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Morgan Hannah ;
Life & Style Editor Sonam Kaloti

Arts Editor

 

    

 

The swinging of screen doors and wide-open porches; nobody's staying in.
Caramel iced coffees sweating onto stained wood by our sides.

Wind chilled by the ocean swaying through droopy branches, heavy with
beech leaves.

Sticky with sunscreen, our bare legs lining the boardwalk.

Sneakers, skirts, and hot concrete.

 

Archie's friends talk shit about me

he believes that they are obsessed.
They're spewing nonsense hatred lest
they ruminate on what can't be;

they'll never see my scratched-up knee
again. Upset, they will protest:
Archie's friends talk shit about me.

He believes that they are obsessed

Laced-up boots pinching our heels.

Roots, rivers, and tangled trails full of bright green brush.
Scents of pine, dirt, moss, and heavy clouds.

The burn of muscle and the stain of sweat in our hair.

Bringing out food and coffee with the best view in the city. and still in love. The bros, guilty

for betraying friendship. Obsessed
now, Archie gives in to the quest;
he falls for me but for a fee.
Archie's friends talk shit about me.

az
: The Block

Roshni Riar
Staff Writer

Reading a good book in a ravine.
Swinging solo at the park.
Sipping lightly on champagne with samosas, the lazy heat sitting on our
shoulders.

Wicked grins and loud music by night,

Serene sights, slugs, and mighty mountains by day.

  
 
 
 
  

Summer is here.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 

I see the same faces

every day but none of them
know me. The white Honda
Civic with the rosary beads
hanging off the mirror, it

drives by me with no regard.

The dogs never stop barking,
never stop growling, their

snouts pressed against the fence
while I struggle to find my
house key. They remind me that
I don't belong here. I am not
familiar. I rearrange my furniture
and watch families piling into
their SUVs, smiling and chattering
with purpose. I can’t remember
when I started peering through
my blinds to catch a glimpse of

 

 

 

 

what could be but now I can’t stop.
Ona sunny afternoon, the girl
who lives in the blue house on

the corner rides by on her bike,
one hand on the handlebar,

the other gripping her phone.

The grey BMW that parks two
blocks over honks as it passes

and she swerves, pausing by

my front gate. My nose presses

 

against the dusty slats separating
her from me. She looks up,
catches my eye. I smile, contemplate

 
 

going down to say something to her.

 
 

She squints, scowls, kicks off the

 
 

ground and rides away.

 
 

1 listen to her squeaky wheels until

 
 

they turn onto the busy road behind

 
 

us and get lost.