Alexa Krotova - California State University, Fullerton

Was home the sunny Gulf of Mexico? Where my mom and I lived on our own? Where I watched her collapse to the floor As a growing sister’s life vanished inside her? That’s definitely no home to me.

Samuel Kim - California State University, Fullerton

It slowly poisons you, allures you into thinking it’s good.
It takes you away from any colorful aspect of your life. The vibrancy, the potent gleams and glams of life that once made you happy. Now you’re left with nothing but this stillness in you.

Joshua Giles - University of the Incarnate Word

I’ve had enough. Enough of silence, enough of waiting,
of biting back the storm that so desperately wants to escape.

Isabella Laithwaite - Lancaster University

I stare at the wine reflecting in the light, the lighter parts of crimson at the top, and the darker shades at the bottom.
Funny, isn’t it? It is our anniversary, five years go by so quickly without even knowing, “Happy Anniversary my dear”. Five years ago today, in this dining room, I murdered you. You laid cold in your own red wine. Funny, isn’t it?

Gabrielle Dubreville - State University of New York at Fredonia

Paralyzing fear, struck me deep. Get out. Get out. Get out. Cemented, you stayed. My stop was adhered to, until my eyes closed, then you were on top of me again. Three times I had to tell you no, two times you pretended to care.

Evelyn Megery - Ohio Northern University

The way you extended your hand to the sun, unashamed to show your skin, reminded my how honored I am to be your first of kin. Blood rushes through your soul as thick as maple sap. Strong and sturdy you stand there; a steady hand for my fingers to wrap. 

Juan Rivera - University of the Incarnate Word

Esto empezó siendo para ellas y terminé hablando de ella.  Ella, que tiene una sonrisa que me atropella, Ella, que como la noche me aconseja, Ella, que como el día me renueva. 

Meghan Miglorie - Winthrop University

Once brushing against my pale face? Will I dispose my narratives away, Like my father snapping his drumsticks. Tossing them for good, Then trading them in for wrenches?
I never wanted to be a mechanic. So what am I meant for? That question laying at the bottom of my page. A life of tales buried among a graveyard of shelves? To work myself dry from nine to five Then one day drop like a nagging fly?