by Teddy Chang
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By Inkjet 2800
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(Why does “first and last name” get “for credit”? I wrote this, I want some “for credit” too.)
(I don’t get it, will “you” edit this or not? How does being able to type yes or no make “you” qualified for his/her job)
For all writing submissions. For all writing submissions.
Each “submission” has received a custom fitted document
(Why is “you” required to hear “from us soon”. What even is his/her job?)
Inspired by Window Seat’s submission guidelines
by Isa Larco
by Corinne Greene
Long scraggly fingers once adorned with leaves
(they now lie scattered on the floor)
look sad, and lonely, and naked.
Follow their lines,
down to their drooping ends
where leaves still cling, green, alive and glossy
unaware of their future on the floor.
Why did you make me this way?
Is this what you call caring?
Your worry was so great, you smothered me until I overflowed.
You left me no room to grow.
by Kylie Marden
The World Is Theirs
by Elizabeth Atherton
The world is theirs
They feel it now
As the city obeys tradition.
The movement of people,
Each so insignificant
They feel the sun on their face,
And the weight of gravity pulling
High above the monotony
Their hands clutch a mug,
A heavy jumper reassures them,
Holds tight in a warm embrace
As they see the sky lighten
They cannot yet understand the rules
Separate the clarity of melody in the starting day
From the contrasting harmony,
The deep thrum of the daily rhythm.
But as the night ends,
The world is theirs for the taking
Like a Bird, I Rise
by Nala Wu
by Jeremy Doiron
You’ll never know,
And nor will I,
If ever we could have been
Than just friends.
But just friends we’ll stay,
And good friends we’ll be;
Because I could never ask.
So we laugh and we joke,
We smile and we tease,
I look forward to seeing you
Never will I call you mine,
Nor you me yours;
Though I will always be.
And I never know quite what to say to you,
Aloof behind your perfect walls.
Always I come to the point of saying, to revealing…
But then time’s up.
The chance over and
Done. And another day I wait,
Only to await the next,
by Anthea Bell
Love Like Magic
by Dana Dykiel
We are not children anymore. We are the monsters that scare them.
Voices raising to a fever pitch, slamming the table with our open fists. Our backs against the wall, voices sliding like knives, hissing with false sympathy. Our faces green with rot and jealousy, slimy with veiled intentions and selfishness.
It would be easy to confuse me with a cynic. There’s comfort in the definition, in the false wisdom it brings; pseudo-philosophy is laughable to the outside world, but to those who follow it as a doctrine, it means more than life itself.
After all, our parents never lied to us when we were children. About goodness, about faith, about the purity of the human soul. Those things are all true. Love is magic, and we are loved.
And yet I can’t see it. I know it exists. It has to. Yet I am not innocent enough; I am not good enough; I am not ignorant enough. I can only see the smokescreens and mirrors and cards up sleeves.
“I love you”, he says, and his smile is sharp as spades. Pricked through with the pin of love; small marks that allow him to cheat, to win the game.
He wants me because I complete him. Because we complete each other. He is loud, I am quiet; he is brash, I am delicate; he is good, and I am Satan.
Together, we create perfect symmetry.
I am too weak to resist. Powerless. I know how these things work.
The bent edges, the broken matches, the threads so translucent they seep into light.
I say I love him too.