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2022 Halloween/Fall Issue |
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Photograph By Kirsten Bisconer
The Tower by Braxtyn Wilt
Insanity is how I go
Stuck up here
Only the voices in my head
Saying kill
Not saying
Screaming
“She locked you away”
Mad
“No matter, you’ll soon be dead”
Blood, Blood is what I see
Red, voices in my head
Stop please, cloudy head
Blood pools
Hush...
There, the voices gone.
I laugh
Oh what joy
It was to hear them scream.
To hear them beg for mercy that never came.
Insanity goes with the blood,
Once white tiles stained pink.
Insanity is how I go
Stuck up here
Only the voices in my head
Saying kill
Not saying
Screaming
“She locked you away”
Mad
“No matter, you’ll soon be dead”
Blood, Blood is what I see
Red, voices in my head
Stop please, cloudy head
Blood pools
Hush...
There, the voices gone.
I laugh
Oh what joy
It was to hear them scream.
To hear them beg for mercy that never came.
Insanity goes with the blood,
Once white tiles stained pink.
Artwork By Connor Hall
Art Gallery by Morgan Hayes
Don’t be mistaken the museum is surely alive. When the crowds have gone missing, and tourists retreat back to their hotels, and the only audible sound is a foot tapping at the marble floors; that’s when you’ll find it- the heartbeat. Thump, thump, thump. The mouth is silent at night. That comes in the day with the observers and conversationalist of Monet and Van Gogh. Yes, it’s a very silent place at night…well except for the occasional noise out of the girl.
Dressed for the blunt chill of winter, she lurks around. Heeled feet creating a sleepless noise for the paintings. One piece in particular takes the art goer’s interest- The Lovers by Rene Magritte. Her pale fingers glide on the glass, almost as if in greeting. These are her friends, the art and her know each other best. She’s studied the swatches and strokes of each masterpiece-more so than any worker here. She knows the beauty and destruction of what art can bring.
But not every painting is a fan of the woman. Some find it pleasing to see her come and stare at the art- flattering even. Though one in particular isn’t pleased. Marek seems to find her posture sloppy, her clothes cheap and most importantly naïve. You can’t blame him for these thoughts. He’s not like the other pieces hung and shown off, he’s different, better.
Marek is quite beautiful; a classic painting of his time, posed and painted with precision. Though a mere painting, Marek never found trouble in expressing his discomfort. A grin comes from the girl as she stops in front of Marek himself. Even after plenty of visits, she finds herself in awe at the talent and beauty of the muse.
With a hesitated look around, the fair-haired girl pauses. When the coast is clear, she reaches a hand towards the painting slowly, as if the slightest move would scare her prey. Marek’s eyes dagger, his cheeks blushed with fury. Quickly, Marek lunges forward to grab the wrist of the moving hand. A loud gasp echoes through the exhibit, causing the heartbeat to skip and the eyes and ears to widen.
The sun rises again, with the filling crowds. Flash from the cameras and babies’ cries stir the art. This time however, when they open their sleep-filled eyes, they’re met with a surprise- a new painting has captured the crowd and it appears to have taken the spot of Marek. Yes, the museum is surely alive.
Don’t be mistaken the museum is surely alive. When the crowds have gone missing, and tourists retreat back to their hotels, and the only audible sound is a foot tapping at the marble floors; that’s when you’ll find it- the heartbeat. Thump, thump, thump. The mouth is silent at night. That comes in the day with the observers and conversationalist of Monet and Van Gogh. Yes, it’s a very silent place at night…well except for the occasional noise out of the girl.
Dressed for the blunt chill of winter, she lurks around. Heeled feet creating a sleepless noise for the paintings. One piece in particular takes the art goer’s interest- The Lovers by Rene Magritte. Her pale fingers glide on the glass, almost as if in greeting. These are her friends, the art and her know each other best. She’s studied the swatches and strokes of each masterpiece-more so than any worker here. She knows the beauty and destruction of what art can bring.
But not every painting is a fan of the woman. Some find it pleasing to see her come and stare at the art- flattering even. Though one in particular isn’t pleased. Marek seems to find her posture sloppy, her clothes cheap and most importantly naïve. You can’t blame him for these thoughts. He’s not like the other pieces hung and shown off, he’s different, better.
Marek is quite beautiful; a classic painting of his time, posed and painted with precision. Though a mere painting, Marek never found trouble in expressing his discomfort. A grin comes from the girl as she stops in front of Marek himself. Even after plenty of visits, she finds herself in awe at the talent and beauty of the muse.
With a hesitated look around, the fair-haired girl pauses. When the coast is clear, she reaches a hand towards the painting slowly, as if the slightest move would scare her prey. Marek’s eyes dagger, his cheeks blushed with fury. Quickly, Marek lunges forward to grab the wrist of the moving hand. A loud gasp echoes through the exhibit, causing the heartbeat to skip and the eyes and ears to widen.
The sun rises again, with the filling crowds. Flash from the cameras and babies’ cries stir the art. This time however, when they open their sleep-filled eyes, they’re met with a surprise- a new painting has captured the crowd and it appears to have taken the spot of Marek. Yes, the museum is surely alive.
Artwork By Dinela Dedic
Choke by Summer Miller
Cold rain trickles down the back of my neck, stopping to pool at the hem of my worn t-shirt. The road is slick. Flaking yellow lines sneer at me from beneath dirty puddles. I walk.
I walk on the side of the empty road, with only the gray clouds above to comfort me.
My phone buzzes, it’s a call from my mother, reverberating around my pocket. I let it buzz. I keep walking.
I sniffle. The mangy cat of isolation rests on my chest, creating pressure and leaving uneasy tendrils rooted in my heart.
My eyes look up from watching my old converse scuff on the pavement and see an abandoned gas station a couple yards ahead. My stomach growls in anticipation.
I speed up, no longer keeping V with the slow thump of my heart.
As I get close, I can see that it’s an overgrown Sheetz. Monster ferns and ivy (Oh, Ivy) creep over the sign leaving only the “She” part visible.
My eyes dart around like scattered bugs before I put my palm on the door and let myself in. The foliage makes the door hard to muscle in and the tinkling bell overhead rings out a single, forlorn note. The shelves are covered in discarded remnants of prepackaged food, but my eyes land on one unopened package of snowballs.
I’m quick to the kill. The snowballs are alone on the shelf, guarded only by a layer of dust and their bunny companions. I tear through them like a polar bear tearing through seal flesh.
Oh, and they’re so sweet. Stale and chewy, but sweet all the same.
She liked snowballs too… I think.
But they taste better than her smile ever did, and they combat the salty tears that have slipped between my lips.
As I let my eyes slip closed, I suddenly hear a low hiss.
Sssssss
My eyes snap open, and right at my feet, a green snake slithers towards me. It’s forked, red tongue darts out of its mouth and its yellow eyes are fixed on mine.
I stumble out of the way, grabbing at racks to stabilize myself before I slip on a leaf and land sharply on my left ankle. I cry out and drag it behind me as I crawl out of the serpent’s wake. It persists.
I grab a can of Spaghetti-O's off the shelf that’s dented and covered in dirt and launch it at the snake. It smacks its scaly head and punctures one of its eyes but is otherwise unphased.
I army crawl faster and try to pull myself up on a magazine rack with titles like “Year of YOU” and “Be true to yourself” I grit my teeth in frustration. My hands and arms are filthy, and my legs shake like a baby fawn learning to walk.
Adrenaline tugs at my heart and wills my brain to tell my legs to run but my feet are perfectly planted on the ground despite the throbbing in my ankle. The snake’s green tail whips faster to reach me. I let it.
It’s warm, rough skin begins to wrap itself around my leg. It climbs up my body, tickling my arm with its little tongue. It squeezes up my torso with the strength of a full-grown man and I hold my breath. Finally, it wraps its body around my neck, and I can feel it beginning to tighten. Black sparkles cloud my peripheral vision and I begin to asphyxiate, losing oxygen by the second. I pant and whine like a dog in a thunderstorm.
“I’m sorry! God! I’m sorry! Please God tell my mom I’m sorry!” I choke out. I think of my mother and I don’t think of her. My knees fall to the ground and my hands are on the floor in a pose of worship as I prepare for death.
But then the snake stops. It releases me from its grasp and I swallow big gulps of air and cry. I lay on the dirty Sheetz floor and thank anything that listens for granting me my life.
I then take my phone out of my pocket and see the ten missed calls from my mom and I dial her number, wanting to hear her sweet voice. Her warm cadence lulls me to sleep. Before I lose consciousness, at the very second before I escape to my dream world, I can see the snake slither up to my leg and sink its long curved fangs into my flesh.
I let it.
Cold rain trickles down the back of my neck, stopping to pool at the hem of my worn t-shirt. The road is slick. Flaking yellow lines sneer at me from beneath dirty puddles. I walk.
I walk on the side of the empty road, with only the gray clouds above to comfort me.
My phone buzzes, it’s a call from my mother, reverberating around my pocket. I let it buzz. I keep walking.
I sniffle. The mangy cat of isolation rests on my chest, creating pressure and leaving uneasy tendrils rooted in my heart.
My eyes look up from watching my old converse scuff on the pavement and see an abandoned gas station a couple yards ahead. My stomach growls in anticipation.
I speed up, no longer keeping V with the slow thump of my heart.
As I get close, I can see that it’s an overgrown Sheetz. Monster ferns and ivy (Oh, Ivy) creep over the sign leaving only the “She” part visible.
My eyes dart around like scattered bugs before I put my palm on the door and let myself in. The foliage makes the door hard to muscle in and the tinkling bell overhead rings out a single, forlorn note. The shelves are covered in discarded remnants of prepackaged food, but my eyes land on one unopened package of snowballs.
I’m quick to the kill. The snowballs are alone on the shelf, guarded only by a layer of dust and their bunny companions. I tear through them like a polar bear tearing through seal flesh.
Oh, and they’re so sweet. Stale and chewy, but sweet all the same.
She liked snowballs too… I think.
But they taste better than her smile ever did, and they combat the salty tears that have slipped between my lips.
As I let my eyes slip closed, I suddenly hear a low hiss.
Sssssss
My eyes snap open, and right at my feet, a green snake slithers towards me. It’s forked, red tongue darts out of its mouth and its yellow eyes are fixed on mine.
I stumble out of the way, grabbing at racks to stabilize myself before I slip on a leaf and land sharply on my left ankle. I cry out and drag it behind me as I crawl out of the serpent’s wake. It persists.
I grab a can of Spaghetti-O's off the shelf that’s dented and covered in dirt and launch it at the snake. It smacks its scaly head and punctures one of its eyes but is otherwise unphased.
I army crawl faster and try to pull myself up on a magazine rack with titles like “Year of YOU” and “Be true to yourself” I grit my teeth in frustration. My hands and arms are filthy, and my legs shake like a baby fawn learning to walk.
Adrenaline tugs at my heart and wills my brain to tell my legs to run but my feet are perfectly planted on the ground despite the throbbing in my ankle. The snake’s green tail whips faster to reach me. I let it.
It’s warm, rough skin begins to wrap itself around my leg. It climbs up my body, tickling my arm with its little tongue. It squeezes up my torso with the strength of a full-grown man and I hold my breath. Finally, it wraps its body around my neck, and I can feel it beginning to tighten. Black sparkles cloud my peripheral vision and I begin to asphyxiate, losing oxygen by the second. I pant and whine like a dog in a thunderstorm.
“I’m sorry! God! I’m sorry! Please God tell my mom I’m sorry!” I choke out. I think of my mother and I don’t think of her. My knees fall to the ground and my hands are on the floor in a pose of worship as I prepare for death.
But then the snake stops. It releases me from its grasp and I swallow big gulps of air and cry. I lay on the dirty Sheetz floor and thank anything that listens for granting me my life.
I then take my phone out of my pocket and see the ten missed calls from my mom and I dial her number, wanting to hear her sweet voice. Her warm cadence lulls me to sleep. Before I lose consciousness, at the very second before I escape to my dream world, I can see the snake slither up to my leg and sink its long curved fangs into my flesh.
I let it.
