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Human Nature

Like the sun illuminates the day, we illuminate our truths when we put pen to paper. March’s Creative Writing section explores human vs. nature through colours, contrasts, and comparisons. The core elements are not lost on this month’s contributors…


Bronwyn Farkas

Creative Writing Editor

On a Bridge

By Lucia Foster

The morning projects parallel trails across the sky,

Rows of clouds stretch behind sunrise snails,

Dusky blues and greys.

A metal neck grapples over the bridge,

Pecking the housing projects grounded in threes and fours.

Us individuals in a flock of carriages move steadily.

In our form we are not unlike black birds,

Anticipating action readily.

Also stuck to electric wires,

See how these wings ruffle in February.

Of New and Of Old

By Liam Gathier

And beyond the courtyard,

Into the windows below,

I see a ritual.

They are fanning their new masks as the plaster dries,

and donning suits,

and shaking and tapping and playing their instruments.

They are ringing in the continuum.

The bright sun shining somewhere else,

and there are tears somewhere else.


By Alessandro Mortellaro

Why must the clouds be so ambiguous?

Show us your meaning, tell us your story.

Forced to tremble before your sweet glory,

Some still plea: you will be continuous.

Like ants, we submit to your influence,

For we refuse to live in the quarry.

It matters not, you never show mercy.

This is a fact, more than conspicuous.

I suppose there is no use in fighting.

I, merely a crop; while you, a reaper.

Maybe, in this scheme, that is what you mean.

It is simple, even while it’s fleeting.

Yet it’s enough to mess with my temper.

Though futile, so I await the serene.


By Briahna McTigue



A flooded basin full of single drops; the floor beneath it. It is wet. It does not tell me/ A sponge all too eager to swell. Until it is bloated, and stiff, and the mold starts to smell/ Rivers of light from the blue swelling sun, allowed only to shine when the day's been undone/ Ears that speak to an atrophied tongue: sleeping in the limp, mute mouth of a nun/ The soaked Kleenex and its garbage home/ It is every pain I have ever known.


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