tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-51120080839106951092012-02-16T00:40:22.335-08:00[L. vox (pl. v c s), voice.] 1. vox populi, the voice of the people; expressed general opinion; common talk or rumour. The Latin maxim Vox populi vox Dei 'the voice of the people is the voice of God', is frequently cited or alluded to in English works from the 15th century onwards.Vox: The Priory Lit. Maghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10572769370622094360noreply@blogger.comBlogger511100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5112008083910695109.post-79290933772242680362011-01-03T21:28:00.000-08:002011-01-03T21:28:00.348-08:00

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As Time Goes By by Elizabeth Schilling       I walked through the doorway and he was asleep, I could hear the subtle beep of his heart rate. Even though it was a hospital of sick people, it felt comforting to be here. Maybe it was the sounds of the families coming together, or the newborns in their mother’s arms. I looked at him, and he looked frail and old, and I remembered when he would

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A Most Simple Proposal for Middle East Peace by Jon Yam       The Israeli-Palestinian conflict has spanned over more than five decades.  Every attempt to bring peace has failed miserably to reverse the evolving chaos.  However, these problems can be solved by getting at the core issues dividing the two peoples.  The main issues to solve are that of religious and political. 

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Nyctophobia by Kat Gregory       The narrow shaft of golden light dwindles, shrinking as a nonexistent breeze coerces the heavy door towards the wall. With an echoing thud, all the radiance and hope of the outside world is cut off, swallowed by the darkness that closes in, thick and suffocating. Swirling tendrils of shadow writhe, winding about the room, gingerly caressing the ashen,

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Fall of Beauty by Kat Gregory       I was alone in the park until a radiant sparkle of silver captured my focus, and I spun to gaze at a small pigeon perched on the peeling park bench. A cool autumn breeze rustled the last of the brilliant red and yellow leaves to the ground, and the birds fluttered nervously, pecking at the cracked concrete for miniscule crumbs from sandwiches gone by.

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This is an idea that was originally proposed by Alex Quinby. Essentially, someone will start a story (it could be fairly open-ended or it could be detailed and precise) and then leave it to be continued by someone else, who adds onto what has already been written. Someone else will then add onto the previous contributions, continuing from where the previous person left off. Then someone else will

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Vox: The Priory Lit. Maghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10572769370622094360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5112008083910695109.post-6796699135134993172010-01-23T22:02:00.000-08:002010-01-24T11:19:25.356-08:00

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by Lauren Schilling Drew grew up across the street from me and had been my constant childhood companion. I can vividly remember making the trek down my dirt driveway, past the meadows and the lily ponds, across the unkempt, pothole-ridden road to the base of the neighboring hill that was encompassed by a line of rusty mailboxes, all shooting up from the ground slightly askew. And in between the

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by Audrey WeberAny knowledge of traveling fairs that reached the one-horse town of Hicksonville, Minnesota was obtained via the media. For instance, the Ferris wheel from “Grease” and, of course, vibrantly colored flashing lights were all expected. None of the inhabitants had ever witnessed a fair first-hand because no exotic carnival had ever breached the cornfields and delighted the population

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by Emma Beriker The car roughly steered its way along the familiar, narrow road. Cracked asphalt pavement tracked the path between clusters of wild mustard and rusty barbed wire fences, foreign barriers to this terrain that held in gentle cows grazing in the overgrown fields of green. I sat in the car staring out the window of the silver SUV. My three younger sisters’ giggles sliced the silence

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by Maggy HernandezThe warmth of the sun inhabits the airWhile parents hold onto their children with careCrowds gather at the Anaheim gates To enter the land of dreams that them awaitIt is 10 in the morning and it is time to explore The greatness of dreams and magic and moreWalk a little further and in your first sightYou see an elegant, vivid castle that brightens at nightMy family’s right there

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by Ali Fabbro It is dusk. I look up at the sky in awe as I watch the beautiful pinks, oranges and yellows dance together. This is my favorite place to be, the annual summer fair where my family and I go to every year. In previous summers, my brother and I would stay the whole day racing each other to all the rides. We were always laughing and made it a contest to get each other the sickest first

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by Lauren SchillingMy mother used to have the most beautiful voice. I remember her tucking me into bed as a little girl. I remember how she used to pull the sheets tight around me. The way her weight, as she sat on the edge of my bed, created a slope, pulling me closer to her as if like the sun, her gravity pulled me in and I was helplessly left revolving around her. And I remember the songs she

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by Audrey Weber The café was called Le Fromage, and looked every bit as cliché as its name. White lace table cloths covered numerous small circular café tables that spilled out into the sidewalk and obstructed shoppers with their huge, colorful bags. Dainty vases with a single rose were placed on doilies on every table. The gilded storefront had fake marble pillars on each side. Black wrought

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by Brooke-Elise Hobbs The language of music is sitting on the piano bench,laying hands down softly on the ivory keysplaying whatever comes to mind,whatever is in the heart.The language of music is listening to the birds happily play,the river quietly flows across the wet rocks,the crickets mournfully sing,chirping for endless miles.The language of music is a glorious, thunderous orchestraRich

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by Kat Gregory9/09Three clear, solemn notes ring out over the busy French market, carrying through the swirling heat and echoing slightly amid the quaint, two story houses. An ancient bell tower presides over the island town, its arched windows and delicate blue spire casting a magical aura of timelessness and wonder. It is three o’clock, but the river of pink, green, yellow and red shirts, blue

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Sharukh KumarAmerica, a promised land of desires and dreams, took me by complete surprise when I moved away from my familiar Indian soil. The transition from India to America was difficult, to say the least. Most prominently was the fact that America presented me with a radically different experiences. In India, we never had to do homework and take tests every week. American education propelled

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Sikander Sohail"So...Soldiers compare scars;each calls forth a memory...but mine tell no tales.you jokingly say you've been scarred for life but if that were the case-would you know it?could you pull back your sleeve a month from now, thumb the jagged, dead mountains on the map of your skin and and bring it to life long enough to tell a story?could exposure conjure a ghost long enough to tell a

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Monica WeberHeart is where the home is.These, my varied people, gatheredas wind-blown leaves in the silent dampof a New England Autumn.Scraped together by the tugging ties of bloodA multiplicity of color, of a frantic pile of namesBlown unwilling by the Wind of Love and Neglect.We gather in a sacred spot of ritual,A shrine to our fore-bearer's past,Of knickknacks, hands, and memoriesAll worn by

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Nathan Feldman

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Elena Long

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Elena Long

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Monica WeberI step onto the ferryThe blackberry wedges of the sky scrapersShuffle towards the predawn horizonI stare out over the sharp surfSleepy and repentant.The sorcerer clock ticks fasterAnd the minutes from an oblong diskSlowly pinning me to the receding skyline,I sigh and reach for my morning coffee.

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David CalbertI know why a bird will die of asphyxia if it does not sing. I saw one once, walking home from school one day deep in the month of October. It was not typical October weather, biting cold but sunny. The sun never made it through the gray sheet of clouds that rolled overhead like dirty sheep fur. Thunder whispered prophecies of rain and I was walking faster than usual to try and make

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David CalbertThis is Damien. Damien hates his job. He works as a motel six desk clerk from six in the morning until three in the morning four days a week and for a few hours on Saturday. He hates his job because he has never had a good day at his job in his life. Just yesterday a man walked into the lobby wearing a tuxedo and pulling a woman in a dress behind him. When he got to the counter

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David CalbertThe man had checked into the hospital with a stomachache. He had stumbled in, barely making it to the receptionist’s counter before kneeling over and vomiting a torrent of green bile, leaving strings of saliva and semi-digested food. He looked up, his eyes pounding and bloodshot, and the receptionist popped her gum and pointed loosely with a lolling wrist to a sign that read

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Andrew J. MackayEternally vigilant, I alone outlive the tides of man. I enlighten their greatest monuments, I cast shadows on their vice and sin. I tell not but reveal all.The Old Master says I have a kindred twin in the moon; lies. I warm kindly and burn savagely. Without me one cannot see, yet gaze into my depths- I blind. Yin, yang. The balance of the Cosmos- myself a humble avatar.

Andrew J. Mackaynoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5112008083910695109.post-21852091099051425022008-11-19T14:47:00.000-08:002008-11-19T19:03:55.586-08:00

Andrew J. MackayTucked away in intimate havensThe other- onslaught at the doorDark power the soul does savorCast into the formless worldFear- a crutch of broken livingSelf- the legs of man rebornDelicate tongues a place no longerTime favors the grand and boldReveal the depth of sacred purposeSee into the life withinAct with purpose of thy egoShatter bounds- the phantom wall

Andrew J. Mackaynoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5112008083910695109.post-78363240585760340892008-11-18T21:32:00.000-08:002008-11-18T21:33:17.067-08:00

Colin DeMartiniWhite Light from Colin DeMartini on Vimeo.

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Andrew J. MackayA scientist will tell you that spirits, the soul, are false delusions. Using graphs and numbers, he will show you the truth. The cold, hard reality. Beyond that is nothing, in fact there is no beyond. There is a wall that encircles the tangible.Never mind the creativity of the mind; man's transcendent nature. An imagined object is not real--but is it nothing? There are no more

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Kye HortonIt starts with Conair bullets, then radio raidsDeclare war on my morning world.Most come back aliveOthers die in combatI find the MIAs and keep them to myself.They find refuge in my heart-They try to fix it up.Now make it homey, add a carpetLamps- feminine touches, all in vainOnly one hand can sew it back together.I'm picking up the piecesAt least you could tape them back

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You are like a cloud,drifting in and out of sight,leaving the sad sky. Music in your lungsocean water in your veinsmake me fall in love. Brown-green eyes hit me,an underlying softnesscaresses my face. Fools will be fools but,only fools are fortunateto a young lover. Rock-a-bye babyyour breathing is so calming,hello lovely dream. One, two, three white sheep.Four, five, six black sheep. Will

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Melissa Fanyou and i, my friendwe walk through tattered streetstossing small talk to the wind,opting for the taste of grey sky instead.unknowingly, we clash like rain dropsfalling through worn down rooftopscausing tiles to slip against each otherbut still, continuing on side by side.i breathe in your smell of cinnamon and redwood treesand don’t bother to ask how you smell so sweet,as raindrops we

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Cheyenne Mikailli

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Melissa FanYou are like sleepin that,only when lackedare you really missed.

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Cheyenne Mikailli

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Melissa FanFor you, I wouldgo and fight this sly eyed beast and never give up.Even if it breathed fire into my eyes,burning me down to the bone,I would poison it’s lungs with my ashes.Because for you,I would live this life over again.

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Anonymous He could’ve said anything right?He could’ve told me all his secretsand counted how many of his lovers he actually loved.But instead he told me that Jesus was a name-brandand the mysterious girls were the ones that caught his eye.He could’ve taught me how to keep my sanity in the presence of racistsbut instead he said that sanity,well, sanity was just a button waiting to be pushed.He

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Anonymous  The Clock struck 22:00. Specialist E-20243 stood patiently atop a building on the corner of 2nd and 86th East. The air was warm and humid, the wind minimal. A typical night in New York in the month of July. He looked through the sight of his Barrett M107 .50 caliber rifle, focusing the scope to his target, which would appear approximately 2.5 blocks away. The street was dense with

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Anonymous Soul is originalitySoul is individualism being accepted by the communitySoul is Mos Def before The Italian JobSoul is a random act of dancingSoul is a great jokeSoul is a bicycle race through the parkSoul is being out causing mischief after darkSoul is putting in volunteer workSoul is a smile and a nodSoul can be sharedSoul is the sun, the clouds, the moon and the starsSoul is an

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Melissa FanAs much as I enjoy our youth together,I do not mind growing gray andseeing your face fill with wrinkles.Because when we are weary,I will have the privilege (one whichI do not have in my youth) to say,'hop on my back old man,let us cross the styx together."

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