Issue 2: Creative Writing

CREATIVE WRITINGThe art of word.

“AUTOBIOGRAPHY”

By: Hannah Kirk

My edges have always been softer than yours,and this no longer warrants my apology.


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CREATIVE WRITING FEATURE: CASSIE BRISTOW

By: Cassie Bristow

“There’s A Limit To Your Love”

joined are my lips in hopes to stopthe bleeding wound that is my tongue speakingof its pain; the only love i’ve felt was silent.

i’ve learned to ignore the rumblings of thunder i drown out the volume of its warnings with a siren’s song of denial. lured by madness, dancing feet find their way to stomp on the cyclops eye of a hurricane succumb once more, succumb once more— dark clouds hunger to take a bite of foolish flesh, circling like vultures, their touch could be

“Enlightening.”

tendrils of smoke curl around a sunken frame, was a single taste enough to satisfy? here i am again, reality has brought me to my knees. its truth is sharp. its truth is quick. its truth is always painful. 


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CREATIVE WRITING FEATURE: CAROLINE MANG-MANGER

By: Caroline Mang-Manger

you are allowed to break out of the old you if it constricts you like a pair of too tight jeans you don’t keep pressing yourself into them you go and get yourself new ones that fit because your body keeps changing and so does your mind

so who cares if you had long hair all your life and everyone likes your long hair so very much take the scissors and cut them off

who cares if you’ve been doing this for years but are curious for something else now drop it and sign up new

you are not your past self you don’t have to keep her alive to satisfy other people’s expectations you are allowed to kill her every evening before going to bed and rise anew from her ashes the next morning

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step by step i am trying to dismantleall the versions of myself i have glued onto my bodyto comfort other peopleit’s a process it will only come off in piecesbut i will be here underneathcelebrating every tiny victorybecause with each layer being removed my heart feels a little less heavyand my lungs find it a little easier to breathe

- growth


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there are wordsimprinted on my skin but they’re not my tattoosthey go way deeper it’s everything you saidto weaken me at my core

and you almost won i had stopped looking in the mirrorto avoid seeing everything you think of meonly saying what you want to hear from me

to free myself from your hands on mei have lit myself on fire everything has burned off of me i almost started thinking it was a mistakei almost called to ask for your advice but beneath all the burning fleshnew skin started growing untouched without your opinionsall over it

and now i am smiling as i say i can finally startanew


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CREATIVE WRITING FEATURE: HARPER WAYNE

By: Harper Wayne

“Clouds Hold Density”

I’veNever felt more Unlike myselfWhile working the hardest On me

Uncertainty Focused onThe one I am certain of

Who is The girlMarching through the motions Of a seven am To seven pmDay

Do I see her Or see what I could make of her?

Molding clayWithout water

Are my hands still warm?What is this unmarked form?

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No one knows My nameOr the place I came from

My mouth could have molded myself Only in their eyes

Butthe truth stiffened The spine Of myCreation Mouth exposing the sides hidden from

The vulnerability of being WhoYou are In a world ofCreated identities only Looking like fame Has induced Sculpting of my brain

Creating a future In someone whoFeels Like the past and the futureBut nothing of the present

Eyes not the sameTies undone Life remade

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I am officially With an old name

Meet meHidden in shameI live My new nameUnwritten But still, I look the same

New world Old meNew me

My heart grewOn a tarmac When the planeKissed the clouds Things changed


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“See Through Lifestyle”

I’m a messy individual Labeled a way

I can't read my writingIt doesn’t come out that way

You cant see my thoughtsOr feel my brain My heartBeats out of my chestWalking to class Trying to passThe city individuals I can only guessLabeled like me

In tune with the paceThe hustle And bustle

I’m a messy individual But you don’t know me like that

yet


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“27”

By: Molly Stewart

I was only 7 when he died. Mom piled everyone into the van and we drove to Moe’s. I thought it was because kids eat free on Tuesdays but later found out, it was to keep everyone’s spirits up. After we got back home from dinner, everyone was brought to the couch and sat down with a box of tissues already placed in the middle. Mom and Dad started talking about how Uncle Jamie and Grandma were always fighting and were having a lot of trouble. Ava was five, and her first thought was “Please don't tell me Jamie’s moving in here.”

It’s ironic to look back at all the things that could’ve been. What happened was the absolute worstpossibility.

“One night, after a big fight, Jamie went out on the back porch to try and ease his tension with drugs like he had been doing for a while. Well, he took too much at one time, and he died,” Mom said as her voice began to crack and the box of tissues became of use. I didn’t cry. I walked upstairs to my room to finish my drawing while everyone watched me from the couch. I heard people crying downstairs, but I didn’t get it. I didn't get how he was just dead that easily. I didn't even get who he was if this was the kind of epilogue he got. So I didn't care. I’d only ever met him twice, and the first time I was only a few months old. I didn't feel anything towards what had just happened, because I didn't understand anything about what just happened.

When Mom told me Jamie was addicted to drugs, I asked her what drugs were and she told me theywere like medicine we take, but when people take too much. So I always pictured thevitamins and dayquil in the medicine closet in Mom’s bathroom, and Jamie swallowing themwhen he had a cold. But instead of reading the dosage information, he just took two and moved on.

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Jamie was cremated. Grandma said she didn't think that anyone would come to his burial if he had one because not many people liked him. Most of his impressions and relationships were based on drugs, vandalization, and jail. She almost didn't even have a funeral, but the family convinced her. What she originally thought would happen did, and the crowd in the church was mostly family with a few junkie friends spread out in the back, wondering if this would be them someday soon.

We got to stay in the bridal room of the church. We stood in front of the pretty mirrors with big round lights above them and danced like princesses, rubbing off the ample amount of makeup the moms had put on us. When we went out into the chapel, the front row was reserved for Jamie’s family, so I sat there by my cousin and my older sister. They started the ceremony by playing a recording of one of the songs he wrote and passing out the lyrics, then continued by saying a collection of things that I’ll never remember because they’d never be saying such nice things about him if he were still alive. What I do remember is Grandma. I remember her face when she was sobbing uncontrollably in the pew while some of the men of the church tried to console her. I remember wondering how all of the rehab visits and all of the days he had worked to stay clean for meant nothing because his addiction had still torn them both apart. I forgot about him. It wasn’t important to me. 7 years later, I saw my friends start thinking about experimenting with drugs like Jamie probably did before he started using. I started to think about him again and remember who he was. Then, I developed a fascination. I then began to slowly find out more. I found out he had been clean for a while before his overdose. I guess his tolerance had gone down, and he was just pushed too far one day and went back to his old habits, but his body wasn't used to it anymore.

I found out he wanted to be a journalist. He was studying journalism in college beforehe got kicked out. I did research, read obituaries (which only really talk about the family and

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the funeral), listened to his music, and finally found something that gave me a better insight on him and his thought process: his Facebook page. I was never allowed to be Facebook friends with him when I was little because he said too many bad words for me to see, even though my status updates were only shared with family and close friends. I started to search through pictures of him and his many status updates - most about his friends, drugs, or song lyrics. He and his friends would go back and forth talking about their plans to be like Bonnie and Clyde and live extravagant lives, drinking wine and reading literature on underground trains. But the one that always stuck out, he posted a few months before he died.

contentment finds me with a grateful soul...so much to look forward to if i just focus on the task at hand. My revolution has started. With hope in my heart and a brick in my hand, i will

break free.

And I think that’s the worst part about it all. That things were looking up for him, and he was looking up himself. Because that's how horrible addiction is. That even if he was still alive today, drugs would always have a grip on him. That it’s not a quick fix, and no matter how many rehabilitation stays there are, it will always be a part of him on this Earth. And then again, there’s the good side. He’s not on Earth anymore. Maybe there’s somewhere where heroin doesn't exist and drug addiction doesn't happen. And that’s the kind of thing that’s worth it to hold onto, that maybe things kept looking up for him. Maybe his revolution is happening right now. Maybe he did break free.

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