Northern_Lights_2016

21 My Scott, My Zelda Jessalyn Holsing Too few people know your name, and that is detrimental to my soul. A life saved by the state of being “silvery,” your deep trust in me so profound that I can’t help but caress the ink on pages upon which you speak of subjugation and disillusionment, the state in which the world resides deep-set in misery and delusion. How can a heart live wherein your grave has dug down where mine does not reach? Your fantastical, illuminating mind that shreds threads to pieces as you piece together your own woven silk and satin, a world unseen to the eye of those blindfolded in their own youth. Letters upon letters and words upon words that I can feel but rarely see for the tears that come are not magnifiers of sight but of pain. Without your leaving, though, the world would not still use your creation, for there is only something bright in a candle that no longer burns. There are ashes on my fingers and that is all that is left. So I must smear them on the page with my fingerprints, if only in the reconciliation that you will always be with me, on the shelf of memories covered by words. View from an Early Sunday Morning Abby Woytassek Everything around me is bathed in deep blue, as if I’m underwater. I’ll explore this ocean beyond. Diving into the cold, wet sea of grass to get the morning paper, birds peek out of nests (fish out of anemones) to see me wading past. I find my treasure soaked in dew— my map of the world of Today. No signs of life as I continue deeper. Not a soul around while I walk the street washed entirely in cool indigo waves. And this is how the world must begin each day.