The Laurel flourishes only with contributions of people like you. If you'd like to put you in The Laurel, send an email to firstname.lastname@example.org. Don't know what to submit? Try a haiku, a short story, a photograph, a sonnet, flash fiction, a cartoon, free verse, blank verse, a painting, a sketch, or a creative essay.
This page features some of the creative works that have been submitted to The Laurel recently. Enjoy!
Kindling – Kyle Jerome Zamiara
Fruit flies dive in an out of a half-cup of beer as if it’s a swimming pool.
They scatter to the next pool as the clumsy hand waivers over the plastic container.
Over on the left side of the court is the ash Tommy left a few nights ago.
He’ll leave another pile in the right corner by the look in his eye tonight.
The green sheet offers an abundance of choices, but the majority goes to the Blue Mountains.
I may add, though, the taste wouldn’t do you any good.
Andy disposed of his shirt some weeks ago, leaving the net responsible for it.
Familiar faces gather round the grimy piece of wood, giving it more abuse as the night drags on.
For some reason, I don’t think it’s complaining.
Central Park – Tim Crino
Sinatra's Back in Brookyln – Makeda Loney
I’ve got the world on a string
Hanging of my leather caressed skin
Floating gently off empty spaces over grass and
My leg becomes its very own porch swing. . .
A pendulum for the weary staring back and forth because
I’m sitting on a rainbow and they can’t really tell how high I actually am because faces really become nothing but empty spaces in an Allegany midnight
I’ve got the string around my finger so I don’t forget where I am
Where I came from
Maybe this string will be replaced by wedding rings expressing unity
You and me. . . illuminated by Boston’s Harvard lights and
Brooklyn’s beautiful flowerty that flowed you to me and
Caused us to dance together like dust particles that do nothing but intermingle with each other and find a place to rest peacefully
before getting swept away because according to the world artists like us mean nothing to society
But honey we. Are. Precious
And nothing will stop us from
Cursing the names of people we once loved or
Sitting on rooftops having a beer and kissing the lips of the universe. . . or eachother
And we’ll laugh
“What a world, what a life – I’m in love”
Hazy New York Night – Tim Crino
2. – Karly Gombert
There once was a tree by a girl by the sea,
But this tree was dead
and this girl was free.
This tree was shade for the girl and for me
As we talked about life, and the law
that killed me.
For the tree that stood, proud and dead by the sea
Was the tree where the law
Had proudly hung me.
Because in the bark of the law’s favorite tree
Was a heart with initials
From this girl and me.
Crawl Space – George Allan
From the beginning of time we are brought into this world simple and faulty. We manage to stumble, and eventually waddle from place to place. As a baby we crawl and then after time, begin to reach out and walk. Then after we learn, we forget about some of the places.
We get more concerned with faces.
Expression, actions, deceptions,
Was this safe?
Why is this wrong?
Why does my finger hurt when it gets burned?
We begin to open things and search for more and more room. We may even complain about the size of it, and ask why our sibling's are much bigger and cooler. They have bigger beds, more room for their favorite pop star posters. More shelves and more toys. Toys that they refuse to be anyone but theirs. We learn to share. Sharing everything we own, or think we own. We learn the difference between a bright yellow Big Bird sesame street phone and a real one. As our bones grow, they begin to shape our bodies as we impatiently adjust to our surroundings.
Things change, time passes, we start to think about classes.
Homework, projects, friends, lovers, referrals, write-ups, sports practices, play rehearsals, graduation ceremonies, weddings.
We keep creating new spaces for things in our heads, or our once seemingly little crawl space.
We grow older and our bodies continue to adjust further. Until we feel we can walk, stride for stride with those giants we once considered tall.
And we begin to realize we are small.
Small like your pinky toe, or a mouse, or bread crumbs, or laundry lint.
But then, the steel hits the flint, you can't see anymore and you are forced to squint. You can't see the road signs, or even your kids faces, you can't tell anymore if Julia still has braces. And you begin to crawl into much smaller places.
We don’t remember much. Our world has shrunk, our body is drunk, it needn’t quench for thirst any more. We are in a mindless-perpetual funk. So we pack our things up into a large wooden trunk, and we are told that we can't walk anymore. We need to be helped by others who can run, and they will continue to help us, at first we will think it is fun. But then we see our reach has shortened and we fall like we did way back when we couldn’t quite reach the top shelf, or the cookie jar.
Way back when all we could do was look, observe, and stumble from place to place. Our knees didn't mind the rug burn, we were not yet old enough to learn. But now we see that time has taken its turn and as we sigh and smile, we weep softly. You cough a little and make your peace, you die a little inside, and then you are released.
Self-Portrait of a Young Woman – Amy Jarrell
I am the Universe – Jacob Fischer
I've still got miles to go,
foot on the gas and a son to none.
I wish I was closer to ending this,
but the sum total of my fears
equals the weight on my heart.
I feel weird in open spaces,
can't shake the twitch in my hand.
some scars will fade away.
Eat your heart out, kid.
The whiskey will warm your soul.
The road Frost described seems far too familiar.
I have no idols,
none to call my own.
The world is a stage,
and we're all stagehands, damned to a life of freedom.
I dream of operating tables,
melting teeth and doorless walls.
My mind is at war with my heart
and I'm collateral damage.
So god damn gullible,
we swallow the fashion of a
with the failing industry.
It's turtles all the way down.