Posted in 2017-2018

A Letter From Our Chief Editors

Hello everybody! We were nominated to take over Post Script, a magazine that has been up and running for three years now. We have both been published writers, section editors, and now, we are co-editors-in-Chief. It is so amazing how far we have come as people, as a magazine, and as a community. We can’t wait to head start this year!

There will be a few changes to the magazine in the upcoming issues. We have chosen four sections for our writers to write for: fiction, nonfiction, poetry, and a What’s Happening tab. We have also opened up our magazine to Barbara Ingram School For The Arts as a whole instead of solely the writing department. The biggest change, however, is that we will be uploading content as fast as our writers can churn it out. There will not be four issues throughout the year, but rather smaller ones each time our editors get their writers’ pieces to us.

For our Barbara Ingram audience–if anyone is even slightly interested in participating, please ask us about joining our team! Another thing that the two of us will be implementing this year is a stronger sense of community. In order to achieve this, we will no longer be assigning editors based on genre, but on commonalities and complementing characteristics for effective teamwork. We believe this will permit the writers and editors to grow together in comfort, method, and communication, creating the most efficient work environment that we are capable of attaining. Additionally, we will be hosting community-building get-togethers after each round of publications for everyone involved! Post Script exists to serve as a platform where we can share our stories as BISFA students and as human beings. We are all part of each others’ human experiences, so why not have the most fun and rewarding human experience possible?

We are so excited for all of the amazing things we will accomplish this year, and we thank you for coming on this journey with us!

With love,

Maddie Lynn and Amelia Lowry

Posted in 2017-2018, Poetry

It Started with a Coffee

By Julia Pryor

I didn’t know your name, but I didn’t need to.
With brunette, shoulder-length hair parted to the left and chestnut colored eyes, you stood behind the counter with a crooked smile.
“What can I get for you?”
You looked young, could only be a few years older than I, which surprised me considering most of the baristas looked to be in their 20s or 30s.
I told you my order and handed you a twenty dollar bill.
“There ya go.” You placed the change into my hand before I dropped it, the change falling onto the counter with a series of ear-piercing clanks. We both went to grab the change causing our hands to awkwardly collide and fumble together. I pulled my hand back at the action and waited for yours to move too before I grabbed the change myself—two quarters, one dime, and two nickels. I dropped the change into the tip jar, which prompted a smile and a “thank you” to pass through your lips.
I waited patiently by the counter as you attempted to blend my drink, stopping halfway to look to me and say, “Sorry for taking a million years to make your coffee. I think the blender is broken.”
I laughed, “It’s okay, I don’t mind.”
I watched as you rushed around behind the counter and chuckled at the blush of your cheeks after you tripped. It was obvious you were still getting the hang of this, and I was glad I had gotten the chance to witness it all unfold. Watching you was like watching a baby learn how to walk for the first time; failing most times, but still getting back up and trying again.
After minutes of blending the coffee, accompanied by sighs full of frustration, you poured the mixture into a plastic cup and piled whipped cream on top. Your eyes flickered to the door as an elderly man slowly walked through, depending on his walking stick to stay balanced.
You looked to me one last time and smiled before walking to the cash register to greet the man and take his order. I smiled back and walked to a different counter a few steps away from where the straws and napkins were. I felt a sense of sadness for having to leave you behind as I turned towards the exit. Taking a sip of my coffee and being satisfied by the taste, I yelled, “thank you” before walking through the door. I heard a faint “you’re welcome” on my way out and knew it was you. I smiled.

Posted in 2017-2018, Poetry

em ▴ pa ▴ thy

By Aevin Mayman

em ▴ pa ▴ thy n. 1. The way I look at you when you smile / The way you never smile, so this is like a blue moon / the real kind 2. Us in your basement, 2am: as in we both need to stop feeling / stop giving 3. Why I know your tears apart from my own: the rain / Your bottle of not-vodka / Under these stars¹ / that neither of us can see 4. Distance / I cannot let you go, / the string that binds our / souls together, / it is not something tangible / Not something that anyone can see. / This star dust / This burning bond 5. Something only I feel burning / Not love / more than friendship 6. The way I want you to come back / how I want to pull you back / like maybe if I think hard enough the wind will bring you here / Back in this basement² / At 2am / Away from 7. The edge

Synonyms: I’m here, tired, trying, not to let go

¹hope.

²safety.

Posted in 2017-2018, Poetry

Praying by Your Bedside

By Summer Finkelsen

The bathroom mirror dances with me
When I wash you out of my mouth

Her reflection sings a
song of triumph
lovestruck trills of infatuation
which wither into sadness

and into an emptiness
that collapses in my ribs.

Words about you and what you did march out of my mouth
and stomp on anyone who tries to reason with me.
I know.
This isn’t healthy.

Because of you.

You have me in your freckled arms,
watching the T.V flash violet fractured light.
You trace your name on my side
as I fall heavy and away from you.

But,
tomorrow you will be with another.
Stroking her barbwire hair and
you bleed
as she falls asleep.

You tell me,
you are no good for me.

Your whole facade is based around this.
And trust me,
I believe you.

But that doesn’t forgive the thoughts
tinkering in my head
screaming like a wild boar
at 4 am
when you are fast asleep
with someone else.

Someone that’s not me.
And I’m not jealous of her
or her hair in between your fingers.
I’m jealous of you
and the freedom you have
to do as you please

and
having me
still begging on my knees

Posted in 2017-2018

The Last Voyage of The Coca-Cola Bottle

By Nathan Retherford

Too often we yearn for even a drip
Of that nostalgia-juice to enter our mouth-galaxies,
Until we are shouting “Where are the space invaders?”
Or our sugared up heads can’t handle any more
And collapse like origami in reverse.

And what five year old didn’t want to be an astronaut?

We held our ray guns too high and thought they were
Sunbeams–at least until we learned to recognize the glint
Of cheap plastic, anyway.

Or remember when we saw light outside our window
And were desperate children gripping our sheets, waiting
For an encounter of the third, fourth, or eleventh kind?
But besides, when you learn that planets
are mostly gas, the real fun is taken out of it.

Or when we thought we could offer the earth salvation with heart?

Or when we set our phasers to stun and froze indescribable
Green men into victory statues?

Or when the monsters were under the bed instead of in them?

Or the last voyage of the coca-cola bottle, coating the stars in fizz?

Posted in 2017-2018, Poetry

A Conversation I Worry About Far Too Often

By Sara Malott

Of course I love you,
and of course I will miss you
to the moon and back,
but I can’t stay here.
There’s nothing left for me;
nothing at all.
I want to go away and make new memories.
Why?
Momma, this town follows me around like a disease.
I really need to get away.

I am scared of getting stuck.
Like a little oak tree in a forest of oak trees,
I don’t want my roots to get too comfortable.
I think the longer I stay,
the harder it will be to go.

No, I’m not sure where I want to go.
I want to write,
and I want to have kids to tell stories to,
but I don’t want them to be raised here.
To most of the people in this town,
I’m just someone’s niece
or someone’s granddaughter.
They see my last name and they know who I am.
It’s like a title
that wasn’t meant for me.

I see the old guys at the football games.
Graduate class of ‘73
They talk about old Coach Hammer
like they just had his class the other day.
They never leave.
Why would they?
Their whole lives are here.
This is all they have to hold onto.

I will never be just here or just high school.
That’s why I have to go.
I might come back to visit though,
because as much as I hate to admit it,
this town raised me.
These people made me who I am.

Posted in Uncategorized

Mama

By Emilea Huff

A porcelain rooster eyed me from the corner of my room. Mama gave it to me last year for Christmas. She said she found it in a vintage shop and that it reminded her of me, because the label on the bottom said my name in pretty blue ink. I yawned, watching the sheets crease as I wiggled my toes.

I’m wearing Mama’s old nightgown and when I stand up, my head is spinning everywhere. It’s been happening a lot lately. I have to pinch my nose because I think it works so that I don’t throw up everywhere.

I don’t have school today. I don’t ever have school when I feel sick because Auntie says that’s when I need a break from life and fourth grade. I still leave the house, though, because my room smells like laundry detergent and it’s suffocating me.

I crunched a gum wrapper when I stepped on it. Cars zoomed by. I imagined that I was a giant, and every step I took was one enormous block compared to the tiny people beneath me and I felt better. Mama used to tell me that I was small as an ant but strong as an ox.

I see a little green car and now my head is spinning again. We used to have a car like that. Mama had a fluffy keychain.

The grocery store’s little bell tinkled as I entered. Auntie called me over to the counter where I met her every morning. “Hey sweetie, how are you feeling?” she asked me, handing me a bagel. I paused, picking some of the seeds off of the bagel and flinging them into the trash. I know she asked me that because I said I was sick last night, but I really wasn’t. I was thinking about Mama and her face on my pillow and my window and my mirror but that’s because I have part of her inside me. I have her inside me and she’s everywhere and I’m sick, oh no, I’m sick.

“Still sick,” I say, because I don’t want my friends to think I’m weird for crying in the bathroom again, because Mama couldn’t pick me up from school because she was gone, gone.

Sometimes I read things about Mama. She’s in the magazines so much I can’t help but read. One of the pages is taped to my wall, behind my door. I put it there because no one sees it when they open the door. Unless you count the one time Uncle Richie saw it. I still remember the way he looked at me.

He has sad eyes now– eyes that scream he has more to say, but he can’t open his mouth.

I miss Mama. I miss her because she did my laundry extra soft and sometimes put honey in my tea. I wake up in the morning and all I can think of is that rooster crowing, and all I want is Mama’s singing.