WRITING AT THE CASTLE
Tattoos of another kind. Although I have not taken a needle to my skin in all these months, the castle has left me with tattoos of another kind. For every trip and stumble I am given a new reward, a scar upon my skin forever. Made by laughs and falls and tumbles. A memory held in flesh. Tattoos of another kind.
Dominique Nieves
Tattoos of another kind
We’re spinning through the hills in Salzburg, and we haven’t slept—not a wink. And our feet are cramping. And it’s so much colder than we thought it would be. Still, we’re spinning through the hills. And I can’t stop staring at the mountains. In my head, I know how they were formed, I know how they got here. But, my god, how did they get here? Standing in front of something so massive and beautiful and strong, I suddenly know that my life means nothing, and the realization comes as a relief, like I’m free from the burden of having to do something great or change the world. That’s the mountain’s job. I just have to sit here and spin.
Abby Ladner
Journal Entry from
February 24th, 2019
In Rome, I see my ghosts. It’s easy there.
There’s something in the air—no—in the ground—
City built on sound, on story. It’s rare,
to see the dead. I’m dizzy in the crowd,
the shards of all the people at my side
breaking skin with what ifs, maybes, shoulds.
(death’s always sharper than being alive.)
Some names are carved in marble, some in wood.
It’s hard to hold translucent eyes that plead—
Bleeding soldiers pass as tourists do,
camera flashes unable to see
children crying out in Latin, faces blue.
In Rome, I see what being human costs.
In Rome, I meet the people we forgot.