Creative

Contributed by Eliza Jordan | gargoyle@flagler.edu

If eyes could lie,
And hair confess,
What would the secrets hold?
One by one,
The secrets would fumble,
Until cruel intentions unfold.

Contributed by Ryan Camuto | gargoyle@flagler.edu

I once had a friend, he was like an open book.
A musical score if I may
but he was blank,
a page without a single mark.
Clean, crisp, craving my ramblings with such reception.
It was in him I confided every ounce of my mind,
after such a moment he would just look,
and my open book friend knew
exactly what I meant.

Contributed by Ryan Camuto | gargoyle@flagler.edu

Turn out the house lights,
direct your attention to the man on the stage
spilling his insides out
every note streams over the audience
for eternities, at least through his eyes

Contributed by Gian Louis Thompson | gthompson@flagler.edu

Onyx clouds vanquished what was left of the sun’s reign. I pulled up my hood as a wind beckoned throughout New York City’s concrete bones. The sky blackened with every minute but I felt shielded from the impending storm. The stoop on which I sat was littered with a display of rubbish from old gum to spent beer bottles. A cigarette clung to my fingers like a mantis as it coughed forth a stream of blue smoke. I observed the urban portrait before me, focusing not on one thing in particular. The legions of the storm marched further, conquering more of the sky and deploying barrages of rain with growing ferocity. And so I waited for my friend who was in the building behind me tending to something.

Contributed by Gian Louis Thompson | gthompson@flagler.edu

We stepped from the MetroNorth railcar and onto the concrete platform at Grand Central Terminal. People poured from the doors like ants under a magnifying glass. I took a deep breath and welcomed the familiar scent of the underground musk. Walking towards the main concourse, I greeted the lonely newspaper bin. There it sat, squatted with its robust belly and blue skin, begging for the human’s newspaper waste.

Contributed by Marcia Vojcsik| gargoyle@flagler.edu

Come into my cell

Make yourself at home, dear friend

I wouldn’t hurt you