As I sit on my chair at the desk near the doorThe curtains drawn completelyI hear a voice below the nightIt’s speaking to me. Nature’s greatest song is crickets’Haunting, taunting cryThe bass of a neon highwayA songbird in the sky. Coyotes or frat boys howl at the moonIncredibly out of
writing, art & comics
In the forest a bird rises from anold and lengthy tree.As it beats its feathers it looksout from there to see The mountainside, so wild and greenthe bird begins to sound.Its voice is a crescendoThat is heard from all around. From its perch the bird can see aLabyrinth, frigid dark.This
After hurling her phone at the wall, Miranda left her apartment to knock on her neighbours’ door across the hall. Miranda was four years into motherhood. Four unyielding years that created a near permanent look of despair on her face, along with an atmosphere of bewilderment emanating from her pores—or
We are at my grandma and grandpa’s property at Chain Lake near Princeton. They bought it so the whole family can come here on weekends to camp with them. I’m wearing my flowered flannel pjs and I have my Holly Hobby sleeping bag pulled up right up to my chin.
The bouncer looked over May’s blonde head as she made her way inside the lineless bar, as she did every Sunday evening. The other patrons looked to her, then away, for they all thought it best to acknowledge her as little as possible—especially the bouncer. May had not
in the wake of your leaving the sun continues to riseplayfully peering out between peakspromising the return of soft spring wind.it warms my bonesbathes my skin in sticky sweet goldchases away the winter shadowsthe chill you left behind. in the wake of your leavingmy heart beats againunfrozen after monthsof tumultuous
motherpleasei have prayed and prayed and prayedfor solace of the softest kind.of honey-sweet retribution.i ampressed,palms downto blue-cold tile.a statuesque relicof pity-poor faith.the stars have no answers.unwavering,blinking down with soft set eyes.there is no salvation herefor sin wrought skin.when god does not answerthe devil finds me in the depths of the
Vanity is veal to voracity,Valiance invites violence. Vehement cheers for victors of war,Visualized as virtuous models.Very little did virtuosos voice forVilified foreign men, trapped in a bottle. Vast disfiguring of varied peoples,Valued only for velvet and land.Values of theirs “vile” and illegal,Vassals for veterans and viscounts they must stand. Veni,
the moss is cool against my fingersmy back dampthe sky has lost its blue at my feet, the remnants of decadesrusted cans, a rotten shoei make a bed of copper leavesand let the treeswash my hair with their dew an unseen squirrel chitterson a far away branchbut i don’t want
This publication is the result of collaboration between students and faculty of the School of University Arts & Sciences and the School of the Arts at Selkirk College. Submissions are published online throughout the year and selected works are compiled into a print magazine once per year.
We trust you will enjoy!