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Beautiful Eyes
by Thea Angelica Angeles Photo by Thea Angelica Angeles A pillar of joy, you truly are With eyes that twinkle like beautiful stars You smile like an angel With a laugh as sweet as honeysuckle. The way you look at me Yes, that delicately radiant beam Alas! My beating heart! Lively jumping like a wee little bunny! The way you kiss me With those luscious soft lips O, my happy heart! May this stay endlessly! You motivate me even more With feelings stronger than before O, how you brighten up my days Like planets shining in outer space. You with those beautiful eyes, What bliss you bring to me! O,…
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Little Red Riding Hood as an Empowered Female
by Thea Angelica Angeles Photo by: Kehbab Salaheddine Throughout many generations that have evolved over time, the traditional tale of Little Red Riding Hood has been associated with cautionary themes of not trusting strangers— often depicting the eponymous protagonist as a helpless and innocent victim. Despite this fixed portrayal, Little Red has been reinterpreted as an empowered lady who faces her fears and makes her own choices. Such modern adaptations have frequently changed the narrative—allowing Red to take hold of her destiny not only by outsmarting the wolf but also by challenging societal expectations instilled upon her. In particular, James Thurber and Roald Dahl offer two respective retellings that subvert…
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Garden of Memories
By: Shane Houston Photo by: Unchalee Srirugsar Picking june-bugs off of roses Watering lilies by the dozen Spreading mulch in the heat of the day Watching a storm roll in – a thunder clap Rain to give the garden life Life began in a garden Bees circling overhead and the pollen is heavy The proud grandparents sit in the shade Married sixty years and had a family Three strong daughters and a tough son They loved with a love that brought so much joy You can see their happiness – you can hear it The whispers and laughs echo through the halls The fireplace that warmed many a soul The…
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What’s Killing the Box Office?
By: Connor Anderson-Rearick Photo by: Obregonia D. Toretto Since the 1890s, the film industry has simultaneously been a cornerstone ofentertainment and a representation of advancement throughout the ages, fromtechnological progression to societal shifts. From the silent era (1894 – 1929) to thegolden age of Hollywood (1927 – 1960) and the rise of streaming platforms in the 21stcentury, the film industry has always adapted to serve the needs of its viewers. However,during the COVID-19 pandemic, there were numerous, unprecedented challenges thathad to be overcome. From the forced closure of theaters to delays in production,combined with the shift in how viewers consume media, have all contributed to anoticeable decline in box office…
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Why the Garcia Girls Should Be In The Norton Anthology
By Aodhán Ridenour When Ezra Pound said “Make it new” at the beginning of the twentieth century, hesparked a fire that needed two significant forces to flourish: experimentation and demographicchange. Julia Alverez’s novel How the Garcia Girls Lost Their Accents represents a log pile ofintersections with Pound’s famous statement. From the novel’s peculiar narrative constructionand direction, the counterculturalist undertones, to the intimate semi-autobiographical stories ofoutsider experience, Garcia Girls adheres to—and challenges—the somewhat ambiguousrulebook for inclusion in The Norton Anthology of American Literature. As the introduction ofNorton states, “The vitality of contemporary American literature, evident throughout the mostrecent selections in this volume, is fueled by two great engines, one artistic and…
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Cliffs near Dieppe, 1882
By Aodhán Ridenour Photo of “Cliffs near Dieppe, 1882” by Claude Monet. Painted blisters, round and random,childlike or elderly—depending onperspective, or what you thinkyou know, or someone elsehas told you. Blues so smooth they make thepink look jagged, untouched sectionof the 64-pack, greens and grayssqueezed from a spectrumlike the Pillars of Creation. Humanity perverse, it’s not a surfaceto traverse; I wouldn’t want tolay out on that beach.Yet everybodyloves to gaze,talk, and stare. A scene of pastel painted blisters,woven, doubled,dectuple stacked;a knife slit skin revealsits melted crayon profiles. I hated you at first, thenI loved you, standing backa couple paces,lacking glasses. “It’s Impressionist,” they say, “so what is your impression?”Should I…
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Breaking Silence
By: Kristen Craycraft “Every poem breaks a silence that had to be overcome” – Adrienne Rich. My words are my words,They need to be heard,The same goes for you,You deserve to be heard too. Poetry makes noise,Overcoming the deafening silence,Writing through struggles with poise,Running away from violence. What good is it knowing words,And having a voice,If you remain silent,Refusing your choice?
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Maple’s Soliloquy
By Alyssa Phifer Photo by Pexel Stock Images My branches nearly brush her windowsill She sleeps inside so sweetly ’til the sun Shines through my leaves, warm green glows soft into Her dreams, her waking moments intertwined With mine—though I do not know how to sleep Or wake—I wonder what this might be like To lay my body down, to rest beneath The shade of someone else’s outstretched arms I stand still, tall and strong—my roots reach down, Dig deep to raise me higher than before I stand, I grow—she sleeps, she dreams and wakes To see her limbs seem longer, running out To share her dream with me—together, we…
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Done.
By Meg Salizzoni “Mors irrumat omnia. Death fucks us all.” —Leigh Bardugo in Ninth House mors omnibus adest memento mori words meant to soothe calm prepare redirect divert numb to the eventual end of which we do not consent? instead, mors irrumat omnia. latin is a dead language already. we were doomed from the start.
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Felix
By Rachel Hoarau (Photo by Pixel Free Images) My paw pads aren’t callused like my mother’s. They are soft and pink. The light is bright, and I can hardly see. Mom licks my head Says bye bye and runs out of the den I want to go out there, too! It looks so bright and green. A year has gone by and I’m running every day, Crushing green sprouts in soft soil and spilling down over the hillside, nearly falling into the chittering brook. There is another like me in the brook’s wavy water. He is red and white with deep brown eyes. I dance with him. I think he…
