Posted in 2016-2017, Issue #01

Letter From the Editor

Dear Reader,

Hello and welcome to Post Script Magazine.

At the beginning of last year, the creative writers of Barbara Ingram School for the Arts were tasked with creating an online publication to share what we love doing.  Thus, Post Script was born as an online general feature magazine.  Through our articles, stories, poems, and the occasional lifehack, we shared some of the things most important to us.

This year, we have moved on to a new team of writers, editors, and design and outreach staff.  Along with this new team came a new vision of what the magazine would be.  Our focus this year lies in fiction, nonfiction, and poetry as opposed to last year’s focus on articles.  We will also be updating the magazine in issues rather than articles.

In addition to this, we chose to focus each issue on a theme, something to unite this collection of pieces we’ve worked tirelessly on.  For this issue, our theme is ‘place.’  Whether it be a house or a home, a person or people, we all have some place that’s important to us.  Given that these tendencies toward a place become especially noticeable around the holidays, focusing our first issue for this year in this manner seemed fitting.

So please enjoy, be inspired, consider all the pieces that our writers have eagerly worked on.  And as always:

speak loudly, write louder.


Max A. Gamerman

Editor in Chief

Find the index for our first issue here

Posted in 2016-2017, Issue #01, Poetry

Blue Midwinter’s Breeze on Houses, Not Homes

By Evette Davis

I couldn’t leave because your voice felt like my old home,
The home on the block with the walls that caved.
The ’06 basement flood, a following kitchen fire.

We long since left the old house,                                                                                                                 I forgot it, but when I met you
you uprooted everything I never wanted.
Picked a strand of memory that suffocated my throat in blue.

I never told you about my old home,
Mottled walls, martyr dreams.
Though you remind me a lot of it,
You remind me that
Blue wasn’t the color for me.

I remember a midwinter’s breeze
that grabbed at my spine
back when winter played with the marbury bush.

It nipped at me like your blue hands did,                                                                                            and I promise
you broke me down just like that old house,
with its hypothermic hands, hearts, tears and all.

When I left, Infected walls collapsed like a hurricane                                                                         and they bled seasons of blue,                                                                                                                       a deep blue,                                                                                                                                                       of winter. 

A spilled inkwell lies on a table, and all I see is blue.
All you see is blue.
All there is is blue.  

Posted in 2016-2017, Issue #01, Poetry

Dancing With Shadows

By Sara Malott

I was sitting at my desk and I switched
on the lamp. There she was,
ready to dance with the pencil in my hand,
I move away but she follows.

Her outline is startling, she’s abstract
I reach to touch her wandering body,
but I realize there is nothing to grab onto.

I want her to take my hand
and dip it into her colorless world.
I’m too comfortable here with the greens and the blues.

She stretches out her fingers,
working her way into my thoughts.
It’s incredible, the way she can transform
into the words on the page in front of me.
It is no longer my desk, it’s her home.

But her time here is over for now.
I pack everything up, I fold it all away.
I shut off the lamp–
she was gone.


Posted in 2016-2017, Issue #01, Poetry

dawn of december’s end (a new beginning)

By Evette Davis

Once you were gone,
I carved your name
into the snow
a thousand times.

Flakes whitewashed it
to the mind of another,
while snow boots would
rewrite mine in its place.

Once you were gone,
I was able to pull myself out
of bed to decorate my new walls
with silver tinsel.

I locked the door,
boarded the windows,
struck the incense.

Smoke carried
peppermint dreams bunched
in cumulus cotton balls
that would tend to my wounds.

Once you were gone,
the tree in my living room thrived
in a singing shade of green
I never knew existed.

There was so much I never knew existed.

I long to add new ornaments.
I want to decorate myself from
head to toe.

I want to learn to breathe
the crisp morning air again,
and I hope you want the same.

You were every frostbitten night,
a cut-throat cold that
I much prefer my mind
and my home without.

Once you were gone,
December ended.


Posted in 2016-2017, Issue #01, Poetry

Holding Her

By Derek Frazier

The first time I held her
in my arms, I knew exactly
where I wanted to be.
The feeling of her erratic
heartbeat, of her hands tucked
against my stomach
added to my thoughts of:
“She is here.”
“This is not a dream.”

I remember pressing her
against my chest while she sobbed
into my t-shirt, crying because
she felt like the world
was too much for her.
I remember her arms around my neck
when all I wanted to do was scream
and break the world apart.
I could feel her pull me closer
as my anger began to blossom.

The in-sync tempo of our heartbeats
reminded me that the world
can be just as beautiful
as it is cruel and as long as she
was a part of it, the world
would stay beautiful.

Sometimes holding her
is better than kissing her.
It doesn’t matter if she’s cold,
warm, soaking wet
or barely breathing.
The feeling of her
in my arms is a luxury
I’m glad I can afford.

The first time I held her in my arms
I knew that I was meant to be there.
It was like the final piece of a puzzle
clicking into place. An open wound
in my heart was stitched by
her promise of “I’m never going to want
anyone as much as I want you.”

Holding her is electric,
Whether it is the actual static from her
fingertips or the shivers down my spine
when she pulls me close.
Holding her is addictive,
each time she pulls away I want
to reset the clock and feel the rise
and fall of her breathing all over again.
Holding her is beautiful.
Because it doesn’t matter if it’s
the fourth time or the seventy fifth,
they always feel like the first one.
Holding her is knowing where I belong.

Posted in 2016-2017, Issue #01, Poetry

If Home Is Where the Heart Is, I Live in Your Chest

By Maddie Sokoloski

We started on the right foot,
the right height,
the same height.
But where growth spurts
slammed into you,
they stumbled into me with
arms that settled on my
shoulders like weights.
You grew up
while I grew older
and we both grew out
and left.
You left. I left.
We didn’t think about
what we left.
We kept right on walking,
parallel. We never went far.

And now, from afar,
I see you’ve started running
faster than me.
Soon you’ll have one foot
out the door, one foot
in the grave. Both feet
lifting off the floor onto tiptoes
as I wrap my arms around you,
one foot taller, worlds wiser,
after all you can see much farther
than I can.

I will be your off-balance growth spurt.
I will keep you grounded.

Go slow,
put one foot in front of the other
because your long strides
are crossing mountains
while I’m climbing foothills.
You’re already diving in
when I’m still getting my feet wet.
Wait for me in the deep end,
as far as you can stand.
I’m coming in.

Crash at four AM.
Caffeine can’t keep
your jackrabbit brain running.
Sit with me. Sing with me.
I cannot get my foot in my mouth
if the words are set in stone
unless I stumble.
And hopefully
we won’t trip on the same line.
But if we do,
I’m not afraid to fall with you.

Maybe that’s all we ever do.
We trip and slip and fall
back to one another.
I am the needle of a compass
whose only direction is your smile.
The pitter-patter of your heart
beats in time with my feet as I
skip down the sidewalk,
hike across mountains,
slide across poolside pavement,
tap to the beat of your favorite song.

It’s been too long
since we walked side by side.
Hold my hand
as my feet
and your heart
beat together.


Posted in 2016-2017, Issue #01, Poetry


By Evette Davis

it’s been a long time since Your face was red,
Your cheeks stained with cranberry hues of blush.
We’d conjugate on top of silver sleds,
on Your island covered in snowy slush.

We both know our downfall was never planned.
but Calypso, this time I set Us free.
Our immortality’s not hand in hand.
how the story goes, We weren’t meant to be.

oh how You’d hold me tight in Your frail arms
remembering I crashed here by mistake.
Calypso, yes, Your island is a charm.
but youthful beauty only makes me ache.

Calypso. I’m meant to rise, but on my own.
that’s why Your island’s never been my home.

Posted in 2016-2017, Issue #01, Poetry

Sara Who Didn’t Understand

By Sara Malott

You were Shay.
You were incredibly thin,
but not as thin as the hair on your head
or as thin as that half-ply toilet paper your
father got from the dollar store
because he could afford no better.

You were Shay, my bestest friend.
You wouldn’t let me walk your dog
because you thought my hands were too
fat to hold the leash, and I believed you.
You taught me how to do cartwheels and walk
like a model because guys liked those sorts of things.

You made me laugh when we ran through
the mall in our Halloween costumes,
and we danced,
and we danced,
and we didn’t care.

When I would fall and skin my knees
trying to play basketball in gym class
you would tell me I looked dumb and
that this is why people always liked you better.

You told me where babies come from
and you told me you wanted a lot of your own some day.

Your house was never like mine.
Nothing had a certain spot,
nothing in your house ever belonged there.
I always liked that.

When we came home to eat Oreos after school
in your kitchen, we would have to watch Dr. Phil
because your dad said so. I asked what it was about
once and you told me it was people who had grown up problems,

but they were different than the kind of grown up
problems your parents had while we hid among your
stuffed animals and pretended to be rocks that couldn’t hear.

When your mother moved out of town,
you moved with her because she wasn’t your father.
Once you came back to visit your father
because that’s what the guy in charge
of your case told your mom—

even though she cried for you to stay.

I came to visit you, but the only person I saw
was a sad girl who was more bitter
than the Hershey kisses in purple wrapping
but certainly not as bitter as your new landlord
with toe hair, or as bitter as the rum cake
your mom bought you for your birthday
because it was left over on clearance from Thursday.

You made me watch basketball and fed me ramen noodles
for the first time. I turned my nose up at the noodles and stuck
out my tongue but you pinched my arm and made me eat them anyway.

Nine year olds don’t watch basketball, they watch
Disney Cartoons, but I’m pretty sure you forgot
or maybe you just didn’t care.

You slept till one in the afternoon one day and
I had to eat mini pancakes without you.

Your dad took your dog to the shelter
because he must have realized that she didn’t fit in
with the sad walls and broken picture frames.

You called the shelter to get her back but she was already gone.
Gone like my bestest friend.

You were a wild flower in a field of poppies,
out of place. But you were the focus
and you liked that.

You were Shay,
and I was Sara—
Sara who didn’t understand.

Posted in 2016-2017, Issue #01, Poetry

She Will Have Eyes Like Mine

By Derek Frazier

One day I will have a daughter.
And she will have eyes like mine.
She isn’t even born yet. She stands
at the door step of a universe
she will one day call home.
The day of her arrival too far off to estimate.

One day I will have a daughter.
And she will have eyes like mine.
They will be sapphire, and they will see
our home and the world by all its wonders.
Because she will be a child of a dreamer
who will teach her to think this way.
To see past how something looks or feels
and to focus on what makes it special.

One day I will have a daughter.
and she will have eyes like mine.
I wish she knew that although she
isn’t born yet, she is loved.
I dream of holding her. My hands curling around
her softly. Scared to hurt her but strong enough
she will know the man holding her
is her father, who will always comfort her at home,
and always protect her.

One day I will have a daughter.
And she will have eyes like mine.
I will read both her and her mother to sleep
as her cradle rests against my bedroom wall.
I will walk down the halls and through my garden
with her tiny feet atop mine as she tastes spring
for the first time.
She will be beautiful. The flowers  bought for my garden
will be pulled from a cardboard box by hands that
can barely hold crayons. Every Disney movie will
be watched exactly one hundred times
as we lounge on a hand me down sofa.

One day I will have a daughter.
And she will have eyes like mine.