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Drown in Sound
Karen Valencia

Nostalgia in the moment

By Storm Heidinger

last night

nostalgia seized me

for something that hadn’t happened yet

I realized that there was no term

Or at least,

None that I knew of

In this language

Nightdreaming in my head

I thought of the people that I know and love

And how they will leave me

Or I will leave them

In one way or another

And to save myself the loss

I say goodbye

Without them there to hear

I wrote a letter to a friend

Who hadn’t left yet

And I wrote a story

About my dead dog

Who was still alive

And I imagine my own funeral

And surely, I’m still here

My mother & my father & sister also have to die, sometime

I think it’s easier to prepare for sadness

When you take the time

To let the feelings and thoughts

Of that suffering

Occur before its time

Sadness split over many moments, in preparation

And if I had to choose a word

To define this


It would be


By Bryce O’Tierney

            – on a painting by Paul Henry (that hangs at home in Alaska)

Pushing the currach

Into the water is

The way to make

Your body;

On roan beaches

The sun pools—

Will you drop your gaze

Into your own                         reflection?

Today the sea is still

And slowly less near

To the shore—we follow

The tide out,

Wet sand sinking

Our feet and salt

In your mouth as

We shout Push

Into the water and

Out of your head.

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 By Mahalia Sobhani

The swaying of the el gives us an excuse to lean into the curves of each other and I’ll pretend to need a nap on your shoulder a little more than I actually do.

The buzz of those stupid games on your phone is my alarm;

I will make eggs when we get home and you will insist on not eating them and I will pretend to be offended and she will eat them instead

And we all fall a little in love with each other.

The sound of her settling notebook pages like papercut wings is slicing up my eardrums, hyper aware;

the scratching of his pencils after two in the morning digs into my vital organs and I know what he’s writing; it’s on me and in me and

makes me believe that maybe you all have marked me

for good

(oh, I hope so…)

Pay money we don’t have for contraband somethings, give us an excuse to tell each other the truth:

That we all fall a little in love with each other,

every day,

with each of her progressively more unguarded laughs dropped like unexpected pearls

and every reassuring touch at the small of his back like a cup of tea you didn’t have to ask for,

And we are marked,


for good.

I love you

By Joshua Coffey

Nah, I don’t
That was just a wispy thought i had as i kissed you
Standing in the rain
Under the stars
And in my basement

It’s funny that I thought about that
Cause that’s the kinda shit romantics do
And i’m not like that (at all)

I’m not scared to tell you how i feel
In my selfish, veiled way
I think you’re cute and funny and nice

And we’re not dating
Cause that’s complicated
And i definitely don’t love you

Although, I don’t see anyone but you
Even when I’m not actually seeing you
Which is kinda funny
Cause I didn’t know it was possible

For one girl to steal the beauty
Of all the others

Maybe I do

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Influence and Imitation, in On the Road, in My Life

by Storm Heidinger

When I read On the Road by Jack Kerouac, it hit me immediately – the mad poetic prose and the descriptions of places that seemed to move with the furious action of Sal and Dean as they drove across the country, back and forth, east and west.  I wanted to be able to write like Kerouac, and I even dreamed of living on the road or bumming my way across the country.  On the Road was about spirituality and the search for something, in places like jazz joints and in people like Dean, and the highs and lows of life.

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