determine my age based on my isotopic decay, the half-lives in which i’ve contracted resulting in beta putrefaction, ah yes, you. my nucleic alpha leaving me an isobar where i pour undistilled ferments, the rims of my beakers, mouths of rabid dogs howling for the return cosmic rays, ones t
By Claire Furjanic I sit alone on the bench, running my fingers along my light denim jeans. They used to fit me back in 1967 shortly after I got married, but now even the tightest loop on my belt can’t prevent them from hanging loosely around my thinned waist. A familiar car […]
TRIGGER WARNING: SEXUAL ASSAULT, VIOLENCE, & BLOOD By Emma Gail Compton I. The Bed I had a dream that woke me up at 4:39 in the morning, laying in a pool of sweat in my frigid room. I must have thrown my shirt above the bed; the sleeve was caught on my bed frame and […]
By Emma Gail Compton I am allergic to oranges, but I bought one a week ago. It was the only thing I bought on my stop at the grocery store; I had a coupon for navel oranges and time enough to walk to the grocers. It was only one quarter instead of two. I intended […]
/*! elementor – v3.7.8 – 02-10-2022 */ .elementor-image-gallery .gallery-item{display:inline-block;text-align:center;vertical-align:top;width:100%;max-width:100%;margin:0 auto}.elementor-image-gallery .gallery-item img{margin:0 auto}.elementor-image-gallery .gallery-item .gallery-caption
/*! elementor – v3.7.8 – 02-10-2022 */ .elementor-widget-image{text-align:center}.elementor-widget-image a{display:inline-block}.elementor-widget-image a img[src$=”.svg”]{width:48px}.elementor-widget-image img{vertical-align:middle;display:inline-block} Faded Transmissions, F
/*! elementor – v3.7.8 – 02-10-2022 */ .elementor-widget-image{text-align:center}.elementor-widget-image a{display:inline-block}.elementor-widget-image a img[src$=”.svg”]{width:48px}.elementor-widget-image img{vertical-align:middle;display:inline-block} Stretch ‘Em Out,
Macaroni, ugh. Bland and bowed noodle deceiving nations with its hollow hole, lacks exquisite cheese. Wretched, pathetic. The poor man’s pasta. Tortellini, oh! Pockets of fresh ricotta. Basil parmesan! Tomato gouda! Scrumptious! Illustrious! Bequeathed by gods. A tragedy my tra
BY SOPHIE MAE Hey, this is Sophie Mae. I’m one of the art editors for Opus and a senior majoring in studio art. I’m going to share with you guys a bit about what I look for in pieces to put in Opus. I’ve gotten this question a lot in the last few weeks so […]