Then, it started to sink in. I was getting the chance to really work in the writing business. Thankfully I was sitting in the chair because if I hadn’t been, I definitely would’ve fainted. 
     I immediately started calling people. Every single person on my contacts list in my phone was dialed. I could barely get the words out to anyone. I was so excited. They all most likely just heard me gasping, taking sharp breaths, and trying to decipher any of the words that were spitting out of my mouth. Some of them hung up, because they thought it was a prank call, but I didn’t care. I was just happy. Genuinely happy.
     My best friend was the last person I called since I knew I would actually talk to him for more than a few minutes. “Guess what! Guess what! Guess what!” I yelled into the phone.
     “You got the interview!” he shouted back.
     “Yes! How did you know?!”
     “Because I know you. Of course they were interested!”
      We talked about the news for a bit. Then I realized, I had to figure out what I was going to wear. I quickly hung up the phone and began hyperventilating. The interview was in less than twenty-four hours, and I had nothing planned. Suddenly the excitement died down, and the panic moved in. I was running circles around my apartment, looking for something spectacular. Everything in my closet was scattered across the floor. It looked like a rainbow threw up and landed in Manhattan. Shoes were flinging themselves across the room. My dog hid under the table, barking at a pair of black pumps. 
     Nothing was right. 
     And then I tripped on a sock. 
     A sock.
     I didn’t realize I had any left. I tried to avoid them at all costs. They were unnecessary pieces of clothing. But I guess I had to wear them. It was the middle of winter, and I couldn’t keep wearing only flats and heels. Socks were so restrictive that my feet couldn’t breath, and they weren’t even fashionable. 
     I took a deep breath. 
     The next day, for my interview, I wore socks.

     I got the job. 

Boats by Haille Glaser

Why are we waiting by Julia Wood

Why are we waiting

“You have cancer”

She went and she lived out her days until the end

Breathing, experiencing, actually living

More than any businessman could ever imagine to

So, who’s really dying here?

Why do we wait until death is inevitable

To actually live?

Isn’t that how it is all along?

Sunset by Emily Kenyon

Drawing by Caroline Enos

Flight by Julia Johnson

Wednesday, December 7, 2016

Peace Fingers by Marisa Enes

The GHS Plague by Haille Glaser

The GHS Plague
                                                   My head turns hot
                                                                My temperature spikes
                I think i’m getting sick, yikes
                                                                                  My body aches and screams for help
                                                                                                   I feel worse than I have ever felt
Unable to think
              Unable to focus
                                                          My brain is a scramble
                                                                   I stare blankly as my teachers ramble
                           I want to go home
Rather than aimlessly roam
                                                                                   Please mom, dismiss me
                                                                                                None of my classes will miss me
                                              Home at last
                                                     I flop on my bed
                                                                  I lay a cold cloth on top of my head
Sleep for hours
         Maybe even days
                       When I raise
                    My brain is no longer a maze
                                                   Feeling better, feeling good
                                                    Feeling as I wished I would
                                                   Back to school, back to class
                                                            I can think again

Photo by Haille Glaser

Coffee by Julia Johnson

Endless by Julia Wood


we love and love and love
giving each other bits and pieces
quarters, halves

every star in the sky wouldn’t be enough
every drop of rain in a thunderstorm
every snort and giggle when i’m with you

i want you to know how much i care

security, comfortability, peace
love and love and love

compliments, adjectives, words
i can’t break them down enough
i’m at a loss
i wish i knew the right words

give you anything, everything
all that i have

if i could, i would spend
every day, every hour, every minute
in the company of you

it’s never enough time
forever wouldn’t be long enough

to love and be loved
by you.

Quote of the Week


Quote of the Week

"May your choices reflect your hopes not your fears."- Nelson Mandela

Wednesday, November 16, 2016

Quote of the Week

Quote of the Week

"Kindness is the language which the deaf can hear and the blind can see."
- Mark Twain

More Than a Dress by Julia Johnson

More Than a Dress
It was a warm, sunny afternoon, and I was walking past a store window when this color caught my eye. It was a subtle yellow. It wasn’t the type of yellow that made you want to shield your eyes; it was the kind of yellow that made you think of lemon squares. Not the store- bought kind though, the ones made out of scratch, the ones that you pour your whole heart into. It was a dress, an exquisite dress. I stopped in front of it, just staring. It was blanketed with a layer of lace. Someone would have to look very closely in order to see the fine details of the design.
There was this overwhelming feeling that washed over me when I looked at it. It was like I somehow knew who this dress was. A faint memory painted itself, using watercolors, in the back of my mind. I could just barely make out the face of a person. There sun was peering out from the background. A glimpse of an arm. A few fingers.
I peered closely at the fabric. The neckline wasn’t completely covered in lace, instead there were slopes. Several sections of white pattern swooping down, up, and down again, the yellow acting as a backdrop. Then at the bottom, the lace skated past the hemline.
There was something about the essence of the dress that gave off an aura of the 1950’s. When I looked at the dress, I imagined a woman cooking dinner for her family, having midday tea with her friends, and writing down all her thoughts in a leather bound notebook.
In the watercolor, I was beginning to see hints of brown hair. A grayish green color where the left eye should be placed. I could tell it was a girl, but I wasn’t sure who she was, or why she was there.
The designer of the dress crafted the piece eloquently. It had a sweetheart neckline and no sleeves. The bodice of the dress led to a flowy ending, where women had the freedom to dance around as they pleased.
It was a classy dress. Old fashioned. There weren’t many people who could pull it off in the twenty-first century, but the ones who could must have poise or at least an old soul.
I took one last look at it, basking in all its glory before I left.
I walked away with this feeling in my gut, telling me to look back.
Turn around.
There was one more thing that I noticed.
The mannequin was wearing a string of pearls. A one of a kind addition to the already unique dress. It will be a challenge to future shoppers to find a dress like this one.
It wasn’t until I noticed the white beads that I understood the painting.
It was a painting of you.
You in your happiest state.
You as my best friend.
The you that I met in high school, through all the drama and the craziness.
You were always sane.
You are the dress I saw that warm, sunny afternoon.

Soulmates by Julia Wood

If you met someone

Who made your heart flutter
 Every damn day
Who made you smile
 Every chance they got
Who hugged you tighter
 Than ever before

Would you believe?

If you fell in love

Before you loved yourself?
Harder than you thought possible?

With every little detail?
Every word they spoke?
Every poem they wrote?

Would you allow yourself to believe?

 Would you?

Tree by Emily Kenyon

Self Portrait by Marisa Enes

Photograph and Face Art by Jillian Oliveira

Wednesday, October 26, 2016

Sunset by Julia Johnson

You are You by Julia Wood

You are You


remain patient                                                                   
                                             and true to yourself
                    and things
                     work out

Photography by Jillian Oliveira

Photo by Haille Glaser

Wednesday, October 5, 2016

Quote of the Week


The wind is rising, and 
the air is wild with
We have had our summer evenings, now
For October eves!"

- Humbert Wolfe

The Collison by Julia Johnson

The Collision

There’s a roaring in my ears. The whole floor vibrates. I can feel my heart racing. The energy in the room is electric. The lights go off for only a second, and then an explosion of light emerges from the stage. Everyone goes wild. A stadium full of thousands of people scream together, making the most of this moment. My eardrums already feel like they’re going to pop. The first chord of the song plays, and everyone’s moving. Dancing to the beat of the drum, the adrenaline of the crowd reaching higher and higher.
I sing as loud as my voice will allow, belting out the lyrics I know and even the ones that I don’t. I can’t stop myself from moving; it’s as if my arms, my legs, my body, all have a mind of its own. It isn’t my brain that is controlling my actions; it’s the music flowing through my veins.
As the audience closes their eyes, swaying to the soulful voice of Dan Smith, I look up. I see a familiar face when everything goes awry.
Sparks fly.
The overhead lights crash on to the stage.
Metal parts detach from their bodies, sailing into the sea of people.
I hear someone screaming in the distance.
Everyone runs towards the exit, like his or her life depends on it.
And it does.
Ahead of me, I see a familiar face. He gets shoved to the ground, but no one stops to help him. His arms cover his head, acting as a shield. I think I see him praying. Praying to God. Praying for survival. Praying for his family and friends.
A burst of energy shoots through me.
I run.
I come to a stop when I reach him. He looks up at me, panic smothering his eyes and then relief. My hand reaches out for him, and he takes it. Sirens sound in the distance, getting louder as the trucks get closer. We finally get pushed outside. The crowd’s still moving, but more people have reached freedom.
He turns to look at me, his eyes glassy from the tears, “Thank you… for saving my life.”
I shrug, “It’s what anyone would’ve done.”
“But it was you who stopped to help me up,” he rubs his hands against his jeans. “If you hadn’t been there, I probably would’ve been crushed.”
I notice a cut above his right eyebrow, and I can see a few bruises beginning to form on his arms. There are medics everywhere, tending to the ones who were close to the stage and the ones who got pushed aside and stepped on.
“You should go get checked out,” I tell him.
He stares at his arms, feels the cuts on his face, and then he smiles. The corners of his mouth tug upward, his eyebrows raise slightly, and he nods. He slowly turns his back away from me and walks away. Just as I’m about to go in the opposite direction, I yell out to him, “Hey! What’s your name?”
He looks back at me, speaking one last syllable, "Jack."

Drawing by Marisa Enes

Photo by Emily Kenyon

Hurts Me Too by Julia Wood

hurts me too

if i could, i would find every
pack of cigarettes in the world,
and i’d light them all up in flames.

i’d make sure they’d never be sold again,
i’d rid of them completely,
i’d make them go extinct.

i should be the only one
to take your breath away.

don’t give them the power,
 for me?

they’re hurting you on the inside,
your poor lungs can’t breathe as well
as they used to.
and what hurts you, hurts me too.