A collection of pieces from previous magazines. Header Background Art: Yosemite Valley by Bobby Fodera LITTLE GIRL MARCH by Sean Lin She is little girl March with Botticelli curls, Monroe lips and dresses of ivory and silk. She follows the month of broken hearts, Never the one with the broken heart, but with the bow, the arrow, and the knife. She is all smiles, Like the Sun who decides his vacation is too long. She is laughs, laughs so beautiful that Heaven cries, cries, and cries thunderstorms of warm rain. Little girl March lives for the high, and dreams of the Fall, But when April comes, April death, She is nothing but a memory of tap dances on dew, sneezes in the woods, and pink raincoats. She is remembered as always placing third. Glory of the Night by Gera Adomako Footsteps click, clack They’re all tapdancers at heart. Engines roar, come to life. Angry horns screech like noisy children. A scream here, a shout there, Echoing off the bright, silent buildings. Cameras flashing fast, youth basking in the Glory of the night. People crowing, Laughing, croaking. Crafting new paths, Strolling through flickering lights. High heels, lost words, brewing fears, fly birds, Masses churn drinks, yearn time, Hold hands, learn life. Difficult decisions don’t clutter their minds, the Power within them coming alive. Long lives the excitement. Long lives the twinkling of the stars. Long lives the streetlights, headlights, bustling cars. Short lives the day, Long lives the delight. And so, Long lives the Glory of the Night.
sink by Gwen Bernick i don’t want to be alone anymore. my heart escapes from my body in breaths like a dripping sink or a slow-moving car crash. i kick dead leaves up into the air and i stopped going outside except to carve your name into the tree in my backyard. you were never there. i write tiny poems to you on my math homework. i imagine that you do the same; a cosmic exchange of empty prayers across miles of my shaking body and your guilty hands. i wake up at five am with cold deep in my bones. tip-toe down the stairs, cry in the basement; i go outside and kick up the leaves, drown myself in a half-empty kitchen sink, or heart. i still wish you had been better. swallow back bile and fever memories when i see you. it doesn’t matter anymore. i open the windows in a thunderstorm, open my rotten body like a car door. i let the rain spill over like blood or vomit or an overflowing sink. i have been here before. i convince my heart to start beating agan. i come home shivering, sprawl in the grass and breathe. Subway by Siena Dante In this underground maze I am lost Lost in the sounds and the oppressive air Adrift in the throng of rushing people, pushing me against cool white tiles their square bodies having never seen the light of day Formal business shoes click down tiled stairs and overheard phone conversations in serious voices bounce off arched walls While sweaty bodies wait in hungry anticipation under humidity’s heavy blanket as the familiar cry of the underground world signifies an approaching train. Rushing wind whips long hair and screeching brakes penetrate soft ears Eager people file into closing doors, their grasping hands sliding on chilled metal Sounds of the morning traffic fade as a metropolitan roller coaster is pulled through long tubes of concrete darkness, ready to traverse the well worn path that lays ahead. Nobody by Kira Scala I am Nobody. Nobody saw, Nobody heard, Nobody answered my pleas. The only ones who saw Were my tormentors. They came, Angry and evil. And they destroyed me, erased me. I am Nobody. Nobody cared, Nobody helped, Nobody cried for me, Even when I was no longer human, When I was gone, Invisible, An empty shell, A shadow, A faded memory. Reduced to insignificance. I screamed for deliverance, But none came, For my pleas fell on deaf ears. I struggled, But none saw, For the world was blind. I am Nobody. Nobody cares about a Nobody. They can only see when it is too late, They only see When Nobody Has become A body. a fight, a god, a martyr by Gwen Bernick
i lay face-down in the sharp winter grass, chest pressed into the heavy, frozen dirt. i will myself to feel it. to get up. i dig my fingernails into the ground. your skin pink, blushing-- i will myself to forget. i come back inside fourteen days later with my fingers black and my heart undone. i sit on the lip of the counter in my mother’s kitchen, the cast-iron pans and the tiled floors, your memory on the back wall. i turn all of the burners on and the oven up to 400. i black out watching my hands bend in the thick heat of pity. my ghost leaves, sits awake on the brown leather couch in the dead of night. i wake next to her, crying. i left behind the person i was. my mistake. i let time in, sit in the shallow end of the ocean, split myself in two. somewhere else, i prop up your corpse in my bedroom and sleep alone on the heavy leather couch. i lay on the red carpet in my mother’s bedroom. her shoes lined up by the door. i close my eyes, i breathe it in. i feel it. i write down my confession in pen on the wrong side of a bar napkin. streetlights and taxis, my fists in my coat pockets. itching for something. a fight, a god, a martyr, you. i smash the taillight on the back of my heart. i keep swallowing the blame of every bad thing that’s ever happened to me. i keep thinking about that car alarm, the rusted lamp post and your cold hands. i keep finding myself shivering, sitting on the front step of your frosted porch in the dark, willing you to come out.
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AuthorNorthern Lights is an art and literary magazine full of work from the students of North. Have something to add? Email a submission of writing, art, or photography at northernlights@nhvweb.net |