The Third Line Literary Magazine

Colby-Sawyer.edu/3rdLine

[the3rdline]

Anxiety

My face is melted, eyes are glazed

fed a spoon of sin, there’s no release

I’ve been inside this vacant dream for days

Awoken to a darkened haze

my sanity, I cannot seize

my face is melted, eyes are glazed

Thoughts- spinning; no escape

this moving room will not slow down for me

Trapped within this vacant dream for days

No clarity, a fire ant displayed

my thoughts collide, internally bleed

my face is melted, eyes are glazed

The stars are dull, I’m weak, afraid

let ash and rain of slowly drawn breaths be

Living in this vacant dream for days

Welcome engulfing shadows, I pray

to God, “fix me, please”

my face has melted, eyes are glazed

I’ll always be this vacant dream, for days

[the3rdline]

Eternal Rival

Face-to-face once more, It’s as if we’ve done this a thousand times, And we honestly might have by now. Exchanging blows: punches and kicks, While always watching each others’ backs. Someone’s gotta make sure you don’t back out of the ring. Opposing forces collide, two friends locked in combat. You, the kind, caring soul with hands held open, And I, the aggressive fighting spirit, fists clenched tightly. You, the beautiful leaf, visible to all in the sunlight, And I, the withered root, buried and smothered in darkness. You, always running ahead, unhindered and true, And I, chasing your shadow, damned to never catch it.

- R. M. Murray

[the3rdline]

The Color of Things

nature bears a colorful hand-

for oceans of glistening celestite,

illuminating each wave with a

delicate embrace, embossed with love,

pools that mirror silver blotted clouds.

for blossomed birch trees upon

radiant skies & golden hills,

yellow flowers petals like wet paint,

& tiny irises speckled hazel.

for mountains of grounded browns

and soil- brazen, breathing,

beating hearts.

for all things crimson and violet

and in-between. for fruits of citrus-

yellows, limes, oranges.

for stars that shine glittered lashes

on midnight blankets &

crescent moon smiling down to rich,

crayon colored houses, whistling

in the wind. for front doors

of vivid red, home of white pearls,

& roof of worn sandpaper.

for the aura of shapes and colors,

rain glory and praise

for she is one with creation.

-A. Cheviot

[the3rdline]

Drown

Have you ever felt yourself sinking into the abyss? Into the dark, bottomless pit in the bottom of the sea, Your lungs burning and mouth spurting bubbles, Until there is no oxygen left… The salt burning your eyes, forcing them to stay shut, Your skin going numb from the bitter cold all around you, Holding your last words in with your last breath, Not like there would be anyone to hear them anyways… And through it all, the ocean is quiet, Nothing but the noise of your thrashing limbs about you, It’s time to let go, stop your vain flailing, And just sink…

- R. M. Murray

[the3rdline]

The Epic Tale of the Verrocchio Vs. the Sean

The Verrocchio and Azeban

In the deep woods of Burlingame lies the one they call Verrocchio. Verrocchio takes the form of a long cut, wintergreen grizzly bear, which roams the dense woods of Burlingame. The Verrocchio spends his free time with the one known as Azeban. Azeban embodies the form of a raccoon that is notorious for playing tricks on the other creatures that call Burlingame home. The Verrocchio and Azeban are ruthless together. The most famous tale of Azeban and the Verrocchio is the tale of how they ran old Leon out of the woods. Leon was a wonderful old turtle; a turtle that had lived in Burlingame ever since the woods were named. He would roam the woods ever so slowly; incredibly appreciative of the place he was able to call home. Leon loved the pink, purple, orange, and blue flowers. He loved their smell of lavender, which reminded him of the times long ago. The tall standing trees made him feel small, which he appreciated. They also covered him from the rain and the snow, and this pleased old Leon very much. Leon didn’t bother anyone; he kept to himself and spent his days going to the watermelon patch that he so greatly loved. Leon loved this watermelon patch because it had been there since the day he moved to Burlingame. He felt at home in this watermelon patch, and his love for that sweet, succulent watermelon increased his desire tenfold. Azeban and the Verrocchio would wait for him at the patch, waiting for him to get close and right when he would they would snatch his watermelon away from him. They squealed and laughed at him, as they knew he was not fast enough to take it back from them. Leon, with tears in his eyes, would vainly ask for it back, only to experience Azeban and the Verrocchio playfully throwing it over him and to each other. This happened almost every time old Leon wanted watermelon. At times, Leon would simply accept defeat and pace back to his home but there was one instance that changed him forever. Azeban and the Verrocchio had the idea of taking all of his watermelons out of the patch. Azeban could not stop laughing at the image of old Leon making his way all the way to the patch just for it to be gone. The Verrocchio thought this may be too far, but Azeban, who morally was inconsistent, could not get past how comical it would be. Azeban and the Verrocchio went to the patch and ate all the watermelon, all of it. It was delicious. The melon was so sweet and so juicy, with every bite; mouthwatering melon juice would fall down their faces. Now they understood why Leon spent his days getting to the patch. The long journey was worth it for him, as long as it meant he was able to feast on his delicious and succulent watermelon. So, on this day, old Leon started his long journey to the patch. It was rainy that day and Leon hated the rain. He hated the feeling of stinging on his shell and hated how the water would splash up off the ground and onto his face. But, he wanted his watermelon. He trekked through the rain and the mud, dodged the falling branches and finally made it to his beloved watermelon patch. Of course, Azeban and the Verrocchio were there waiting for him; stomachs full of refreshing watermelon. Azeban was hollering. He could not stop laughing. He taunted Leon and made fun of him for traveling so far and so long. Leon had the closest thing to a broken heart and felt there was no way for him to mend it. He felt a pit grow in his stomach, embarrassed and humiliated, he turned around and left. Left the park for good and was never seen again. The Verrocchio felt bad, while Azeban frolicked. Azeban was proud of his actions and he made it known to all those around him.

-G. Berrizbeitia

[the3rdline]

The Burning Crow

The raven screeches as its feathers burst into flame, Smoke billowing from its open eyes and mouth. I watch as it desperately takes flight, Silhouetted against the rising sun on the horizon. The flames on the bird mixed with those of the star, Making the crow seem to slowly disintegrate in its brilliance, It called out one final time, before burning into ashes, Ashes that blew away with the gentle breeze. And then all was silent…

R. M. Murray

[the3rdline]

IN A DREAM YOU’RE THE MOON

by Matthew Nosal

i doze fabulously (after you) & time spins back- wards ((for a blink !!)) ,, we spin (back) until the (fish crawl) back (into my stomach) ,, you’re the moon !!! & i’m the sea !!! (again) w/ my jumbo palaeozoic ass / mountains bloop (thru my belly) we are young (&lobstered/abysmally/in/the/belly) you chuck tides thru the breathless gap between us ; (your big ass moon ass smiles upon my quivering butt of a surface / i wave (in the dream (i dream of craters))), algae blooms like an oath. only 530MYA later ;; a snore (on the bed again), tender dozings splash upon my noggin (). they beckoningly gnaw me 2sand 2day.

[the3rdline]

Untitled

One hot evening in Padua my foster parents carried me up onto the roof and I could look out and see over the top of the town. They don't have religion in the orphanage. Of course, I understand why – if a state-run institution suddenly starting holding mass on Sundays then people would probably complain. I wonder what would have happened if I had been religious? My new parents are practicing Catholics. They adopted me last year and slowly but surely I’ve been learning about faith. I know the bible and church aren’t for everyone, but it feels like they are for me. I love the hymns, the scripture, the ceremony – I love it all. Religious feels like a solution to all my problems.

That’s why I agreed to the baptism. Mom and Dad wanted to wait until I was ready. I thought that was very respectful of them. Plus, I figured the baptism would make me feel like I was a part of the family. It would indoctrinate me into the religious community that I’ve grown to love. I would finally feel at home. My adopted mother bought me a new white dress shirt and slacks. My adopted father gave me his favorite tie to wear. Beautiful music was playing as I walked. Song erupted from every corner of the roof. Our priest held out a gentle hand to me and helped me up on a raised platform. A basin full of holy water stood atop it. The song subsided and prayer replaced it. The priest smiled and put his hand on the back of my head. With a patient deliberateness, he pushed my head down into the water.

It was cold, at first. Then it felt warm. All of a sudden the water began to bubble. It became scalding; like I was face first in a pool of boiling lava. I began to scream and the burning water filled my lungs. A fire lit inside of me and I felt an intense pain as I roasted from the inside out.

The priest pulled my head out of the water. My skin was bubbling on the surface. Father James recoiled from me. I screamed out in pain, my skin and lungs still burning so badly that tears came to my eyes. While praying quietly in Italian, he held up across towards me. Smoke billowed off my head and out of my mouth, clouding my vision. Then it went dark as my father threw his coat over me and led me off of the roof. 

I’ve been locked in my room. No one will speak to me. My skin is peeling off in huge chunks. Most of my hair has fallen out. There’s a new layer of skin forming underneath the flaking skin. It’s jet black. My eyes have turned a bright shade of red. My breath smells like smoke. 

There was nothing wrong with the water. It was just standard holy water. But I think there might be something wrong with me.

-O. Brueckner

[the3rdline]

Illustrated Lover

Generated in the image of a beauty

he had once seen.

She emerges from

hotpress paper.

So many other drafts scrapped

to finally fall for this one.

The prior versions hadn’t come to life

like this one, she

clung to it.

Created with techniques

soft touches and some harsh.

Her 3-Dimensionality bringing

her to life.

The artist created

a different beauty.

Cross hatches

placed methodically

around her hips.

Lines etched into body to

represent a real woman.

Her hair,

is squiggly lines in all direction

constructing a thick and curly

afro.

Full of contrasts, low-lights, and highs.

Jet black, with the tiniest hints of white.

Only where the light brightens a curl.

Her skin

isn’t all one color.

She, herself

is made of value.

Lights, mediums, and darks,

blend seamlessly to make her

rich brown skin.

She is

the offspring of the artist’s

imagination.

Pieces admired on women

he’d only caught glimpses of,

stitched together without needle or thread.

She was a vision,

an idea come true.

A captivating composition

lifting herself from her portrait,

dancing, tumbling

into the arms of her creator.

He, her God

She, his adorned lover.

Together they stayed

living under an umbrella of creativity,

an illustration.

-C.Major

[the3rdline]

When You Are Old and Grey and Full Of Sleep

There’s a couch across the room, with cushions of fog, which curl around me when I sit, losing me in clouds of paleness. Quiet, like the conversation in the other room, muted from through the hallway, the footsteps of an elephant on nighttime snow. It’s the grout in my kitchen floor, or what’s left of my grandmother’s hair. It’s the ambiguity of moonlight, and of the politics discussed across the hall. Gentle but harsh, a toy sword made of foam or the brownish fur of a squirrel. But it’s comfortable to sit in, and I don’t want to get up.

Title from William Butler Yeats’ “When You Are Old”

-K. Tremblay 

[the3rdline]

The Epic Tale of the Verrocchio vs. the Sean

Burlingame

Deep in the flat lands of Rhodey, amongst the tall standing Evergreens, lies the realm known as Burlingame. Burlingame starts when the water turns into land and stretches all the way to the forbidden land of the Wood Side. Burlingame is home to a horde of creatures that grace its woods, spending their lives living in the greatest woods known to beats. The creatures of Burlingame live atypical lives. They hunt for their food, they survive in the wild, and most importantly, they live amongst one another, peacefully. The following tale is, quite properly, one of the most famous stories to ever come out of the great woods of Burlingame. It is the story of a creature, the Great Verrocchio and his journey to avenge the death of his closest friend, Azeban. It is a story that shows a true friendship between two beasts and the desire to extract revenge when you deem you have been wronged.

-G. Berrizbeitia

[the3rdline]

A Moment Yellow

There’s a shade Merleau-Ponty says can convey the imagined taste of lemons. The table near me is like that mixed with a tint of forsythia, and covered in smudges: spots on a banana slug – speckled and ripe. Light reflecting off it is almost like looking at the sun through autumn sugar maple leaves. I don’t understand why they chose this color. It’s at the same time tacky and charming, and I don’t know if I like it. With the earthly tones in the background, it’s a black and white picture with only the banana in the corner in color. Still, it leaves me sitting in the imagined scent of forsythia and lemons in the sun.

-K. Tremblay

[the3rdline]

Author’s Note

I am the fading face buried in the crowd, one pearl petal twirling in the downcast clouds, aching with the memories of summer days while the masquerade of life was yet delayed – a bitter game whose masks are empty sweets and everyone judges you for your feats but not who you are beneath. I wonder… Would I be the mask I wear now if not for my lonely upbringing, the leafless bough shakes, but no fruit falls upon the ground, so I sat and read Homer, Lovecraft, Pound – until my corner lit with dark creations, and I chose to become the god of so many nations. I realize now it was sedation. I am… The three-eyed crow crushed beneath the giant’s toe. One eye faces East, the second West, and the third looks below to that Thanksgiving in Boston, where two children and their mother sat alone picking at turkey and sauces, waiting. Dappled car lights shone through the windowpanes, those transparent cells, until at last I felt a swelling and heard a bell and mulled over what awaits us all in Hell. Sometimes I… Want to forget the awful creaking sound of a wheelchair’s loose wheel spinning, tilting, across the ground and the skeletal figure crumbling there, her hair close-shaven and bare, with a voice like the wheel, squeaking, “Do you even care? Do you really care?” There is a strength that lies in lying especially when dealing with the dying, so I said “Yes,” though in my mind I said, “The Devil’s buying.” I’m reminded… Of the caterpillar my schoolyard bully crushed before my eyes. Its skin split and there came a gush of putrid innards. I watched the thing’s heart bake there on the pavement. I wept for I could not shake the phantom feeling of a leaden cloud draping my too-young shoulders with its shroud, and whisper words aimed to keep me bowed: “You’re dying…”

-C. Coffman

[the3rdline]

Candy

Candy

sucks my cock

at the dinner table.

You’re good to me, she says.

I spill beer on my lap and

she cleans it up,

unbuckles my pants,

sets them down at my ankles

so I can’t get up and walk.

You’re good to me, I say,

you know just how to bruise me.

I want to get her back.

We’re rinsing off in the shower.

She suds me up good:

from chest to stomach,

cock to feet,

shoulders to ankles to ass.

I’m trying not to think about a girl, I say.

There’s plenty of love to go around, she says,

but there’s also plenty of hurt.

She’s right.

There’s plenty of hurt to go around.

The love never makes it go away.

So I bruise her back real good.

The kinda hurt that goes away.

[the3rdline]

Tuberose

  Tuberose

    I finally remember

the name of that flower

that lacks color,

but not scent.  

  I’ve tried so hard to forget.

They say it comes with time,

but I think it’s a matter of will,

the ability to turn one’s mind

from what was once a conversation

maybe a bad one, maybe a good one,

into something else –

something new,

something less shameful.  

                                                                                How does one forget

someone who has become everything to you?

  It’s hard enough having a body of your own.

[the3rdline]

Child of the Cornfield

Child of the cornfield

  holds his daddy up by the index finger.

A light shines in his blue eyes.

How could he be anything but innocent?

Wouldn’t hurt a fly, I bet.

S is for superb,

S is for save us from our sins.

Give us this day our daily dose

of red wind. Feel the whoosh of hope.

People don’t like to look up.

They need someone to look up to.

It’s a bird,

it’s a plane,

it’s a virgin born beauty

in the shape of an angel

with no wings.

The myth, not the man.

Not Earth’s God, but close.

God is green.

Jesus is blue and yellow and red,

demi-god farmboy given free will:

them and you or just them or just you.

Forsaken by his father to move Earth’s core.

So give them what they want.

Give them save us from this shock doctrine.

S is for hope.

S is for so what does hope amount to?

[the3rdline]

Had a Girl

Had a girl

  who couldn’t look me in the eyes without saying, “What?”

Something about her,

about the challenge of looking at each other

and seeing who would break eye contact first.

It made me happy for a while.  

  Had a girl who always kissed me with her mouth wide open.

Didn’t know how to give a goodbye kiss.

“No tongue,” I’d say,

and so became our rule when leaving each other’s company.

Something about the way I had to wipe her off my face.

Sometimes I didn’t bother. Let it dry instead.

  Had a girl who didn’t give it up easy.

Put up a good fight.

She liked to egg me on.

Made it better when she finally let me in.

  I’m not sure if I let her go,

or if it was her letting me let her go,

but there was no goodbye kiss.

Just a wave:

casual,

cold.

  Had a girl who ate my words,

threw ‘em back up at me,

The same letters, same order.

Different font.