"When I Hear Her Name in Passing, I Cross the Street" Sofia Segura
"Mezzadria" by Paulo Lombardi
Glass by Zaire Prime
There’s a world on the other side. Is it real, or am I? Nothing exists together. Instead, we all live in reflections and refractions of an infinite dream. Everything exists if you let it. The forms and figures bend when you change your view. One shift can rearrange the entire world, If you let it.
Seasons Change by Ava Grant
As the seasons change, The blazing warmth from the sky Transforms into the crisp air That forces them to say goodbye To the few months where they need not care.
No longer found by the sea But found in the depths of the woods. They cross the threshold that marks Where mystery inexplicably provides solace As they embark On journey where they themselves can be found.
As the seasons change The crescent moon becomes evident, For the mind is no longer clogged by the summer before That appeared oddly too benevolent.
The leaves from olive to amber Represent not just a change in climate But a change in themselves Where time is the pilot.
As the seasons change, They follow suit Of a life forever changed By the decay of their youth.
Although seemingly dreadful, It is the path we all take In order to find ourselves. We navigate through the maze As the seasons continue to change.
A Life Under the Ice by Armaan Verma
Cool and still, were the waters at a glance The ice, a maternal sheet Hugged the lake, casting a shadow. But beneath its surface, was the chillness.
It is a cling wrap sheet, thin and crispy, Easy to crack, impossible to tear. Radiant at its face, dull at its foundation, Seemingly benign, elusively malicious.
Life begins and ends under the ice, Stolen breaths from the elusive thermocline. Hands permafrozen in frostbite, Bloody from thrashing against the unforgiving lid.
But every now and again, the ice thaws, An ever so slight opportunity. Enough for sore hands to claw a crude circle, A chance for an escape from life under the ice.
And that escape does come, A brief repose from the stoic cold Turgid, clammy skin crackling like firewood, Hands of frost thawed in the incandescent sun.
The ultimate moment in the sun, The feeling of sense, of logic, of reason. The ecstatic laughter of a crazed individual, In the sheer, overwhelming epiphany that is the world above the ice.
This moment, instant, indescribable, Of warmth, wonder, compassion. The hawks above, cawing in delight, Airborne and groundless, free to soar.
The brief glimpse of life above the ice, The privilege of ambition, of pursuit, The simple complexion of an aim, A purpose of any semblance.
But, as the rapturous sun blazes, So does the ice become thin again. And in that moment of clarity, One does not notice the cracks forming
As they are dropped, brutally, To the calamitous waters once again.
The October Sky by Paulo Lombardi
Ah, the ominous October sky, the sight of it casts an inauspicious spell. In Coalwood rockets used to ascend high, while Reverend Richard’s church chimed its bell. The fragrance of sautéed apples pervades in the air and a platter of petrified sapwood offers wild yams. We sit on a chiseled fireplace and study Voltaire getting ready for the exams. A sheath of sleet accompanies an overcast. Vegetation is gradually deprived. The last leaves fall as fall leaves at last. Winter has arrived.
Dark Corner by Saina Srivastava
Even in a sunlit room, There is a dark corner, A hidden cove, if you may, Thought filled with horror.
The little gremlin that lies there Is thought of as being evil and menacing, But what would you do if I said That they just need a friend?
Sometimes that gremlin lingers out of their cove To bask in the sunlit room But when there’s no one around to receive him, What do you expect he’d do?
He goes back to his little cove, Head held low and fumbling hands, Cursing himself for being naïve And reminding himself he never had a chance.
A chance to survive the strange, bright world With purples and yellows and pinks, The world where darkness is foreign And sadness is an emotion you think.
Wispy darkness and cacophonous noise makes his home, But he wants melody and harmony and light. He wishes for what he can’t have. He wants color and joy in his life.
And that sunlit room won’t stay that way for long. Soon, night will emerge. That little gremlin, rejected by all Will lick his wounds and wallow in the hurt.
A Courteous Adversary by Paulo Lombardi
On the seventeenth of September His tentacular, scrawny hands met mine A gratuitous nod was all I could remember, and his slender fingers began to entwine. Oh, a loss is imminent! The svelte physique was the sign his posture, thirty-five degrees bent Those eyes shimmer a shade of stripped pine We face one another in chromatic polarity I am Yin, He is Yang And with an eloquent dexterity, he won’t let any piece hang. It is one challenging fight that is serious yet benign But rook to A1 takes knight prompting him to resign.
When I Hear Her Name in Passing, I Cross the Street by Sofia Segura
Dearest love, I am writing you this letter In the vain hope that it will find its way into your back pocket That you’ll fish it out with other lost things, Instead of festering alone in my attic.
I lay across our couch I rethink that movie we watched weeks ago You kept pausing it to point things out Telling me why it was one of your favorites, I loved you that much more, all the while headed into entropy. I rethink all the movies I watched for you, And how you left on the day we were supposed to watch one of mine. Here you are again, reading the ramblings of a madwoman.
I am fortune's fool who has written you so many letters, and so many more you will never read.
If you haven’t by now, torn this to shreds and set it aflame- The loose facade of you dances with me in our living room. There isn’t a need for you to return And track that dark tar in with your feet. P.S. I hope you love me enough to stay away, to cross the street when you see me. To only say hello years from now when we are both different people and this letter is festering in my attic.
Mezzadria by Paulo Lombardi
“You must embark on this expedition fourscore to nine,” states Alder. Valente stares monotonously at a pendulum, pondering his options. But he only has one—that is to obey the directive. Realizing the prolonged silence, Valente attempts to respond to Alder’s remark for courtesy, but nothing comes out. “You seem rather. . .agitated,” Alder retorts patronizingly. Valente observes a stream of phlegm seeping out of Alder’s mouth; its translucent, glutinous appearance repulses him. “Valente?” “I beg your pardon, sir?” “Do you understand?” “I can assure you,” Valente says with the most zeal he can muster. “So get up and go,” holleres Alder, “you sycophant!” Valente stands up in indignance, projecting a menacing gaze upon the old man. Alder discerns the young man’s demeanor and releases a subtle, but contemptuous snicker. Valente storms through a spruce-paneled hallway that is laced with sumptuous crystals and an ancient horologe. He turns the handle at a right angle and tugs open the door. Light pours in and causes Valente’s mahogany-colored irises to shrink threefold. Vineyards, farmhouses, and wheat fields constitute the land in front of him. Taking in a deep breath, Valente bends down and jolts a sack of wheat over his shoulder. He walks down the main path which is in between two rows of tall, viridescent cypresses. As the sun gradually gets covered by the horizon, Valente prepares for the challenges he will have to face. It’s going to be a tedious, treacherous, tempestuous trip, with one objective: sell the crops. Lightning flickers distantly, closely crackles thunder. Valente derives a peculiar serenity from the surrounding ambiance, allowing him to unwind and enter into a whimsical state. Stars flicker sporadically, crows caw surreptitiously, and the tip of every mountain quivers maniacally. The moon’s fullness casts an inauspicious glow upon the landscape. Valente contemplates, “After all, Alder is a proprietor and I’m just his cultivator. Nothing more. I know this is existential, but why? Why do I have to do this? Will I live the rest of my life at the bottom of the societal hierarchy? Doesn’t Italy follow egalitarian principles? I guess not…” Valente convinces himself to continue walking towards his desired destination, or as he perceives it, a speck of light. The chilling wind screams past him as midnight awaits. He trudges through towering weeds and chokes on the pernicious herbicides that thrive in the air. “Keep persevering,” Valente thinks, “you can make it…no, you can’t…yes, you can…no, you can’t…yes, you must.” His heart hurts. His legs convulse. His lungs inflame. His consciousness dwindles. But he endures, conquering over rocks and rivers and ravines and ridges. Eventually, the sun rises and so do Valente’s spirits. The speck of light he was heading towards is now the town of Horacio. Valente enters the village enfeebled but relieved, his shoulder spasming from the wheat stalks that penetrated into it. He arrives at the heart of Horacio and takes a few glimpses at the interactions that encompass him; people line up in front of a bakery as the aroma of vintage cheese permeates through the air, a young couple converse while taking a morning stroll, and an elderly man reminisces of his past. “I belong here,” Valente muses. Snapping back into the present, he proceeds down a narrow alleyway and finally arrives at the barterer’s home. Three knocks on the door will do. Knock, knock, knock. … … … Apparently not. Valente tries the door handle but it doesn’t budge. “Cazzo!” he screams in wrath. Completely exasperated, Valente punches a cobblestone wall causing fragments of stone to scatter onto the floor. “What is Alder going to think,” Valente pauses, “he is going to kill me!” In spite of his fury, Valente has an unforeseen epiphany. The thought of it sends shivers down his spine. Give up. He is not obliged to go back to the farm, nor has he ever been; the only person who has held him back for the past decade was himself: Valente M. Pappalardo. Reinvigorated by an end—as well as a beginning, Valente crumbles onto the alleyway floor and falls to sleep, ready to seek the opportunities Horacio has to offer once he wakes—but he was never able to; Horacio doesn’t exist.