• Interview and Live Performance -- Natalie Chapman

    Posted by Sarah Hook on 5/27/2020

    Check out this excellent interview and live performance with Mitchell's Natalie Chapman!

     

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  • River Day, by Natalie Chapman

    Posted by Natalie Chapman on 5/11/2020

    Editor's note: This original composition by Natalie Chapman on vocals and guitar absolutely blew us away. A very talented Marauder!

    River Day - Nat Gibbs

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  • Quarantine Reflection on Creativity by Kat Kneip

    Posted by Kat Kneip on 5/11/2020

    I sigh as I open my laptop for the 4th time today. When the thing works, it works well enough. I stare at a blank page, hoping something comes to me. It’s odd, having all the time in the world, but the lack of motivation and creativity. Nothing but monochrome on the page. A bit of a word vomit thrown there in a manic episode last night. I wished for the same panicked creativity that had hit me like an oncoming train at midnight. Something had struck a cord in me to write again. I haven’t written since April. I didn’t see the point in it. Lost the meaning of getting so stuck and consumed in the words that it took me to different places. I could build worlds with my words, kingdoms full of knights and queens and kings and royalty of all those between. But something had sucked the motivation from my brain, leaving my bones and fingers aching for something other than scrolling through my Instagram feed again.

    I go back through last night’s work, reading through the words that were written in inspired frenzy. If anything, I learned I can not write perfectly at two in the morning when inspiration wakes me from a deathly heavy sleep. And of all things, I’m a paper and pencil kind of person, but typing? I never start anything typing. I line edit what I have on this barely filled page. It takes less than 30 minutes and I am staring, begging for something to make a comeback. Words to crack the surface of this white page on the screen. I remember the prompt I had wanted this work to be. It was going to be different than my extended works. Something hitting harder on the real world, something I knew I could keep writing because it was more true to me than the characters I created. I had titled the document, Ten Things I Know to be True. Reading that over and over had struck my heart strings. I remember writing to that prompt in class or in slam poetry club. Both most likely. I bite my lip until it stings.

    I miss my teachers, my friends, going out in my car and sing screaming songs at the top of my lungs with everybody around me laughing and doing the same. The windows rolled down on our way home from Enchanted Realms every Friday night. I miss holding my tongue in my English classes so other people could also speak out in class. Knowing the answer and seeing Mr. Lessig or Mrs. Hook’s eyes roll over me as I half raised my hand to give somebody else a chance. It was usually Tim or Tristen or Ryan or Ceilia that answered after that if I didn’t. The last time I had written to this prompt, I was sitting in class during a free write. Making lists during our Creative Writing class in silence during the poetry unit. Some how, it hurt to think of spring break turning into senior skip semester. It still does. Like the sting of getting a notification Friday night named, PROM. It was set for Saturday. Like the sting of a month ago, absent - mindedly watching people’s stories on Instagram, finding one saying an old friend of mine had lost another friend to suicide. Then, scrolling through my feed after asking her if she was alright and if I also knew the friend that had killed themselves, discovering that it was one of my close friends in Middle School. It was next to the last post she had made, one of her senior photos saying “Senior Sunday. 34 days until it’s over.” I didn’t realize that Corona virus wasn’t the only thing killing people.

    This late night ‘great idea’ was starting to make me spiral into all these thoughts. Burying myself too deep into the feeling of everything. I close the computer again. Laying back, I stare blankly at the posters and paintings on my wall. One is of a snow filled forest, sitting in its own serenity. In the center, my student teacher from last year had painted, “Her name was Winter, pale skin as far as the eyes can stray. Waiting for the warmth of Spring.” That didn’t help. Around it, watercolor paintings my partner had given me. That didn’t help. Surrounding those, posters and prints I had gotten from Comic Con 2019 and NDK 2017. Those didn’t help either. Deciding the wall was in the same spiral of memories as the prompt, I stare at the ceiling. Watching two dream catchers I had gotten at flea markets around town dance with each other. Slow careful spinning from a thin hook in the ceiling. Light floated in through the window and eventually, I open the laptop back up to the document Ten things I know to be True.

    One.

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  • Sentimental Car Rides, by Rashid Karmaa

    Posted by Rashid Kamara on 5/8/2020

    Sentimental car rides and songs with no choruses

    I think you knew before I told you a testament to the beauty you hide in that big head 

    And the little things I need to save my soul

    Sunlight paved driveways and and feeling like just enough being around too much 

    Now I don’t need lawn colored eyes to see me cause I know you hear me and that is truly so much better 

    You won’t get this but that’s ok just turn up the music so I can enjoy this sentimental car ride

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  • Shameya Tucker by RaNa Session

    Posted by RaNa Session on 5/7/2020

    Shameya Tucker by RaNa Session

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  • Untitled by Alexis Johnson

    Posted by Alexis Johnson on 5/6/2020
    As I sit here
    Staring
    At the dried tear drop on my boot
    The aching in my heart thumps louder as it swallows me whole
    It reminds me of your panicked face
    The words stumbling out trying to find the right things to say
    It reminds me of your eyes
    Wide open overflowing with tears
    Mostly it reminds me of the way you hugged me
    Yearning for one last touch before there was never more

    As I stand up
    Heavy hearted
    It seems that it's our dried tear drops on my boot
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  • Untitled, by Meg Mendicki

    Posted by Meg Mendicki on 5/6/2020
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  • (untitled) by Monteveon Abston

    Posted by Monteveon Abston on 5/6/2020

    Monteveon Abston

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  • Trapped by Alaxandria Derby-Dorn

    Posted by Alaxandria Derby-Dorn on 5/6/2020

    Editor's note trigger warning: violence, self-harm, substance abuse 

    Trapped back where they watch their brothers and sisters die
    On an endless loop
    When their minds are now the enemy
    And no one seems to want to help
    From the VA to the people on the streets
    That they sacrificed their minds and bodies to keep safe
    At night when they watch the ceiling fan
    Or hear a distant helicopter
    They're constantly reminded that they’re trapped
    With no way out
    Of the battle they left
    But that rages inside their minds every single day
    When 11% of them don’t have a home to call their own
    And 56% among them struggle with substance abuse
    But nobody wants to give them the help
    They so clearly need
    They just become another statistic
    Another number among the 
    “crazies” on the street corner
    Another lamb to the slaughter
    Some by their own hands
    Some by burying their pain in the bottom of the bottle
    Or with the track marks in their arms
    Like a tally
    Counting the days that they spend 
    Trapped in their mind like a prison 
    Guarded by the ghosts of their fallen brothers and sisters

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  • (untitled) by Vanessa Caraveo

    Posted by Vanessa Caraveo on 5/5/2020

    Vanessa Caraveo 1

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