Current Issue

Below are a few pieces from the 2017 edition, showcasing some examples of work that has been accepted in the past. To purchase a copy of the 2017 edition, send an email to voices@westvalley.edu

 

TaeKim_devon_bw_roses_Art17

Tae Kim

Roses


 

Did She Say No?

Brianna Torres

 

Have you ever smelled spoiled milk? I have.

It swirls around in your nostrils

And never fades

Much like the thick smog that

Permeates the cities

A pungent aroma, like onions or garlic

A deafening smell that engulfs glass lenses

Splits the willow tree

Forcing animals to take cover.

A mechanical bull thrashing about

Leaving unexpected bruises between your thighs

Its putrid carcass lingers in the shadows

Preying on the weak

Eroding every inch of caked on flesh

Until suddenly–

Its gone.

Its gone and you find yourself missing its

Rancid acquaintance

Fearfully awaiting its presence

Like a horror film

suspenseful, domineering,

Pompous.

It reeks of molded sour cream

Just a dollop

Moistness that makes you cringe

And dew drops melt

Acid down your cheeks

Gagging on each gulp of air

 

She asked for it.   

 


Taylor_FashionIllustrations_Art17

Chloe Taylor

Fashion Illustrations


 

 

Crossroads by Annie Hays

Crossroads

 

Hanging in the valley,

lies a slight town

shrouded in droplets.

A distorting twilight haze

covers forgotten secrets,

hiding beneath its veil.

Over: a decrepit train station,

a stranded rotting bench

under a wrinkled woman.

Her chest rises with frost,

falls in white flames,

sending tunnels through

the thin vapor.

Her twistedness

trapped in willful spirit

beneath taut skin,

pins down hope.

Through spans of desolate years,

the bodied crossroads

turn nourishment,

to states of putridity,

leaving larva to feed

on everything lovely, young, hopeful,

until nothing’s left–but a shell.

An emptiness above a porous pew,

a congregation of clouds

creeping through cracks,

listening for a preacher

without any words.

Red to green and back again,

the stoplight colors,

swirl bereft of signs,

or signs of wanderings–

an emaciated town drifts

 

deeper down into the gorge.

 

 

 

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