As I Die

I breathe water, I drink air.

The world is mine, none to spare.

But what will come when time is spent?

Am I alone, will I relent?

Ticking memories, passing cries.

I breathe water, I drink air.

The world is mine, none to spare.

But what will come when time is spent?

Am I alone, will I relent?

Ticking memories, passing cries.

This world is mine, inherit flies.

And yet I find myself at peace.

This sweet surrender, my death release.

Hot as ice, frozen steam.

I walk the rungs, my fingers clean.

The flesh in which I lived so long,

It’s melted off, my unheard song.

Sing to me, my dying light.

Hollow sounds, tortured night.

Before I’d worried where you’d gone.

But here you rise before the dawn.

By: Yours Truly

This world is mine, inherit flies.

And yet I find myself at peace.

This sweet surrender, my death release.

Hot as ice, frozen steam.

I walk the rungs, my fingers clean.

The flesh in which I lived so long,

It’s melted off, my unheard song.

Sing to me, my dying light.

Hollow sounds, tortured night.

Before I’d worried where you’d gone.

But here you rise before the dawn.

By: Yours Truly

Symphony Man

I believe in two things: Life & Death. What I have discovered about the two? They are both unbelievably far and incredibly close.

Symphony Man

The strings of the piano grow louder, strum, strumming the tune of the masked man. A candle 

flickers in the distance, tombstones rising from the upturned earth. Wriggling worms draw nearer. Voices of the damned rising above a silent reverie. This is the silence of the children, the flailing limbs of resting corpses. Rot. Oozing pestilence of unkempt flesh. Your deathbed, your soil ridden divan. Tip of the hat, your demise will not be commiserated. 

Condolences. Grievances. They usher you forward with offers of remembrance and fulfilling 

gratification. But these words are not for you, not your own to consider or accept. Poor student of reality. Have you entered a world in which you cannot escape? The coffin awakens near your side. Eyes like dusty marbles. Something you had expected? Considered? No, no she had swayed to and fro with the rest. A flower in the breeze, her twirling color of life slowly subsiding around her. You too have begun to fade. 

Fingers sleepily caress the piano keys as the crowd awaits your answer. The finale! Begin slowly, 

arise, crescendo. Sharp, sharp notes, high and low. A wave of trumpets filling your ears. Pounce on the 

ivory squares. Demand the attention. Push them higher, the twirling flowers dancing across the stage. The coffin closes, worms drawing back into dark holes. Children’s laughter erupts around you. B flat, E minor. Strum, strumming the keys! There will be no earthbound settee for you on this day, no pity. 

The notes linger in the air, rebounding between the seated ruby cushions. A woman holds her 

breath; the note cannot escape. She reaches, her arms open wide, a plumage of hair resting atop her 

powdered forehead. You watch the tension rise beneath her chest as the last upsurge builds beneath your fingertips. Her lips draw a breath, and then a magical bravado. The trill, the flowing F. Three octaves above middle C and your fingers grow persistent. Swaying harmony between pianist and libretto. Joy in this moment! 

Resting corpses be damned, this is not a day of demise. Never a day of failure. Tip of the hat, you 

have mastered the keys. Choral symphony of brilliance, Ode to joyous jealousy. Vienna’s jubilant 

applauding audience wishing you well. Ovation, yield to concentration. Your ended fortissimo, avoidant of musical limbo. Success, the crowd awaits your reception.

By Yours Truly: Michelle Salyga

Anonymous Wants to Know:

Dear World,

Today I found myself in the same bed as the night before, the same sheets pulled up to my chin, and the same man lying beside me. The room is a pale beige color, struck with accents of black furniture and brushed steel. To my left my phone rests beside a blue owl candlelight. In a few minutes the alarm will sound. The sheets are cream- which match the headboard- and the comforter is the duvet style. There is a masculine appearance to the bed cover, being that it is plain and white, but a hint of feminism shines through the lightly embroidered seams- which can been seen with intensified concentration.

I wake up with the same contemplations as I had fallen to sleep with beneath the fluff of down. Work. Play. Future parties. Past promises. Goals un-kept and goals just made. I’m careful not to move to abruptly. The light seeping in is bothering me. I can see blonde tufts of hair using my side-eye vision. Today is Thursday and I don’t feel like getting up.  I turn onto my side, the side that faces the wall without windows. This side of the room faces the closet, some doors closed and some open. I thrust my knee into the side of this man whom I sleep and wake with everyday. He responds and moves over exuding a faint grunt, which is barely audible. I rest my head between his armpit and chest; the faint scent of sweat and deodorant is still there. This spot is comforting to me.  He has the softest skin, much like a fresh born baby, and it feels pleasant against my cheek.

I am afraid of these moments, these comforts that have become a rhythmic piece of my life. I am afraid that one day I may not wake up to this familiar routine, this familiar touch. Each moment that transpires through time is another minute closer to an infinite number of unknown outcomes. Should we hide in these moments that give us satisfaction? Should we eliminate the possibility of loosing the rhythmic pieces of our heart? What would you do if you knew that when you died- you would never see him again? How close can you roll the dice, when the ending is already known?

-Anonymous

How to Begin a Proper Killing Story

-->

Many stories begin this way- you know, with an announcement of how most stories begin. So how about we start with something else, for instance, this stapler. I would first like to describe it to you, being that you may not have come in contact with one until now- and because it is polite- that is, it is polite to describe things one cannot see.

This stapler is black. The kind of black you imagine at the bottom of a frozen lake lost in the middle of nowhere. It is the color of night without stars, the black of a voided space- it is the black of charred flesh just before a dusty grey ash settles upon it. Yes, this stapler is black…and because it is polite, I have described it to you- because you cannot see. I may have, however, left out a few important points. For one cannot simply recognize an object by its color, unless you believe the only object suited for red is an apple, which I can truly assure you- is not the case.  One example is its shape. See, if I had described this to you, you would’ve known that it is not your typical desk stapler. It does not sit perfectly proportioned to your stacks of paper in the corner of your cubicle. It does not await endless amounts of recycled parchment; click, clicking away at their corners. It does not jam when you press repetitively for its’ release of staples. It does not limit my creativity. It will not limit your appearance. So now you have it, as I stated earlier- my stapler has been described to you.

I might agree with you at this point that my description, being quite rudimentary, was both strangely placed and inefficiently described. But this too was my point about a story’s beginning. If I simply began with your death, would you have continued to read on? If I stated that you have moments left to live, would you have continued to read about my stapler? I think not. I believe you would have walked away, turned your nose up in amusement. Though at this point I find you to be rather a bore, you simply aren’t as talkative as I would have imagined. Even if I have turned you inside out…aren’t you happy I selected with care such a versatile tool to piece you back together? And you thought red was only suited for apples.