Emotional Sonali Konda

BEAUTY UNCOVERED BY A BRAIN BLIZZARD

Noelle Diamond

A writer stoops in the bone-chilling cold Her story buried in ice Her thoughts frozen but snow white

Vulnerable in her attic room She slowly begins to chip away Each word she thaws turning the paper less blank

She lights candle after candle against the cold Though weak next to the dark winter They off er her just enough light in the blackness Until the icy air snuff s their fl ames And the writer is stuck in the blizzard again Still chipping away pages from the ice

The inspiring sun peeks from behind the clouds Though only visible for an instant It mocks the candle with its magnifi cent light And provides the warmth to continue composing Her ideas fi nally beginning to thaw

As weeks pass, hard ice turns into sludge Words form sentences, pages, chapters The writer, still bent over her stone desk Continues her journey to slowly uncover a beautiful story The fi re of her words softening the ice

The fi rst bird chirps in the distance And off ers a glimpse of the spring ahead Still, the days are short so she must keep sculpting Her words now only covered by a thin layer of frost

Her vision clears as light fl ows through her She can feel the warm air on her face The writer smiles at her polished piece

Like the new, fragile birds and blossomed fl owers Her masterpiece is ready to face the world

IT'S NOT OCTOBER ANYMORE

Abby O'Brien

(just one more time i think - let's go)

it's not october anymore - the leaves are gone and so are you

it's been much colder since you left and i suppose there's nothing i can do and real life doesn't wait for you to feel okay before taking what you love most, what you hope for, away and when you said you loved heather's hair beause it loooked lke mine it didn't mean that you loved me or wanted me this time it's my fault for overthinking and for seeing things that were never there i just wished i could have ignored the way you smiled and flipped your hair

its over, it's over it's over. it's over

the way you shuffle in white shoes, holy ground, imagine that and i'll admit that i will never look at you the same - it's kind of sad now breathe out, stop your crying, who said that misery was this much fun? ‘cause when you break down, say what you’re thinking, you’re no good to anyone

it’s over, it's over it's over, it's over

(guess it really is, huh?)

EMOTIONAL

Sonali Konda

I feel so strongly, with rushing tides of love and hate, of joy and sorrow, of excitement and fear. Uncontrollable, my emotions, fierce as lion’s roars in my head, dictate my life, my actions, reactions, interactions. Sometimes I wish I could rein them in and stop them from growing from a candle into a wild blaze. But my heart does not answer to my head, and my head bows to the whim of my heart.

HOW DANCING WAS INVENTED

Catherine Sigurdsson

Bees fi ght to move their fat bodies through the air, just as

I do. They bounce fl ower to fl ower to hive as we bounce from color to light to movement. Did you know it’s wrong to say humans are the only land-based animals who sing? It’s as if the lie has never listened to the keening howls of dogs when they hear ambulance sirens, or the squeaks of lab rats as their feet keep time in mazes, or the hisses of bobcats as they arch their backs, unafraid to strike. Solitude is where it is easiest to hear songs, not share them. Why do you think we invented noise cancelling headphones? To exclude the uninvited from our songs. Songs are the noises of all working together in broken slapped chords and jagged harmonies, of stomps and claps and screeches and soft burbling whispers fl owing from my heart to my hands and face and limbs as I whirl in a storm of silver and skin, the song burning me from the inside out and the kinetic fl ame bouncing and whirling to the bouncing and whirling to the gasoline of your blood. gasoline of your blood.

TRACK 5 (THE ONE WHERE THE SONG SINGS BACK)

Abby O'Brien

Loose lip, bobby pin, you can tell she’s young and in pain from the way she moves all six of the strings here. It comes naturally – the manic, silken tongue. When Truth tumbles out it’s soft and tear stained, rings from the bottom of tea cups and muddy December snow. She’ll lose herself in it; only the coppery, red sting of the intention-burdened needles (when she gets too close to herself and forgets that everything is real) can pull her out of the hum.

The art is heavy but the mannequin is light and empty, her italicized stitching speaking only to Styrofoam ears and expensive carpet. She’ll never quite get why they can’t stand her sewing in silence, tailoring something to sit with her when nobody else will.

It’s a liminal, ponderous existence with open-armed vices, but the cloth is her creation and hers alone.