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blood teeth.

By Stephanie M. Santore

 

I am the beast, a wild wolf

Steel trap jaw and mighty paws

I refuse to be a carcass

Bleached bones among white stones

 

I starve protecting a pack of thieves

Stay, and die upon these fallen leaves

Kick dirt in the air, raise hair on the neck

Shred throats for mercy, they bleed out among regret

 

I am the beast, a wild wolf

Piercing eyes – Sheep’s disguise

I refuse to be a carcass

Predator’s trick – Vulture’s toothpick

 

Twitch of the ear and the journey starts

You follow your head, abandon the heart

In solitude is the thrill of the fight

Ragged soul, you rage, hunt down the night

 

Paws pound the ground.

You escape,

escape without a sound.

 

Teeth and fur,

nothing more to give.

A rabid will to live.

 

The blood runs red.

The blood runs red.

 

By day, Stephanie works as an SEO specialist. She has been writing since she can remember and tries to take it more seriously with each passing day. She loves nature, photography, history, and am is currently reading the Game of Thrones series and loving every page of it. She lives with two furry felines in South Abington, PA. Her blog is http://dearintrovert.com/

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Sister and Brother

By Marissa C. Miller

A boy and his dog
sat on a log
enveloped in warm summer air
“Sister and brother” but without a mother
how could it ever compare

He sat all alone while his sister was home
cooking to feed the other
for daddy was gone to whimper and fawn
over the bed in which laid their mother

“Well fuck.” He said, to the listening few
his dog, the crickets, and ants
“I’ve got football today and I wanted to play,
but how can I when there are already plans?

“Mother can’t die” he thought to himself
while petting the dog at his feet
I’ve been nothing but rotten and often forgotten
her birthdays and love, semi-sweet

He jumped and he turned
a mission to do
a mission of dubious bearings.
he turned and “aha”
his sister, he saw
standing,
not cooking
but staring.

“Seriously though?”
I thought to myself
A limerick from my own fucking brother.
Or is this my brother
who I’m writing about
is it my brother and that one time
We thought our mom was dying
and it was a poignant moment by a tree
but does it make it more poignant
if I rhyme

Or is it about some guy
I saw once in the aisle of a discount craft store
and the overwhelming meaningless-ness of life
my brain doesn’t confuse those people
but what am I even trying to say here
I don’t know
Am I doing this right
am I doing this right?

the thoughts in her head
had her face turning red
and they looked out at the incoming weather.
“mother’s okay and you can go play”
“We’ll figure this out together.”

Marissa C. Miller is a Scranton based writer, actress, singer, and graduate student. She is currently a performer and sometimes writer on the podcast 40 Story Radio Tower.

You can find more of her work at:
https://wealllooklikeassholes.wordpress.com/
https://twitter.com/marissac1273
https://sailed.wordpress.com/
http://40storyradio.com/

 

On the way to the bodega

By Claudia

Your attempts have been made in the microwave. Undone at the center burnt crisp at the edges to uneatable rocks. But if you do this correctly you will remember your teachers face. Your teacher will tell you, “you never bake a cake

In the microwave.” But my mother dried clothes in the RADARANGE and almost blew up the house with the smoke. Now we look back and laugh. No more brownies in the supermarket to be made in 5 minutes. Shaved dark chocolate dusted with chile molido from the state of Oaxaca, Mexico, wholly acceptable; processed cocoa and corn syrup?  wholly not.

Just be authentic. I don’t like meeting cold people at their centers who look like rocks. I don’t really care for lava cake but you can get that at any TGI Friday’s. Details details not flagrant buttons that scream your ideologies. I haven’t seen any kids in the neighborhood recently who looked like they used Kool-Aid to dye their hair to limpid blue. I miss that. Here I got these starbursts you want one? They’re fresh so they’re not hard enough to bounce off the sidewalk. I may never meet you again I’m not sorry about it at all. Remember me because I won’t give you cancer and I don’t need a wet paper towel over my mouth to walk through this city.

I like how the last thing before we eat can be peeled off in a strip and seen clear through into parts of the sky

Claudia is from Back Mountain, Pa.

Andy

By Cheyenne Pilarz

we are told that

if we hold a conch shell

up to our ear

we will hear the ocean

but they were wrong

because I hear it whenever I’m with you

when we were teenagers

we are told that

scars wont make you feel,

they were right,

because I feel whenever I’m with you

when we are adults,

we are told that

all things that come together soon fall apart,

but they were wrong,

you put me back together.

when we are old,

we are told that

we will die sometime soon,

I hope they are right

because for you to kill me,

would be an awfully amazing pleasure

 

Cheyenne is a freelance model, poet, and humanitarian from Scranton, Pa.

Alexander 12:51

By Maddie B. 

I want your name,
Carved into the back of my heel.
A nice butterfly knife:
Perfect penmanship
I want it carved in cursive.
Because
No matter how far I run,
You are always right behind me,
Arms out
Ready to grab me
Drag me.
Back to you
Eager to have me again,
I want it etched into my skin,
Broken bruised and bloody.
Because maybe,
When your memory
Is nothing more than scar tissue;
I will stop missing you.
Maybe I’ll even stop counting the days
Since you’ve been home.

Maddie is 17 and from Slocum, Pa. You can follow her at @queenmaddyblake. 

A Letter To My Depressed Self

By Cheyenne Pilarz

I am so happy you made the choice to stay 
Even when life felt grey 
You washed your eyes, 
Filled with lies 
Swallowed the pill of change, 
And it was strange, 
how life 
completely washed away 
my pride. 
All aside, 
I couldn’t cry. 
To my depressed self, 
You won 
Darkness has been gone 
When you didn’t sleep til dawn, 
came when it felt over 
God, if I could just be fucking sober.  
Scars on my body remind me of you 
But, some things don’t hurt like they used to.

Cheyenne is a freelance model, artist, and caregiver from Scranton, Pa. 

11/5

By Rebekah S.

a soft caressing touch slides up to my face,
I lie silent and content, sheltered in your warming embrace.

flushed cheeks, intense stares-
we melt into one as the moonlight glares.

electricity coursing through my veins; two wires, one spark–
a kindle that burns so bright, it could light the dark.

time is on our side as we loose track,
focusing on the present and never looking back.

with you, everything comes effortlessly;
you and me together, forever— indefinitely.

Rebekah is from Old Forge, Pa. From Rebekah: “Poetry for me, is a way of self expression- free of fear and being labeled. I have been writing for as long as I can remember and would love to have a book of my poetry published one day. When I write, I hope that others could take my piece of art, be able to relate, and use it for themselves. Financially assisted, or flat broke, you never loose your creativity; keep your dream alive.”

Life’s Purpose

By Sherry B Heilman

Life without purpose
is barren indeed
There can’t ‘be a harvest unless there’s a seed
There can’t be maintainment unless there’s a goal
And man’s but a robot unless there’s a soul
If we send no ships out
No ships will come in
If we play no games
Nobody will win
For games can’t be won
Unless they are played
And prayers can’t be answered
Unless they are prayed
So whatever is wrong with your life today
You’ll find the answer
If you kneel down and pray
Not just for pleasure, prestige, or wealth
And not just for good health
But pray for others with unselfish giving
When you make your life’s purpose
The choice of the Lord.

Sherry is a local poet from Dallas, Pa. 

Disco Thursdays

By Amber Lynn

They’re fighting wars over coffee cups and
Spreading rumors about no love for all those celebs on the tv
They’ll never know me
I saw a picture on the Internet
Desensitizing us to the dead
But now all it does is burn holes through every thought in my head
Just like the cigarette smoke of this bar
I can’t seem to pull myself away from.
We always go too far.
I can’t breathe
It’s all religion and bad blood
Who has the quicker draw on a gun
And wallowing in oceans of self-pity
While across the pond, they’re bombing cities
I never claimed activist
Nor got into politics
But this blind selfishness makes me sick.
Allow me to help your point of view, my friend
Nothing really matters at all in the end

From Amber: My name is Amber and I dabble in all sorts of art.
Primarily, the lead singer for Eye on Attraction
If you’re interested, check us out here: www.eyeonattraction.com

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