The Community Relations Team
Community Volunteer Openings
Read this to learn more about the Deviousness Award
October - rossdraws
September - Skirtzzz
August - jane-beata
July - squanpie
June - el-grimlock
May - rainylake
April - Yamio
March - annewipf
February - JACAC
January - Mouselemur
December - Lora-Vysotskaya
November - BATTLEFAIRIES
October - MichelleHoefener
September - UszatyArbuz
August - Ellysiumn
July - Yuukon
June - Firefly-Path
May - Cryptid-Creations
April - Tohad
March - Chromattix
February - ToolKitten
January - eychanchan
December - sakimichan
November - CapnDeek373
October - lovelessdevotions
September - C-91
August - AlectorFencer
July - SilverInkblot
June - sandara
May - TamberElla
April - Riemea
March - takmaj
February - Qinni
January - neurotype
December - loish
November - pearwood
October - pulbern
September - PirateLotus-Stock
August - larienne
July - TommyGK
June - KatieAlves
May - ryky
April - Picolo-kun
March - ikazon
February - KovoWolf
January - Miguel-Santos
December - griffsnuff
November - Ry-Spirit
October - Hellobaby
September - Kendra-Paige
August - DamaiMikaz
July - DestinyBlue
June - TheGalleryOfEve
May - theCHAMBA
April - Anoya
March - DMD-CT
February - MARX77
January - Aeirmid
Silver Backstonight - don’t speak.
tonight, go home and sleep.
tonight is the dark water
seen from the silver shore:
the round stones like cold coins
pressing into bare feet.
despair is an empty value.
tonight, don’t flood your pockets,
roll your jeans, step in.
don’t sell your life so cheap.
tonight, go home and sleep.
think of the racing rivers
that have yet to reach the sea:
the silver backs of many waters,
the supple strength of moving things.
you may remember when you wake.
Several Reasons for BeingYou're every road I do not take
you're the end of the day
you're sheets and pillows
pulling on shadows
while I'm drunkenly lying awake.
You're every blind turn before dawn
you're the map and a ripple of water
at depths of the lake
You're my coffee gone cold while I'm staring
at the spiderweb spun
from porch to stone
my path obstructed by delicate thread
but such a will to remain.
You're the blinding glance
of a stranger
you're the amber trail
of a sycamore leaf on its way
to the rain soaked street
Where I'm alone with my gaze
cast down searching for patterns
in reds and golds
in brilliant pools at my feet.
the islandyou’re an island
the leaves blow like her hair
the breeze filled with her voice
she haunts whoever hardly lives in you
her image renders on the moon
casted upon your rocks
you’re left alone
in an ocean
EntwinedIn dew-bright dawn the green sap runs
From ageless roots the cycles draw
The summer bloom from winter’s thaw
Our youth has seen uncounted suns
The moonlight wanes; the known stars fall
Yet still we live and love anew
We rise in joy like summer dew
Return Beyond at autumn’s call
And so we dance the early light
Eternal hearts in time entwined
The turning cycle spinning, blind
Embracing us in secret night
ImpossibleWhen the great grey thing
the slow-churned sky worn under your skin
when it begins to wear you thin
by weathering you
a heavy pall in black
that you can't shuck from your shoulders
and like an old coat it becomes
a grey-weather friend
panting at the back of your neck
into the shadow of every smile
seeing teeth but not the meaning
leashing you outside
at every meeting.
Clouds bear rain
and curdle into sombre mass
gravid with lightning
and the crash of something breaking
and the soft weft of cloth
stiffens with frost
too numb, too long
hardened to points of ice turned inwards
like the mythic maiden's fangs
exhaustion is realising
these storms and angry metaphors
all long for catharsis
in the absence of rain.
in its place reality is waiting;
a world of small things
you cannot carry
a bed you cannot sleep in
rooms you cannot clean
It is the invisible impossible
and it is real.
flung from heavenI've been knocked out of orbit, delicate
balance upset by a comet unforeseen
burning bright across the black distance.
you, sun mirrored smaller in her satellite -
either my darkest night or most
brilliant, bittersweet dream - have drawn me in
vulnerable to the vacuum left by your absence,
pulled to embrace the traces of your path
the places where you were, to realize the full force
of your gravity, the ice and fire of your love;
all to observe the end of 'the world'. we know
chemical reactions - creating and uncreating
the legend of our journey together, bodies
drifting apart in cold blue space - are memories
which never die, but kill me just the same.
7-10-17I was young once I'm sure of it
driving south through the cotton
I see it all around and remember
even the first time I crossed the
river on the ferry the other side
and it was but a few miles away
it was my second time there I
split my head on the concrete
steps up to the house while my
father told me to stop be careful
later visits I explored the property
found the chicken coop making
breakfast and dinner walked the
untilled back lot to the river just
downstream from the ferry there
was a broken fence twisted off
this was the cut bank side land
was shrinking life bleeding out
washed away deep into the muddy
current I returned years later to
the land of my father stolen by
time the fence once stretched from
road to the river has drifted now
the back lot the coop and their
farmhouse with concrete steps
gone of course time changes
its much shorter now and the
broken fence is all that remains
The point of it allThe city has streets that sink into the other side of the world.
Amidst their ruins, dead calluses are slowly petrified
in the ghosts of shoe soles and former tires.
Mediums claim the echoes of former pedestrians
weeping for their dislodged joints and lost groceries
still thunder in the depths
below the stapled smiles of the mayor
that shine on every wall above the lunar imitation.
Meandering, the life crashes with weary ears
and the map just jumps off a window
as the former arrow
rips off its point,
this poem written
with a prehistoric leg
ten powerless knuckles
and a fruitless voice.
cold mirrorhalfhearted moonrows fill the sky silver;
darling little atoms pressed together
soft sighs of liquid light
and pasts, unknown or imminent
gathering on a platform, boarding trains
to nowhere, to new homes, old thoughts
maybe strangers on the rail
in all directions,
with space between
Three Views of Death1.
she is sitting on the stairs
she holds her knees
to the center
of her body
her mother is by the couch
her eyes full
like a glass
of untouched water
there are voices
in the kitchen
she doesn't know them
the yellow light
of the living room
she doesn't think
about her brother
the carpet moving
flat beneath the weight
of my feet
his face is
over the other
i feel a silence
in the heavy dark
swollen like a river
the curtain folds and
she is holding a cup of coffee
the table feels
the curve of her hands
she doesn't think
about the sun growing
like skin against
paper of his face
of her hands touching
fingers curled quietly
over the shape
of her cup
in the center
Longing DesireI long for the moment
when the sea kisses the air
when time slows down
and everything is right
I long for the world
where the depths stay below
where time is not wasted
as dreams come to light
I long for the girl
who is so far away
who is free like the air
unbound by the tide
I long for the horizon
where the sea meets the sky
where I can be with her
Flying Monkey Business It was just another day in Oz when the flying monkeys decided to unionize. They knew it was risky since not only were they up against the one and only Wicked Witch of the West, but the Wizard had made work unions illegal not too long ago after a Munchkin revolt occurred. Really couldn’t blame them for doing that though; I too would be upset if my job was going to be replaced a tin man. There was also the matter regarding the lack of ladders, grabby-things and tornado insurance but that’s a story for another time.
Anyways, that morning, the monkeys stormed into West’s bedroom. Upon seeing them, she quickly hid her stuffed toy scarecrow under her pillow.
“What do you furballs want?”, she screeched at them as she flopped around the bed while trying to get up.
“Umm…Well…”, one of the monkeys sputtered.
She yelled, “OUT WITH IT!”
The flying monkeys recoil
The Last True StoryThey're coming for me.
My family tried to warn me. They begged me to stop. When nothing worked, my father broke my right hand. It turned picking up a pen into agony.
So I learned to write with my left hand. When my father found out, he knew there was no hope for me. I'd been tainted by heretics, and there was nothing anyone might inflict on me that could change that.
The Guild upheld me as a hero, someone who lost everything to continue to write. But spending a year hiding in tenements, moving from slum to slum, I feel like anything but.
I wish I were a hero, one that I've written about in my stories. Brave souls who fought and died for what they believe. Women and men who could be bold, who walked defiantly towards the future. They didn't need to run from place to place every night. They did not hide or beg for paper and ink, or pray for one more day so they could tell one more story.
I told the stories of people who never existed, and in them, I found the truth. Now I hav
Cemetery Underneath a City Park three thousand
eternally dream beneath
interred under ferns
down the lane
The Masters of the GladeOne fine summer’s day, when there was a lull in the fighting and all was peaceful for a time, the Forest King had it in his mind to visit a particular glade which was a favorite of his. So he set off, with a skip in his step and a tune humming from his chest, through the dappled sunlight of the woods he so loved, feeling that all was right with the world.
Then he reached his beloved glade, and stopped short and silent at the edge, staring dumbfounded, for in the center there now stood a cabin of rough logs and thatch. Stumps at the edges of the clearing told him where the materials for the structure had been found.
As he watched, the door opened and out stepped a man tall and broad, plainly dressed and with a gleaming axe over his shoulder. He walked with purpose toward the wood, and in an instant Xilvendar had made up his mind.
Casting a veil of magic over himself, the Lord of the Wilds stepped forward and hailed the man. The woodcutter turned and saw not the leaf-green clad Gua
No one who enters the desert leaves.It's cold and it's early. The sky is bright and pale and clear, and under your feet the sand shifts like the sea shifts, an unending wave of silt sliding over silt. Dust rises up from where you set your feet and nowhere else because there is nothing else moving here. Behind you, there is a highway that you can only sense because the air is so empty. At night, you saw how it glowed faintly orange against the tyrian darkness of the dunes and the tyrannical spill of the Milky Way. Without its lights, in the breathless morning before the day begins to burn and the miragy waters settle into the arms of the drifting earth, it is too far away to see.
There is nothing here except you. There are no cacti, there are no birds. Your skin is the first living thing to touch the soil here, and so it ground itself into your palms and chest and lungs during the night in a desperate search for moisture that is profoundly new. But you don't mind it, do you? The way it blackens your nails and your
Brushstrokes of RecoveryStep one.
Take the brush and
gently dip it in black
before you put it on
the canvas and paint
the night sky.
Slowly you cover
the canvas in darkness;
soon not a speck of light
will be left in your
Clean the brush and
Listen to what the doctors
tell you and remember
the meaning of all
You try to get up
but you can’t.
It is as if you are
chained to this stool;
like your life.
Hold on to the brush
and pick a dark blue
don’t forget to look
up at the clouds
what used to be.
Push the memories
of a past life away
you know that thinking
about it will make you
want to paint in black
Sing a song while
longingly looking at
wishing you were
ready to use it
but instead you pick
Purple like the bow
you used to wear in your hair
before your life
was overtaken by doctors
and words you never
FFM 2019 11Under the light of the full moon the magician and the hunter gather. Armed with a rifle and three boxes of silver bullets and the power of the cosmos, the two sit and load cartridges. The hunting will be good tonight.“You ready for this?” asks Dave.“I was born ready,” replies the magician.“God, Zed, I wish you weren’t so eager to do this. We could get killed out there.”“But we won’t because my plan is flawless.”“If you say so.”“Don’t sweat it,” says Zed. “Just let me do the hard work and you take the shot.”“Christ,” breathes Dave. “It’s not like that.”But he goes anyway.--------------------The two are separated a distance, Dave having secured the high ground where he can snipe his prey safely from a distance and Zed having found his first target, a young, brown wolf gnawing on a piece of trash. The magician sends up a small spark of light so Dave can see him. Then he prepares his ambush of lights, steels his mind for the upcoming show of trickery and illusion.Zed’s phone vibrates, breaking the deadly silence that had settled over the alley. The werewolf’s ear twitches, but it doesn’t change direction. Never taking his eyes off the creature, Zed reaches into his pocket and answers the call.“Dave!” he hisses. “What do you think you’re doing?”“Uh, yeah, man. I don’t think I want to do this anymore.”“The fuck, man?”“Yeah, I’m not going through with this. I’ll see you at work Monday.”“The hell you are!”“I don’t care what you say, that’s a human. I can’t kill him. I’m sorry.”“You think you’re sorry now--!”“Bye.”The line goes dead and Zed tosses his phone, which is snatched up by the werewolf. Zed rushes in foolishly to take it back but the wolf has torn it apart, digging around inside the circuitry until something burns it. It rips out that piece of circuitry and swallows it and dies.It is then that Zed remembers that silver is used in cell phones.He collects his bounty - it will be more than enough to replace his phone, especially since Dave cut himself out of the cut - and never once thinks about the fact that a werewolf just committed suicide.
One of Them“Are you one of them?”
The question hung in the air after it left Sarah’s lips, her eyes fixated on the wall in front of her. It was cracked and crumbling just like every other building around her. Just like the dry skin of her hands as they twisted uncomfortably at the silence that came. Rough calluses combined with the peeling of her fingers served as a reminder. A reminder that her skin was real, that her thoughts were real, and that the boy beside her...was likely not. At least not anymore.
“It's okay, you can tell me if you are.” She continued when there was nothing but the whistle of wind rushing past her ears, hurrying to correct herself in concern of scaring off her only friend. “I don't mind. I just…” She paused, ignoring the tears threatening to fall. “I want to know if I can stop looking. I want this to be done.”
She looked back over at the pale boy whose lips were still sealed shut, knees pulled to his chest.
Broken WingsYou said
From the sky
But my broken wings
Mean nothing to you
DustThere was once a very old woman who kept a clean house. When the old woman’s granddaughter came to visit, she would watch her grandmother sweep. The old woman always wiped all the dust from the shelves and tables, and swept the dust on the wood floor into piles with a broom. Then she swept the piles into a pan, and poured the dust outside the window.
One day the young girl asked her grandmother, “Why do you sweep?”
The grandmother answered, “Because it’s good to be clean. It’s healthy,” and kept on sweeping as the girl watched.
“Why do you have to sweep so much?” asked the granddaughter.
The old woman answered “There is always so much dust collecting on the floor that I need to sweep,” and kept on sweeping with the girl watching.
“Why does the dust collect so much?” asked the girl.
“Because Grandpapa and I are always moving about the house, and people are always coming to visit,” answered th
A Million Pieces"Am I allowed to love you?"
They asked me, as though love
somehow needed my consent.
Love was a wildfire, it was
thunder on the plains; it was
something that happened to you,
the only choice was
how you rode the lightning.
If you sailed the choppy waters,
crashed upon the rocks, and
splintered into a million pieces
all in the name of "love"
then you chose wrong.
There was no patience in love.
No one had ever done me
the courtesy of knocking first
and one look was all it took to see
there was no shelter here;
there was not even a roof.
Just a million pieces,
shattered in someone else's name.
"It's broken," I said, expecting again
the storm, the rain, because Love did not wait.
To my knowledge, Love was not kind.
They said, "Don't worry."
(how did they know I worried)
"I have time."
And it wasn't the tempest or the blizzard,
it was ears that listened, eyes that saw me.
Hands that taught me to build, shape, grow
And let go, showed me to trust the weather.
The clouds that gathered d
Lost?January 29th, 2018
It was my first full day in Paris. All the students in the study abroad program had gotten French phone plans at a store, and were told we were free for the day. I ended up going to a Monoprix (basically France’s version of Target) with another student, almost getting us lost on the way because the walking directions on Google Maps confused me. It took me a moment to realize we were going in the wrong direction, and we had to turn back. I kept my eyes on my phone, not following the program director Audrey’s advice to look up and see what was around me. But we got there. I didn’t buy anything; instead, I just looked around at the different foods and items offered. I mostly tagged along so that I wouldn’t have to walk back to the metro alone. Once the person I was with had bought her stuff, we walked to the metro station together.
When we got inside the metro station, I absent mindedly just
i promise i'll eat after i write thisAnd it sizzled through me-
The sickness that used to churn my
insides, turn my joyrides
into a ghost town.
Bones rattled in the breeze and I saw
The numbers were back and they were
Standing so tall and so proud
And I heard whispers about
Collarbones and hollow stomachs and
dead things and I slipped back into
I took the pressed flowers i keep
hidden in old poetry books and
chewed quietly on the
The petals crumbled to ash
on my tongue and I found it no wonder
food made me feel so sick.
Panic lashed through me at the
of it all and how it feels just like
it used to exactly the same as it
used to but i don't want to go through
this again the pain isn't worth it
the bones aren't worth it darling
healthy is pretty please stop
thinking about the numbers please
stop thinking about the bones
You're gonna be okay.
Comfort Amongst the StarsBeacon stars
carve orbits toward solace,
as solitude of nightfall
conveys blissful visions
of fond memories, long ago.
Unseen angelic spirits
whilst flickering beams signify hope
embracing lost lights
within my sorrowful soul.
upon glimmering luminosities,
drifting tears seek
mesmerizing signals of joy
in darkest hollows of mourning.
PerennialTomorrow I will plant;
Maybe not this eve
in overcasted fasting of our forest
when kindred branches hang their
Tomorrow I will shift soil;
and sift whispers of deadened
things that were-
and file between my fingers
where they need to
Tomorrow I will bury a breath;
as a lifetime's lungs collapse
and anguish draws, like pipe wind
what is left...
but tonight I hold mine...
And tomorrow I will plant.
dismal/distantyou're far away again.
& that's fine, i guess,
because it's not like we made any promises
to stay close;
i just thought maybe we would.
& i'm fine, i guess,
because i don't need anyone,
even if sometimes i feel like i do.
i've changed a lot, you know,
& i thought maybe you'd notice,
but you didn't.
& that's fine, i guess;
by now i know you don't really
& i'm fine, i guess,
even if i wish
Untitleda funeral ends.
she becomes a memory,
i became a ghost
fractured fortunesTime flies, you know, or so they say. It’s probably debated, but I think they’re right – because really, I didn’t even realize that it had been four years until Alice moved in. Sure, I had a sense of time passing. It was hard not to, with everything happening around me, but after my family left it was hard to keep track.
They up and split six months after my death, as soon as they could find a new place. I couldn’t blame them. Even once the “crime scene,” as they’d always insisted on referring to it, was cleaned, the memories were still there. And what a vivid memory that was, the blood everywhere, my body sprawled out on the floor (even though I’d tried to avoid that happening). I really couldn’t blame them even if I tried. Memories are painful things sometimes.
Everything passed in a blur after that. Days and nights of lonely wandering with the occasional visit to Freya. And even those tape
your horoscope for the week of august 25th.i. aries
the stars say they are refunding your wishes in full
because they are stars, they were only ever stars
and nothing is real - not you, not them, not anything.
the stars say that you should take better care of your immortal soul.
drink water, get some sleep, go outside for a bit of fresh air.
keep doing your best. they're here for you if you need to talk.
the stars say that you should have died last week.
you were supposed to be killed in a terrible car accident,
but you escaped through some unforeseen twist of fate.
there is an imbalance in the world.
the stars want you dead.
you are not safe here.
the stars say that if you knew how old your soul was,
you would think yourself a god.
do you remember the flagstones in Jerusalem?
the salt sea beneath your feet?
the stars say that you had one job.
you were supposed to kill Gemini last week
and make it look like a tragic car accident.
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