The Walk

Paul Watkins

The only difference between falling and walking is control of yourself, of your step, of your rhythm that pervades you as you fall forward and forward again, beating in time to your own inaudible march, marching again and again until you inevitably stop. Because even falling comes to an end and eventually you hit the soft earth, embracing you for all you are and all you aren’t.

Flower Box // Zoe Hermer-Cisek

John Addicks O’Toole Flowers

Inside a vase – the Flowers die –The glass a murky gray –They frown at me and droop so low –They have something to say –Streaks shine through – the Jalousie

Licks the tulips nose –Legacies of – Fallacies –Deny a growing rose –Inside a vase – the Flowers died –But left a gift – Unbound –I bear it from the stifling vase –And plant it in the ground –

It’s Been Too Long // Hannah Scott

Sky blue fluttered to orange who twirled towards purple who tripped and fell into black.

Our dying battery croaks its last words, ghostly white circle scarcely illuminating the landscape.

Foreign shrubs jump out of the expansive rock, whispering “boo!” as they brush past our ears.

The packs start to slumber, steadily falling into the jagged ground’s cooing lullaby. Our steps slow to a blundering trudge.

Rolling sweat turns to a sticky layer of salt-flavored jam as Temperature sits in the thermometer’s descending elevator.

We’ve been out here too long.

Our thick, hardened mud warpaint cracks with smiles that whoop as three distant bright lights begin to bounce.

Their lights are so dazzling we can’t see their eyes, only three sets of teeth glinting and laughing and smiling.

Four notebook pages are crudely linked with athletic tape their large, goofy block letters explaining the obscure scenery: “Welcome Home.”