By Grace Shultz Have you ever thought, maybe I shouldn’t do this?   Have you ever thought, maybe I should reevaluate?   Stop doing that, decide and move on.   Convince yourself that you aren’t worth the convo,   Don’t bring up the emotional needs of yourself   Because that’s not what hot girls do   And you want to be a hot girl  Void of everything that makes you you  Decorate your shell of a body with the costume of another  Bow to the golden calf and remember to   Equate you value to the opinions of others  Because that is what a hot girl would do.  

By Grace Shultz I remember a time when we were strangers  Two kids, with an inherent sports rivalry  And desire to create connection with others  Quick friends   The inbetween was exciting and I cherish it so  The after, well, I’m still surprised that it’s the now  And, if I cannot return to the inbetween,  Then I wish to return to the time when we were strangers  When sitting in the same room meant nothing  Coexisting without harming the other  Comfortable strangers with no middle  Remembering in only my mind  That time of our inbetween  

By Shanice Lawton You were my mom because you raised me and loved me as your own. You didn’t birth me, but they couldn’t tell the difference to people who didn’t know us. I always hoped you heal, but that wasn’t the plan, at least not here on earth. The person I’m today is because of you. You’re gone now, and they’ve forgotten me. I told you years ago that if you left, people would forget me. Guess what? They did, but it’s okay because our memories will forever be in my heart.

By Olivia Garrison Everything is so busy. The world is a lively blur of fast cars and turbulent people. It takes everything I have in me to keep my eyes straight ahead of me. Breathe. In. Out. It feels overwhelming. Am I the only one? I know what I need to do. I take my badge. The plastic material is clipped to my navy scrub top. A beep, then a gush of air and the double doors swing open. The entrance to the Intensive Care Unit where I work is in commotion as always. There is much work to be done. Focus.  

By Zoe May I’d like to tell you about my favorite weather. More accurately, I’d like you to smell my favorite weather. After three months of blistering heat, there will be a morning that smells different. It will smell like the first breeze of cool wind to tickle your skin. It will smell like the nightly dew gathered on perennial flower petals signaling the end of its beauty. It will smell like a tease of moisture after a season of fire. Because when you smell this drop off temperature, just a couple of degrees, it’s the first smell that summer will cease. 

By Izzy Eckert I see the way the willows sway I hear the call from the colors of Fall Telling me to go that way So, I say “ok” Maybe one day I might lay On these rocks again But until then I’ll think about my blue crocs Walking on these green rocks

By Izzy Eckert I am surrounded by mountains and the clouds are rolling in. It’s night but is still light, and the clouds are starting to sink into the mountains and surround me. The clouds are a symbol of all my stresses and worries, they keep creeping in closer. But what they don’t know is that today, I learned how to shoot bearings. It doesn’t matter if I am closed in by my anxieties and fears because I still know where I am going. I can see through the fog. Plus… there are clear skies ahead.

By Jordan Hales I’ve observed my hydrangeas this season. Watching them bloom and die. Notoriously delicate, withstanding nonetheless; which should be a lesson to all. Delicacy is beautiful, but such fragility contains its own strength. They change with the season. There are few flowers holding onto summer’s warmth. Leaves once green, now red. Petals once soft, now shriveled. In death, there’s beauty. Their death isn’t sad; they’ll return next season. Then, I can watch them again. Sprout, bloom, stand proudly. Morning dew collects; dries with the sun. Bees pollinate. Wind blows. Water hydrates. For a while, they’ll stand proudly. Then, they will die.

By Joe The geese are honkin’, you gotta be kiddin’ me. The leaves are fallin’, get outta here. The frost is frostin’, shoot me. The chilled air is chillin’, my ass off. The mountains are snowin’, sit on this. The darkness is dark, Mother of God! An autumn reverie, not so much.

By Rosanne Pagano I’ve done this a long time, this business of teaching writing. I teach people who think they don’t really like writing, who think writing is kind of a time waster, who’d rather be doing anything than sitting in my class, thinking about writing, or trying to think about writing.   Or trying to pretend they’re thinking about writing.   As I say, I’ve done this a while.   And honestly? It’s work I still love.   Teaching writing is teaching thinking. Quick: Name me three things more important to fixing a flailing world than teaching, thinking, writing. I sure can’t think of any. Can you?