elementia issue 15
Familiar HandsBy Oli Ray
Time’s hands are surprisingly familiar for all the change they bring. Their grasp is a feeling we all know and yet always seem to forget until they put us a down.
Something to Care ForBy Anonymous
Every Saturday, after work, I visit my grandmother at her nursing home. It’s about a half an hour drive to get there, but it’s worth the drive. Grandma G isn’t the normal nursing home type you’d think of: sweet, unsuspecting, a kind of elderly innocence.
MAP TestingBy Stephanie Kontopanos
“Take all the time you need,”
But now I’d much rather be in bed,
Because I’m 76 today.
My life is beginning to fade away.
“Take all the time you need,”
I hope you’re happy.
Now I’m dead.
Jasmine PeopleBy Emma Olinger
On a Friday in the middle of January at about 12:30 in the afternoon, a little less than 10 people occupy the Chinese Cuisine. Among the nail salon, the boutique, and the FedEx office, it waits for customers.
divination for the divineBy Alrisha Shea
look at them,
so cavalier, drinking
future-liquor in a future-
bar kissing the wounds
of future-lovers and
crisscrossing their future-
look at them,
so ambiguous, with
Rebirth of the EarthBy Isobel Li
The sky outside is an awful dusty grey-red color.
Outside the glass dome of the city, you can see toxic clouds clutter the dirty colored sky.
Inside though can be described in one word – vibrant.
Mother TimeBy Anonymous
Between her slender fingers she pivots the earth
Amused by how the blues and greens twirl
We let the motion power us
Letting it rock us and push us, haunt us and slow us.
Our lives are dictated by her constant motion.
A motion beautifully blind to us.
The AncientsBy Mario William Vitale
It’s my last day with the old giants
In mourning I hike the lost trails,
sniffing the aroma of the bark,
that cinnamon of the forest
Under tepees of wood
in a membrane of shadows,
I stalk the earth, its mammal traces,
its elusive tracks,
In the Deep TimeBy Alrisha Shea
When we wake, we stretch to
fill out our expectations of where
what should be & then we look in
the mirror for confirmation is this
me is this me is this & we know it’s
Time’s BeautyBy Willow Vaughn
Time is a girl with curly hair that bounces with every step and twirl she takes
She talks with her hands but never fails to find the right word to say
She can be by your side one second and gone the next
Getting lost in the crowd is fun to her
Lover of TimeBy Willow Vaughn
I seduced Time
I brought her thorny flowers, held her worn hands and kissed her softly
I caressed her flushed cheeks and played with her hair, long like a timeline
I ran my hands along her battle-won scars and her strong but delicate body
The Girl and The Timeless WoodBy Renee Born
In a far distant and long forgotten land, there stands a great forest. An ancient power is said to live within, fed into the earth through deep and powerful roots. The vastness of the strange forest covers a mountain from its base to its peak, brushing the clouds.
Little TimeBy Renee Born
The night was warm and a blue haired girl sat alone at a bar. She was at one end, trying to catch a glimpse of a woman sitting opposite, a woman with long dark hair and caramel skin. Robyn knew her from somewhere, she was sure of it.
Counting by the CalorieBy Tara Phillips
145: i looked normal for a girl my size, a little extra meat on my bones but nothing to make me despise the body i lived in. Until i started comparing myself to the girls around me. maybe i should lose a couple pounds see that’s how it started.
Are We GodsBy Paige Kring
the void beckoned.
i stood softly
what is there is to do in the void?
i pondered quietly
the void answered,
i need time
i need time
i need time
i need rest
The Mannequin and the DollBy Tara Phillips and Anton Caruso
i’m a mannequin, a marionette man, my actions preplanned.
i go through my motions, i do a little dance. My movements based off the crowd’s applause
i give a little wave because
that’s what i was made to do, that’s what i’m made to do, that’s what she makes me do.
Defense MechanismBy Alice Kogo
words bubbling on my tongue are not metaphors,
They are a message, a warning of future plights to come.
I should thank this body for that, thank
you. piece of flesh you
distracted woman you
Fall Leaves and People Do TooBy Rylie McDaniel
It was mid-October and I was laying outside under the large oak tree reading a novel. The tree’s branches swayed in the wind, arms moving as if they were protecting the leaves and everything surrounding it. As I was flipping the pages, I shifted my weight under the crunch of the dead leaves.
PTA to AABy Annie Barry
She stood in front of a mirror
Clean and sober thinking about how she feels taller than her own reflection
Then she took an injection
RubbleBy Ayush Pandit
They’ve run out of garbage bags to use as body bags.
Power lines cracked in half like splintered pencils are strewn through the streets
neighborhoods panic as the ground forgets what being solid is again
aftershocks bigger than most earthquakes bend steel and rebar
Time It Takes to Sober UpBy Emme Mackenzie
“What is one factor that affects the Blood Alcohol Level and is an extremely important factor (in order to ‘sober up’)?”
In my final momentsBy Sankara “Le prince heritier” Olama-Yai
I hear the gunshot, I do not see
The bullet but I know it’s coming
Aimed to perforate my skull
They say your life flashes, once death’s
Shadow is on your tail and grips you in
Your terror’s wake. I have 0.05 seconds
A Candlelight InsomniacBy Kylie Volavongsa
It’s midnight, and he finds that it’s impossible to sleep. He isn’t exactly sure why, though he suspects it’s because his mind has wound itself into a series of complicated knots. There’s an abundance of loose ends as well, and he wonders which one carries the most weight.
Shades of PainBy AonB
Another black kid got shot by a white cop.
ANOTHER BLACK KID GOT SHOT BY A WHITE COP.
Ten . . .
Nine . . .
Eight . . .
Seven . . .
dadBy Lauren Yoksh
you are like the sun:
oblivious to time’s existence
wake up at noon to eat dessert
and watch television reruns.
you are sleepless nights
and grease stained fingers
covered in cuts and bruises and scabs.
you are like the war
Clock WorkBy Kahill Perkins
Like clockwork revaluations to new forgotten ideas lined up in my mind like young adult novels on my ratty old grey bookcases, I live stories lined up in many different tenses dog-eared identities taking place in crises fueled hourglass clocks, if there is one thing I’ll never run out of it is