by Jessica Barratt People have this funny habit of asking me where I’m going. I’m not really sure what it is about me that causes them to ask, but my answer’s always the same. “In circles” I tell them. Sometimes I wonder why they ask. I’m sure I’ve considered every angle. Perhaps it’s the over-size backpack I am always carrying. Maybe it’s because I’m always … Continue reading Loops

this place feels so real. – A Short Story

by Nicholas Siennicki Let’s run through it again. I’ll come in here, and take my gloves off. You’ll slide down the bannister with that effervescent smile of yours. My brain will tell me how beautifully ethereal you are. My heart might skip a beat. You won’t be privy to that, only to the smile spreading across my lips. And you’ll help me out of my … Continue reading this place feels so real. – A Short Story

The Art of Looking Political | By Tyler Hein

Signs read: No more need to perish! It’s our veterans that we cherish! With clever chants about our soldiers, equality and fairness. Protest for their protection and a plea to give them more, passing homeless soldiers on the street as we chant against the war. No time to spare some change, there’s bigger change we’re fighting for! The freedom that they earned means the freedom … Continue reading The Art of Looking Political | By Tyler Hein

Vacancy | By Tyler Hein

Since I met you I’ve wanted to write about our love— Like I see it in the movies, or I hear about on the radio, see I want to write about that love— Where I can’t profess it if it isn’t raining. Where it hits you in a moment and suddenly it’s been forever. The kind that puts the bard to shame since there was no rain filled declarations when that shrew was tamed. Forget my troubles and let’s take a detour together to where love is as easy as eyes both new and familiar; a safe place to find myself lost. That love, that love like words written in scrawl in the liner notes of the albums that formed my identity. But I worry that with this love, vague and formless, I’ll be reduced to a ball of pop culture that learned to speak. And I worry that with this love, perfect and fleeting, that the milk crate poets have lied to me. So then I wanted to write about real love— Where flowers grow slow through cracks in the foundation. Since no virgin to the pleasure knows true aversion to the pain, plunge deeper to speak truth to the hurt and to the shame, the cold of silence on the phone, the fear with every step that you’ve been down this road before. But real love is more, there’s a heat inside the chest, like gasoline hitting an open flame, because in a crowded room, I heard someone speak your name. Laughing as we’re hiding, finding locked doors to be like sanctuaries that free us to discover and explore. It’s not found standing, pristine and shiny new, it’s built strong, brick by brick, by two together who feel their spine quiver with a shiver of cold nostalgia, from the touch of fingers along bare skin. Real love, this love sees the flaws and wants to fix them, but I know that it’s because of your flaws, not in spite of them, so I worry that with this love, slow and achievable, that I undersell the unbelievable. So then I wanted to write about our love But I realized I can’t— When I haven’t seen you for a while, I feel like I’ve lost your subtlety of personality, the nuance of your expressions, I find myself holding tight to the catching in my throat. I can write about the minutes when we felt ourselves the lovers in so many songs, but those moments form our highlight reel while our love shows most behind the scenes. From when it seems hopeless, but then we’re laughing at a passing feeling, in your eye a fleeting glimpse of how silly we must look fighting like this in a dirty alley behind 105th. The kind built from screaming until we’re hoarse about what, we can’t even remember. Ours is a love that blossoms in September, when you lean in close because you forgot your jacket and your hand entwines with mine inside jeans pockets. It’s a kind that makes me want to paint a portrait, paint a portrait of her self, if only for her to her eyes comprised of colours that she ascribes to everything else. Our love, this love is the reason for the words, … Continue reading Vacancy | By Tyler Hein