Staff Content
This page features creative pieces of prose and poetry written by The Eckleburg Project’s very own staff writers. Keep an eye out for new content weekly!
They say that we are all made of stardust,
and yet, here I am,
me, in all my starriness and dust,
watching another cosmic miracle
work the counter at Wendy’s
The sun has long since set,
Yet it is darker in my mind.
A swatch of midnight void.
I cannot recall the taste of light
Nor the touch of its fingers on my skin.
I untangle myself from my sheets,
miraculously,
like a spider caught in its own cobweb
refusing to let it end this way.
There’s a half-formed drawing
of someone I used to feel something for
(or still feel something for,
why commit to a binary yes/no
when it can be complicated)
surrounded by a blank expanse,
I should have practiced drowning.
My love, it was as though I froze
from the outside in, and inside still
tumbling, still mumbling,
yes, something out of a book.
on the last of the seventeen and a half days
we had of spring (you went to france, I think,
or switzerland), on that last afternoon,
you missed your flight and took it as a sign.
Broken picture frames
Still on display,
They say I love you
In fragmented ways
Quietly, loudly, tenderly,
In a world with you.
Pink-tipped curls of gold sit on your shoulders,
curled up in a scarf and wearing a beanie.
You're sitting across from me,
him to your left and her to your right.
When I was a kid, my dad taught me that getting angry could distract you from pain.
A little curse word when you fell, even if your body wasn’t injured, just in case.
A swing at someone when they annoyed me wouldn’t be too bad,
if they were hurt, they could swing back.
The sky is falling,
It’s happening now on a rock beach
A thick mist has kidnapped the sun
Turquoise clouds are circling around me
All I could see were two freckles on your neck
Arranged an inch apart like empty eyes
Or mouths
Black and gaping.
Lightning in a bottle, they used to call him
The little boy wonder who could brave the deadliest storm
most times: two horizontal buttresses,
arched and angled,
hanging above your heavy gaze and
sharpening it to a fine point to be hurled,
I am out of rhymes, I am out
Of poetic language, do not ask me to spin
Another gossamer-silver line from my tongue.
Sometimes I feel like the co-pilot in a falling plane
Meant to mindlessly soar across a barren plane
That was it, the end of the family’s true legacy
As they couldn’t prevent their fall deep into all of life’s entropy
We open at fair Lilliput
Where little men run afoot.
Peaceful as ever to us they seem,
But war is brewing across the stream.