Soda Shop

Alicia LaBarge

The Pretend Princess

Katherine Condon

the soft flowy nightgowns

going high on the swings

these are two of my favorite things.

curling up by the fireplace

warm mug in my hand,

watching snowflakes fall from the sky onto the land.

running down hills

watching cars 2 on rewind,

lying down on the couch trying to unwind.

twirling and spinning

always statins on my shirt

hearing birds sing while I play in the dirt.

designer dresses and clothes

wooden toys handmade in germany

counting the stars, never knowing how many. 

being chased by the moon

staring up at the sky

sitting at the park watching birds fly by.

baking cookies with grandma

watching curious george

drives with my grandpa, me shotgun in his porsche.

ballet, tap, and jazz

singing some tunes

always awaiting for the month we call june

“guess how much I love you?” 

my mother always asked,

“to the moon and back I” say, looking back on the past

now that I think about it, 

I remember that song

that song my dad sent me before he passed on,

now I can’t just do I must think and think,

for anything I do might make my heart sink,

not from the movies, books or shows, 

but from the name calling of the people below,

sitting high in my tower all on my own,

wondering how I came to be alone.

the window bursts open,

a bright light shines in,

“come on, what are you doing?” she says with a grin.

i sigh, and slouch.

“it’s the end of my childhood, now the fun stops.”

I look back at the set with all the old props.

She smiles at me and says: 

“not the end but a beginning, i’ll help you out”

and she did, without a doubt.

she made me smile and laugh,

new times began,

making new memories just like back then.

yes times are fleeting, 

I won’t disagree, 

but accept some new greetings and you’ll be just like me.

Shashank Salgam

“Distance”

Regan Doherty

It’s suffocating 

being so alone. 

Surrounded

but separate.

Within

but without.

An onlooker

who stares instead of sees: 

there’s no understanding

in this isolation.

Some cruel captivation

where one is the attraction

but neither is noticed.

Any feeling of belonging evaporated

when I realized it has always been

and will always be

their lives: my intrusion.

Their gaze: my wound.

Their music: my noise.

Their forms and figures never known –

never understood – 

let alone picked apart from the crowd.

The inescapable throbbing from sounds

that fly and marr instead of mean.

Too hard. Too fast.

Hitting where it hurts because

these wounds have festered.

This noise pains.

There is a silence to this sound. 

A dream called hope

Isabel fowler

Our Hope feeds our Dreams 

Like the muse feeds the artist

Like the sky feeds the bird

Like the sun keeps us alive 

Hope is a lightness

Centered in your chest

That expands 

And contract with every second

We breath it in and out 

Our breath has been stifled 

Blackened by the same smog blocking our light

Suffocating us

But I still feel Hope

I still feel Hope

I covet it,

Smuggle it

Hide it under my pillow at night

Hold it tight to my chest

The Hope

That one day,

I will see children and not mourn for them

For the life they’ll never have

The life robbed from them before they ever reached the cradle 

But Hope 

It’s the best type of flowering weed

Growing in the sidewalks

Up concrete walls 

Out of the ashes

But Hope

It’s a prayer whispered 

When a babe is born

A blessing given 

In hard times

A cry in our chest

Carried across the world 

And a heart that beats 

We will change this

nurturing / lucy lee