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.

Sincerely,

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.

dancing-with-shadows-2

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.