Messy Mystery- Cole

As the hot mug began to slowly melt the caramelized hot coffee on my lips, it took me too a deep phase of unrestful peacefulness. I exhausted a long breath and took a look at my project, norming the fact I had foam on my chin from the whipped cream I’d filled on the top of the coffee. ”The project” thinking almost abruptly to myself, I grab the multi-colored landscape paper and spread it open across the table. Examining the poster, I presumed my partner, Stew, would like to receive an offer on the job, and a good position in the working force of the crew. For what was created was no upgrade or innovation to the city, it was a total makeover. The feeling was that brilliant movement of energy through your body you get when you finally finish that last push up.


The midnight train appeared above me while I traveled in my deep seated Mercedes. The red, velveted, leather interior gave a soothing look to the world around me. I took a right turn onto my street, and pulled up into the white garage door, that I had opened from a button on the dash of the car. Walking to the door, I notice an unusual smell, walking in I see that the garbage was tipped over, old vegetables and broken glass that had shattered weeks ago from the bulb attached to my bedroom light filled the floor. I yelled at the my dog Ruddy. He barked back, and ran to my foot curling its head around me. “BAD BOY” I remarked, and walked to my desk table.


The damage done to the trash didn’t seem to make my head too hot, and I was able to continue the day without any punishment to Ruddy. In the morning, I snagged the leash on the jacket rack, and took Ruddy for a walk. The neighbors were outside mowing their lawn, “already!!” I think in my head, knowing its only 7 am. After bringing the doggy inside, I skrrt out the door, ready for work. It took a long drive into town, just to realize that I had left the project frame back at my house again, the intensity in my body rises, and I become a little nervous, thinking too much about the man in black from last week.. What did he say his name was? “ Switchblade Finatic.. “


I Think that i can continue the story w/o a ending that isn’t climactic and could surely add more, although this leaves the mystery, and does have flaws but that is what makes is swell, I feel that everything happens for a reason, and the scenes switch as much as they do in movies.


Cookin’ Pot–Lily Deleo

Marcy cheerily skipped through the brush. Her empty basket pleasantly smacked against the fronts and backs of her knees. Once the last bits of her understanding of time and place slipped from her swinging fingers, a small, shoddy hut appeared in the forest.

Marcy had no choice approaching the cottage and knocking on the splintered door. The moldy threshold escorted her in and the door courteously closed after she crept in.  Marcy’s eyes explored the strange dark room, crammed to the brim with weird crap, and fixated on a massive iron cooking pot in the center.

“Hi! Anyone home?” She called out sweetly. Suddenly something materialized right behind her and spoke as if a shiver; quiet and cold. “Yes,” the soft word slivered inside her ears and trickled down until it echoed in her skull, freezing her with fear. The entity hoisted her up high and cast her into the cooking pot with insidious ease. Marcy screamed in pain as her tiny body struck the hard iron,  in terror as a fire began to blaze underneath and in horror when she saw the demon towering above her.

It’s dissonant cackles tore apart her ears with each shrill, shredding shriek. The demonic laughter battled her terrified cries for volume. The demon was so big it took up the whole room, was awkwardly cramped upon the ceiling and bent against the piles of mystic clutter. It was the color of blood, had long, spiny wings, talons, a crown of horns, grotesquely skinny and every inch of them was covered in eyes- including the gaping chasm lighted by a deep internal glow where the enormous laughs escaped. Marcy noticed how as humor shook the monstrosity some of its countless eyes popped out and rolled onto the floor. New ones immediately sprouting in their place. Creating an ever changing collage of eyeballs sporting bright colors and patterns.

“Cut that racket out!” Someone yelled and both screamers went silent. Marcy felt an emptiness in her throat, the panic bubbled in her brain but didn’t overflow since she could not move nor talk. A teeny woman wearing alligator skins and dead grass had come out from farther inside the house. She looked so unbelievably old Marcy thought she shouldn’t be allowed to be alive. The annoyed corpse berated the demon and Marcy realized the ancient stranger was a witch. And the way she snapped at the demon made the boiling girl think perhaps she was its boss.

Hm a boss. Marcy, as it happened, was unemployed. Marcy did the only thing she could do, think, hoping maybe the monsters could hear. She thought with such an intensity the fat vein on her forehead bulged, her skin got hot and angry and it was hard to breath. Hey! Hey!! HEY!!! Her thoughts grew louder than any scream she could ever push out. Marcy’s mind grabbed the magic house and gave it a good shake. The witch whipped her little bobble head around to stare accusingly at Marcy with fat, wobbly, green eyes.

“I could hear ya before you don’t need the dam dead’s attention.” But she had gotten it. The witch came over and to inspect the catch and her entire face curled into a wide, wrinkly smile. “Ahhhhhhhh!” The witch mused. Her voice was high pitched and cracked all over. “What a most delicious morsel of meat has dropped into my cookin’ pot!” The witch pinched Marcy’s taut cheeks. “A scrumptious chunk of child fortune has gifted me!” She nabbed Marcy’s nose. Fear pierced the girl from each shrivelled poke.

Then the witch began to sing, surprisingly lovely for a woman whose voice resembled a crocodile’s and had teeth to match, and the room became alive with a golden glow. All the ingredients the sorceress desired made their way to the pot and the demon’s littered eyes tucked themselves anywhere there was space. Marcy sat and cooked while listening to the witch’s song.

           “I’m the witch which collects calories

Valerie, welcome to my magic menagerie

Oh I don’t care much for riches

Only want to use my kitchen

Which consists of caught, cooked and cut up children

Their souls are so sweet

A treat that keeps me on my feet

Not to mention the delectable meat

Flesh so rich and tender

It’s a splendorous endeavor

To have my rotten insides soothed

Let’s see if this girl proves my practice true!

I always lick my fingers

When I have little ones for dinner”

Marcy wondered how she could postpone the witch’s feast. May I sing with you Valerie? She thought as clearly as she could. Valerie paused and curiously contemplated Marcy’s request from the brain plane. Then Marcy felt her speech return. She had to think of some rhymes fast.

  “Witch which desires to devour me

Listen to my preserving plea  

A beg deserving, if you please

For I will not cower from your accursed arts

Or cringe when you binge on quick hearts

I won’t be crude nor bratty nor rude

I ain’t even a fatty

So, come on, let me out of this stew

I’ll wash your dishes, clean your home

A proposition is my poem

I’d garden, launder; and never roam

And you wouldn’t owe me a single fee

If you’d simply hire me”

Marcy gave Valerie her biggest puppy dog eyes and tiniest kitty cat smile. The witch grinned with a gloating glee.

“Such a speech fuels my cackles

I have a demon in my shackles

What more a servant could I desire

Than one who has a soul of fire

I ripped this flame from another plane

Your kind can only reach when you’ve gone insane

If a mortal’s mind has broke

They can meet the demon folk

Since their reality no longer fills up their mind

There are many spaces they can slide inside

I can slip in no matter my health

Now ocular wealth always stocks my shelf

Each eye counts countless worlds

Knows unknown knowledge; what a profit!

Records time till it’s full and hurled

From its socket to my pocket

I sell em’ to ya if you can cough it”

Valerie broke her song and stirred the pot with a little stick. “They’re a watcher,” Valerie informed her food. “A kind of devil who sees everything. Great for get togethers with the girls! They supply us with the richest secrets.” She gave the grimacing monster a playful hip bump, and both protruding hip bones smacking against each other made a sickening CRICK.  The demon looked so unbelievably sorry for itself to be serving the witch. “But watchers are husks,” she went on. “Got no emotions in ‘em so the constant stream of information don’t drive them ‘round the swamp! They’re used by other demons ya see. But this one here made a deal with me. If I pumped them full of feelings they’d be my personal helper.”  

Marcy spied her bare basket neatly packed into one of the thick piles of witchy things as if it had always been there. She knew her rhymes were weak. So Marcy matched Valerie’s casual banter, hoping to exploit what the witch had bragged about. “You have control over a demon and all you do is have them do housework and sell its freaky eyeballs?” Valerie raised a brow defensively.  “You could be eating way more if you let them go out. And the poor thing’s all stuffed up in here!” Marcy gave the demon a look but it was too slow to receive. “And this place…” Sigh, “Is a wreck. Don’t tell me this is where you have those get togethers? You may not care about your quarters but I assure you, others do.” Valerie looked meanicingly at Marcy but she knew she’d caught her off guard. The sorceress was unbalanced and all she had to do know was knock her over. “Face it, I shouldn’t be begging you- you should be begging me; for help.”

The silence stung as Marcy worried she had gone too far. But the demon finally realized it could benefit from this situation and added, “i’ve told you to let me hunt for you… i have.” The demon seemed new to human speech.

Valerie briefly broke out of Marcy’s uncomfortable capture to sass the demon, “I don’t want you so far away. I don’t know what demons your age get up to at night.”

“i don’t… know my age. i can’t break the contract by leaving,” The watcher reminded.

“Hmm,” Valerie mumbled crossly. Her fist sized eyeballs squirming around the room

she quickly was becoming more conscious about. “What makes you such an expert?” She muttered at Marcy.

“I’ve always had an eye for inferior design,” said Marcy. Inferior was the right word, right? “Maybe not as many eyes as this one, but hey.” The demon stood confused for a few seconds then laughed at the joke Marcy felt shameful of. The demon seemed delighted to be told a joke and acknowledged in a friendly manor.

“Please, Valerie, can you keep her?” it asked. “i’d like a friend. i have all these things in my head now. i want to show someone… myself.” Their painful looking facial features attempted a sweet smile.

Blisters and burns blossomed all over Marcy’s skin, but she tried her hardest to do the same. The twin gins grinded away the witch’s resistance, and after staring at their strained expressions almost minute Valerie finally cracked.

“Oh must you two twist my wrist like this?” She scoffed as she squished out the fires flames with a swift fist then swatted sending Marcy soaring out of the pot. The watcher, however, was quick to catch her by her dress with its talons. “I thought cha said you wouldn’t be rude! It was in your cute lil’ song and everything.” Valerie shook her head. “Come into my house and tell a witch how to run her life. Mmnm.” Marcy was so, so, SO grateful the sorceress was so susceptible to her tricks.

And, as she promised, Marcy worked for the witch doing the chores and advising her on architectural decisions. Valerie always followed Marcy’s advice and the humble hut soon evolved into a lavish murder mansion; where many a child came to die.

The demon, now referred to as Demon Number One by Valerie, was happier than ever and able to go wherever they pleased. They would often bring Marcy along on their otherworldly adventures. Marcy helped the watcher learn how to deal with its newfound emotions and they became best friends.

It didn’t take Valerie very long at all to become accustomed to having two servants, and then starting to respect them. She rather enjoyed having them around and her indulgent exploits were always met with satisfaction.   

Marcy, now referred to as Demon Number Two, set up a pretty good life for herself at the expense of others. She hadn’t been looking for, well, this but she was content nonetheless. She didn’t look back, she didn’t look forward.

And they all lived happily ever after.                             

Untitled — Anonymous


There is a happiness that comes out of nowhere and brings along this person that will sweep you off your feet, spiritually. Even after every time you’ve been broken, every plead that brought you to your knees, the connection is strong, right from the jump. It feels like you’ve have known each other for years, like it was normal.

These are the kind of people that are toxic, the kind that’ll either give you butterflies and then snatch them right back from you, or have you head over heels and you would never know when to leave when needed. Everybody changes throughout a relationship, whether it’s just friends or intimate. Once a person gets comfortable with you their actions don’t seem to be what they once were when you first met that person. Once they make their first mistake, yeah you’re upset but it’s a first so you let them slide and yall move forward. But that first mistake that you once let slide turns into 1, then 4, 8, 20, and so on. By that time you’ve already let them pass once too many times. Their sorrys are just an additional slap in the face. They promise they won’t do it again then it’s done. You’re already too deep.

Now you’re making all these commitments to this person. “Promise you won’t ever leave me” and of course you promise. Once the problems progress, you find yourself losing sleep some nights, having silent cries. Sometimes you even throw the blame on yourself and beat yourself up about it.Then you find yourself stuck, stuck in something you you want to walk away from. Now walking away isn’t an option. The minute you try they make you out to be just like everybody else. They compare you to their past heartbreaks but completely forget that their breaking yours. they’re selfish. It’s called the guilt trap. They make you feel bad so you won’t leave them and then you’re back in box number 1. You won’t leave cause you love them. Eventually, you create this mindset that you don’t care anymore. You’ll stop stressing so much. You’ll treat them like they treat you but not as bad because you’re not as tough as they are. You still cry sometimes because pretending isn’t working for you like you hoped it would.

She Is… Mariam Anwary

She flees for safety and freedom

She questions the people and ideas around her

She wants to take a chance

A chance to break free from the norms

She grows up around blood and dead bodies

She sees the bodies of family and friends

She came from the war

The war that dislocated her family

She runs until the end of the world

She is the one they talk about

She is different from the rest

She is a target for others

She fights for her soul

The soul that was taken away when she had to leave her family behinds

She is reborn

Reborn to seek justice for those in need

She is the one they make fun of

The one they say will cause destruction to the world

She becomes something no one imagined

She kills hatred with her words

She hears whispers as she walks by

She hears them say “ Why is she even here, she will be a problem to us ”

She is shattered like a mirror

She is best friends with loneliness and darkness

She changes for other people

For those who want her to be weak and afraid of change

She wants to be loved by someone

So that she can give all the love she has hidden inside

She is surrounded by thoughts of  belonging

Belonging to a society where girls are not a disgrace

She only wants to be strong

Strong for those who are broken like she used to be

She wants to fight her way through Fight her for equality

She is looking for a way out

She wears a mask

She is a mystery

She is a Muslim girl

Rainforest- Esther Torres




Hurry, get to safety

Damp forest floor, wet from rain

Heavy thick mist, blinding your sight

Danger, nearby,

Vines, are wet and slippery,

Must climb, must flee, to survive

It’s after you, running fast,

Stalking, tracking, hunting

Look up, you see a snake readying to strike, let go, you plummet

Hide, must hide

Trees shadows, you take comfort, bleeding, blend, mask

Turning, you face, predators yellow eyes

Panther, a predator you see

Nowhere to run now,

Tiger on your tail, Viper above you, a Panther in front

Your trapped, killers surrounding you.

All hungry, all ready to eat, you, a feast.


Untitled – Ashley Clark

I like the color pink again.

It took me a good six or seven years to realize that

Being a girl wasn’t a bad thing

That liking something–that reclaiming

Something isn’t a bad thing.


It’s like how I didn’t use to like pink

Because it was forced on me

And because I thought it put me in a corner

But then I watched Dirty Dancing

Rewatched–Dirty Dancing

And thought no one puts baby in a corner

And thought that I can be the best damn woman,

Break the glass ceiling, call myself baby,

paint my nails

Powderpuff pink. All in one night.


I carry rose quartz in my pocket

In the shape of a heart and hold it

When I’m scared.

Feel it warm up in my palm

Feel it feed off my energy

Feel it feed it back in.

It’s pink. I like it. Not all rocks have to be grey

To be taken seriously.

And I like feeling like a little kid again,

Playing dress up-flower-witch-fairy

With my rose quartz and my beeswax lip balm

And my pink peony petals

Pressed into cream notebook pages


And maybe I like calling myself bitch.

Even when I’m not

And maybe I like the look on the boys’ faces

When I call myself bitch

Like I stole it from their lips

Like I made it mine first.

Like I’m Hester Prynne with

A big pink patch on my breast

And I’m grinning.

And my scaffold is a stage to sing on.

Monuments—Rachel Beling

maybe some part of you has walked here before,

but the soles of your feet still slide on the ice and obsidian.

stories can’t make the air any more familiar to your lungs

or the path any clearer against the snow.

like the dead man whose stone monument

you passed without a thought,

you are in a place you only pretend to know.

the blisters might be enough of a bloodletting

to appease the local gods.

they are hiding in somewhere in these mountains, watching,

but you have failed to learn their names.


as you walk, you imagine the monuments

you’ve inherited in this land:

sheep pens, hot springs, decrepit buildings,

homes of unverified claims of valor.

you didn’t live through it;

didn’t see the dogs chasing after sheep

or bathe in the springs

or run between the buildings,

but you remember.

you own a volcano too,

its tephra from the decades-old explosion

not quite scattered enough to reach you.


after the trail releases its grip on you,

you will buy some of those rocks

and place the jar of ashes on the mantle.

it is your monument to the stories and to the truth.