By Desiree Leader | Observer Contributor
(This was from a writing prompt: knows which way the wind blows)
Tired of ‘splainin’
to old white people, like me
that nobody’s sayin’
our lives don’t matter…
nobody’s sayin’
only black lives, only black lives matter –
not white,
not blue,
but black lives matter,
too.
The value of our lives
has never been called into question –
but black lives,
black lives matter.
Black lives matter, too.
A Work-in-Progress by Elysian Alder | Editor-in-Chief
The author would like to provide a few content warnings for any potential readers. The following passage of text contains: death & mentions of death, blood, and violence.
What was perhaps most surprising to him was how long it was taking to die this time. It was nothing like before, when he was fourteen years old and his pitiable, ailment-riddled body finally gave out in the dark peace of slumber. The circumstances being what they’d been, his memories of it were shrouded in a hazy fog, fragments of awareness amid the frantic efforts to revive him. Galino, decisive even in adolescence, forced air back into his lungs while Raksha sent jolts of electricity surging into his chest. Beside the bed, his mother sat in shambles, her grip firm on another’s hand, her body shaken by repressed sobs. Later, he learned that his father had excused himself posthaste to fetch the physician—a pinch-faced, balding man who consistently delivered grim prognoses and stern counsel, all of which Briar managed to dismiss with alarming ease, a talent entirely at odds with his worsening condition. In his father’s absence then, the hand his mother crushed within her own belonged to the estate cook who chastised him the next morning, claiming that she’d never cast so many prayers into the aether before that day, when she’d begged the forces that be to return his body and soul to those who loved him, only for him to revive with even less gratitude than he had possessed before. Who would have known, he’d said then, that the forces that be were an adolescent curmudgeon with rudimentary emergency medicine skills and an elementally-charged familiar?
By Cody Nathanson | Assitant Editor
One foot off the bar stool, he begins to pace back and forth between the wooden tables sprawled out in front of him. Smearing the sweat from the palm of his hand onto his leather vest, he glances over at the crowd moving in and out of the building. Turning back to check the clock just above the bar, he takes a deep breath before approaching three men sitting at the bar next to him. His military boots thump against the floor, and he passes a stool, then another, before placing his elbow onto the counter next to them.
By William A. Lefrancois | Observer Contributor
When May is done, when the flowers bloom have begun.
When the showers of April, the parched earth have soaked.
When water meets soil, seeds of life erupt to begin life’s run.
Brilliant blooms and verdant fields, colors in which the earth is cloaked.
June jumps to life, the following months seek their awakening.
Bright sun fills the skies, puffs of white decorate a powder blue canvas.
Stirrings of life are seen, nature responds to June’s beckoning.
The greenery of life covers every rock, bright light reaches every crevice.
By Elysian Alder | Assistant Editor
Harken to the plight of mariners in search,
A dire fate that oft doth besmirch,
As if bewitched by the sorcery of thee,
Cast adrift on the endless sea…
—FROM THE POET’S TREASURE BY VITO
***
At dusk, the sinking sun cast long shadows across the ship’s deck, and a creeping sense of melancholy knotted itself tightly in Donovan’s chest. The sea lay placid, as still as a pond, and seemed just as unmoved as it had been the past two days, leaving their ship adrift on the endless waters, motionless and alone. Stagnancy had led most of the crew below deck to seek shelter from the scorching sun, and the lack of wind or motion had rendered the elements unbearable.
By Reed Fitzgerald | Observer Contributor
Wrapping right to left,
Never left unattended
People will always come
For coffee and doughnuts.
Do not worry if they run out
Of rich frosted rolled in sprinkles,
There is an array of others
To choose from.
From coffee swirled with pumpkin
Perfect for the promise of cold
Evenings, even though the coffee
Is cold itself.
When you reach the bottom
Of your cold or hot morning in a cup
Or take you last bite of sweet
Relief from bitter and think
Is there not a bit more?
Do not worry. The line still wraps
By William A. Lefrancois | Observer Contributor
Four months have come and gone; the new year marches ahead.
May arrives with flowery blooms; in verdant splendor it is met.
As the sun rises higher and brighter; no longer the cold to dread.
Spirits soar with the daylight; suddenly surreal surroundings set.
In each person hope rises; sorry frowns turn to happy smiles.
Friendships blossom as the buds bloom; anger and malice take a holiday.
Driving along country roads brings joy; dazzling colors light the miles!
By Annabelle Kennedy | Observer Contributor
Spring has sprung at MWCC and that means it is time for our own literary magazine A Certain Slant to come out by the end of April. A Certain Slant is a celebration of poetry, short fiction and paintings created by MWCC students themselves. Michelle Valois, a professor in the English department, edits and puts them together in a print magazine style.
For the past 20 years, Valois has been heading up the literary magazine. “I took it over from Professor Arthur Marley who started the magazine, sometime in the 1980s,” said Valois. Being a writer herself, she knows the excitement of seeing your name in print for the first time.
By Isabelle Mascary | Observer Contributor
“Tell me, what it is you plan to do
With your one wild and precious life…”
Wonderful question you ask.
I plan to tackle every task.
What do I plan to do with
my wild yet precious life?
I plan to liberate others and
help build their self-esteem.
You know, the ones who have lost their voice,
often the ones left with no choice.
Ones who are lost and confused,
the ones, tormented and abused.
The ones society wants to forget,
the ones who can forgive, but can never forget.
