A Brief Consecutive by Kirby Wisdom

A man once told me that to live is to love; I have yet to discover the reality behind such a statement. But from what I have gathered, this world, for the most part, is selfish and quick to forsake. Countless mood changes have brought me to the old dusty church that lies present in front of me. Dusty from the sands of the Arizona desert and dusty from years of neglect. Every breath I took was a mixture of sunburned dirt and stale loneliness; which oddly enough put me at ease. Forgetting what had brought me here and forgetting where I was headed, I stepped hesitantly towards the door. Grabbing the rusted handles of the enormous chapel doors, I took an unintentional look behind me to find my eyes had come to rest on a seemingly abandoned fleur de lis, white with solitude. Heaven had become a broken down cathedral in the outskirts of some no name southwest town. I knew that I could take refuge in this place for as long as I would like, or at least until I had had enough time to collect my thoughts before I moved along on my endless journey. Just enough time to catch my breath and make a decision as to what direction I would head when I walked out the door again. Kindness and warmth usually filled the churches back where I come from but the only thing I could feel in this place was the stagnant breath of misuse and timeless ritual. Less than a dozen patrons were strewn amongst the tired and ancient pews. Many of whom looked as if they had died and left their lifeless bodies behind in a devout posture. Now when I entered slowly and quietly through the back door, the priest had begun to recite some holy Latin adage and all the patrons followed in refrain, almost as a congregation of mimes. On top of the broken down pulpit, the friar continued to speak indirectly to the small crowd like a hapless pawn of the Lord. Proceeding stealthily down the center aisle, I choose an empty row somewhat at the rear of the chapel and took my seat. Quietly I began to survey the inside of the rustic building. Restless, I slid down the row to the outside of the pew, where I sat serenely under the comfort of the only delightful looking chandelier in the church. Soon I had realized that at the base of the altar, a makeshift casket had been elevated on top of a pile of apparently native white tulips. To my astonishment, I had quickly become conscious that all of the lifeless patrons were dawned in black from head to toe. Uniformly, they stood and processed down the center aisle, gathering around the iconic casket. Vast amounts of emotions hit me at that moment, and I tried to stand but my body was locked into my seat with a heaviness that not even a hurst tool could pry me from. When everyone had left the church, it seemed a weight had been lifted from me, and I rose with stillness in my heart. X’s marked the path through the doorway, which is something I hadn’t noticed when I entered since my head was lowered when I took my exit. Years, it seemed, had accompanied my reverie once I had retreated that place of timeless tranquility. Zealous and mildly rejuvenated, I headed in the direction my feet seemed to pull me, knowing that wherever I go in life I will end up in the same place as everyone else but my path will be unique.

One With Sisyphus by Shana DeVlieger

A mixture of salt and water oozed out of my pores while a fiercely shaking hand, as if overcome by Parkinson’s Disease, inched over to the computer mouse, guiding it to the print button. This was the moment I’d been looking forward to for almost three hours. A five paragraph essay, my first, was what I had been slaving over, working so hard to impress my idol. Mrs. McMichael was going to love it. She had to! Roget’s fire engine red binding had faded to a pale pink under the duress of four desperate digits seeking the enlightenment of my literary luminary.

Ink cartridges groaned as they toiled to spread the epidemic of ink to white paper. The hard drive creaked. The keyboard started to shiver; it was a paper jam. The Hewlett Packard had to reboot every time there was a paper jam because it had been so well “loved,” as my mom used to say. That was it. With an inferno of frustration consuming my head, I kicked the product of plastic, superglue, and metal.

My life was over. The monster gave one last dying moan and retired to its side. The three-pronged plug, the two-inch needle my life was balanced so charily balanced on, ejected from the socket. The screen turned an ebony black. How could my six years of elementary education become so pointless? I had nothing left. I returned the plug back to its home and waited to hear the sounds of a thinking computer. Metal wheels turned as an aqua screen appeared. There was hope. The symphony of grunts from the hard drive assured me that my years of Sunday Mass had paid off.

I was atheist. It was ten o’clock, two hours after the time when my mom tucks me into bed, and “FILE CANNOT BE FOUND” flashed onto the screen.

As the boulder crashed down onto me, I became one with Sisyphus.

Why cry? by Jessica Anderson

We cry because we care, we cry for hurt, pain, and sorrow. If we don't cry today there is always another tomorrow. We cry because we're sad, we cry when we're mad, but don't get me wrong we also cry when we're glad.At times when we cry we feel like a waterfall always going but never stops. Everyone cries no matter the reason it can even be the season. There is no perfect explanation for it we just cry.

12 Font, Bold, Times New Roman by Laura Nelson

What is so attractive about my name typed out in 12 font, bold, Times New Roman on the same line as your screen name. Being entered by your fingers when we're miles apart sitting in two completely different rooms and you're sick and hoping the label didn't say non-drowsy and I tease you even though I can picture in my mind your face with a nose red from generic tissues and eyes tired from living the manic life of a college student as you type back honestly knowing you really do look as pathetic as I remember. And you type out my name proving you still think about me late at night when you sign off the computer and say goodbye.

Untitled by Laura Nelson

Are such casualties really necessary? Do you really think it changes anything? To an unknowing anyone we would seem like old friends from high school just stopping to chat, but if they looked past the words they might find something much deeper. What if they knew i had once been in love with you? Would that change how they saw me? Would it seem any different if you gave me a hug? What if arms lingered like things of the past? Every word could mean something completely different, but do you mean it like I think? Are you really the boy you seem to be or is it a mask to keep me from seeing what used to be. I don't understand your reasoning but seeing, hearing, or rather reading how you say hello and goodbye. Why does goodbye seem so much more meaningful when written across a computer screen keeping our conversation alive only by four blinking green lights. Maybe there's a hope left there somewhere. Maybe I think less of you and you more of me? I'm not so sure, I think I'm lying to myself, but I don't understand what makes me think so. What am I holding onto so firmly? A memory? A page out of a book no longer in print? What of the lies we tell run deeper than ourselves? What if I still love you but inside I'm lying to myself.