A Photo Collage

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Contributor: Cassidy Nelson

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Life is like a photo collage
Depicting life, photo by photo
Obscure and difficult
Hard to handle and piece together
Blending the good and the bad times into one image
One jumbled mess of memories
Creating the perfect picture
And giving you something to hold onto for a lifetime
Because a picture never changes
Even though the people in them do

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Cassidy is a student/athlete/writer attending high school in Frazee, MN. She lives with her mom and two sisters, spending most of her time dancing.

The Wisest Tree

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Contributor: Ellie Morgan

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I wish I could talk
To the oldest tree in the forest
The tree with the most experience
The tree covered in the roughest wrinkles
I wish the tree could talk to me about its life
Being surrounded
With young trees lacking life lessons
And many different plants
With different stories
I wish I could talk to the wisest tree
The one with the bumps and scratches
That come with life
I wish I could talk to the tree
That has seen the most
The one that has sheltered birds
And provided protection in the darkest storms
And let the light break on the sunniest days
I wish I could talk
To the oldest tree in the forest
So I could know everything
From the 1800's to what we call our life today

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Ellie Morgan is a student that attends Frazee High School in Minnesota. She enjoys running Cross-Country and Track.


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Contributor: Eren Leigh

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The day I lose you,
is the day I lose myself.

It started out
as a friendship.

But it became so much more,
a best friendship.

When we became friends,
I found the real me.

But the day you leave me,
is the day I forget who I am.

Because you walked with me,
through thick and thin,
and helped me become
who I am today.

So when you leave me,
we will be leaving

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Eren Leigh is a student/writer from Frazee, Minnesota. She enjoys music, sports, drawing, and spending time with friends.


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Contributor: Theresa A. Cancro

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Your hands lift me out of the banks
of rusted transepts that fell long ago.

You try to revive my eviscerated spirit,
no mouth to mouth, just fingertips.

You pencil in our names together,
at once imagined yet not quite inked.

You trace my eyebrow, absent tears;
no longer innocent, we bear the drench.

You close in on the monster illness,
stare it out, but know it will win.

Your warm embrace perfumes my corner,
a lotus in bloom at the midnight hour.

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Theresa A. Cancro (Wilmington, Delaware) writes poetry and fiction. Many of her poems have appeared in online and print publications and anthologies internationally. She also enjoys music, dance and gardening, as time permits.

Ash Wednesday

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Contributor: Donal Mahoney

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Ash Wednesday I saw Quinn again,
first time in years, sailing the streets,
weaving through people,
collar up, head cocked,
arms like telephone poles sunk
in the pockets of his overcoat,

the brilliant pennants of his long red hair
waving over the stadium
where years ago he took my handoff,
bucked off guard, found the free field,
and heaved like a bison
into the end zone.

Tonight, when Quinn wove by me muttering,
I should have handed him the ball.
I should have screamed, “Go, Quinn, go!”
He would have stiff-armed the lamppost,
found the free field again,
left all in his wake to gawk

as he hit the end zone
and circled the goal posts,
whooping and laughing,
flinging the ball like a spear
over the cross-bar,
back to Iraq.

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Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.


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Contributor: J.K. Durick

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It's just as you imagined it would be.
It's night, it has to be,
and you're alone again,
as quiet as the rest of the house.
Perhaps you're reading,
or, better yet, shuffling bills
poised just this side of a decision
about your life
like leaving Margaret, or Henry,
a diet, the guitar, even at your age,

and then you hear him bump into the chair
you left out of line for that purpose
in the living room,
or you hear him trip on the stray shoe
in the kitchen,
perhaps, the floor creeks in the hallway
just outside the bedroom.
The sound is subtle, slips to silence, but
it's there, he's there,
like you knew he would be.

Already you feel the knife go in,
his hands on your throat tighten,
or, it's a bullet this time,
with all that noise you hear
like the flash, the smoke,
then the numbing pain
then nothing.

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J. K. Durick is a writing teacher at the Community College of Vermont and an online writing tutor. His recent poems have appeared in Boston Literary Magazine, Black Mirror, Deep Water Literary Journal, Eye on life Magazine, and Leaves of Ink.

I hope snow doesn't turn red

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Contributor: d0ll

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Counting my scratches
Which won’t become scars
In my pain I linger
Walking in the gutter
Ignoring the stars
Walking through the streets
licking snowflakes from my fingers

Suddenly I start to run
I run from your hatred
I run from your anger
Fuelled by fear and five shots of vodka
The good old S word was never enough
And it never even worked
I lift my arms up in defense

Your name that I carved into my skin
Years ago it seems
It is still there
The only scar that doesn’t fade

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A young student, djane, alternative model and DIY enthusiast from Slovakia. I enjoy travelling, surrealist art, writing and music, mostly post punk.


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Contributor: Joshua A Colwell

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The edges of the morning
clouds, fluffy and plump
like a pastry, with edges
crisper than those of
over-cooked brownies

lazily bake underneath
a sun that feels more
room temperature than
one that could fry eggs
along the sidewalk.

Leaves start to change color,
less cucumber-green and more
a sickly-brown, the kind you
might find from leaving butter
to sit in a hot frying pan too long.

Spring-born babes wail like tea kettles,
Their bodies expanding like popcorn
kernels, toes waiting to be gobbled up
with butter from excited onlookers

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I currently work as a submissions editor at Apex Magazine. I have been published at The Story Shack, Every Day Poets, The Linnet's Wings, Eunoia Review, and The Penguin Review, among others.

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