This poem was the 1st Place Winner in our 3rd Annual Poetry Contest.   We were opposites, she and I, She of the earth and I of the sky. She ruled day while I ruled night, She worshiped the ground as I took flight. But even so we longed to meet To have our faces

This poem was the 2nd Place Winner in our 3rd Annual Poetry Contest.   Though fallow and brown, it’s a wormhole Transporter in consumption’s own hometown! Set all coordinates to collapse In upon themselves. Fill’er up With holy water; recycle mortal maps. There’s founding boss Jacob Smith With firewater and a pen. Train That water

This poem was the 3rd Place Winner in our 3rd Annual Poetry Contest.   5’3 with an itty bitty waist, with some itty bitty tittys and a pretty brown face 19, with a gap in my teeth, I’m addicted to weave but that’s the only thing fake 96 was when my mom gave birth to

“What did you learn today at school?” This question was asked each afternoon, by one or both of my parents as I arrived home. My mother often recounts the lengthy recitations, complete with visual examples, I would excitedly share in my early years of education; for there were those periods of teenage angst and loathing,

I’ve noticed that it is a universal desire among writers to sound good. I mean, think about it: your reader can’t see your face, can’t hear your voice, and probably doesn’t know you. Your words are all you have to prove that you know something or have a great idea. And so it’s only natural

This is it. That huge paper is due tomorrow. The prep work is half done. Nothing is written yet. Panic sets in. Sweat breaks out. Tears may even begin to flow. But work must be done, and somehow that paper gets turned in. Then, it all starts over next week. For many of us, procrastination

There was a moment in The Odd Couple when Gwendolyn, no Cecily, no Gwendolyn, asks news writer, Felix Ungar, “where do you get your ideas?” Everyone laughs. It’s a sexist joke these days, since we’ve discovered that lots of men wonder about where the news gets its ideas too. But there are layers to this

I struggled thinking about what I should write for this blog post, and initially thought to write about procrastination. Then I decided that this subject was horribly cliched and overdone, and so for a great deal of time I thought about which subject I should tackle. About which subject I could write on extensively, and

This is from one of our tutors personal blog thatcollegelife. This is her most recent blog post.   Just think of that word: radical. What do you think of? A few radicals going loose on the town: burning buildings, breaking into houses, things like that? Whatever you thought of, it is more likely than not

This poem, by Maggie Bachler, was the winner of the poetry category in our Love Stinks writing contest.   She does not love me, no not at all She does not care, whether I fade nor fall A cold, cruel succubus; her kiss never gazed my lips I drank a cup of poison and, unfortunately,