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Reflections on The Craft
By Connor Huffman There are times I wonder if I’ll succeed. I question my definition of success. Will I be known? Remembered? Will I fade? Perish the thought, yes—still, It troubles me. I question my definition of success. Does it exist simply in the making? Perish the thought, yes—still, It troubles me, the thought my name will not be relevant. Does it simply exist in the making? I lie awake—await reassurance. The thought my name will have no relevance, a dreadful tormentor
mounthopemagazine
11 hours ago2 min read
Recent Pieces
Reflections on The Craft
By Connor Huffman There are times I wonder if I’ll succeed. I question my definition of success. Will I be known? Remembered? Will I fade? Perish the thought, yes—still, It troubles me. I question my definition of success. Does it exist simply in the making? Perish the thought, yes—still, It troubles me, the thought my name will not be relevant. Does it simply exist in the making? I lie awake—await reassurance. The thought my name will have no relevance, a dreadful tormentor
mounthopemagazine
11 hours ago2 min read
Eleven Years
By Nina Bodnar This is my moment, my final test of the season. The berry-sweet smell of makeup and anticipation fills my nostrils as I shift my weight, taking great caution not to give anything away with my tap shoes. D.A.N.C.E. by Kristin’s 14th annual showcase, presented at a local high school, is about to come to a close with this year’s senior tap piece, one we’ve been competing with and attempting to perfect for the last six months. I close my eyes and relish the before
mounthopemagazine
11 hours ago5 min read
Tomorrow
By Georgia Olson It needs some red. In the corner, maybe, like the sun is setting just out of sight. I’m writing it instead of painting, though, because I’m not sure. Blue might be better. Tomorrow I’ll add the cemetery. I can see it from the window, just beneath the lighthouse. They say it’s so you can always find your way home again, if you want to. I hope you want to. I went to the market today, for the first time since the funeral. They asked about you, and I re
mounthopemagazine
11 hours ago2 min read
The Ultimate Machine
By Theo Carreiro It watches, patiently awaiting the cog wheel turn from the meticulous movement of callused hands, to bite the hand that feeds it, worn from the long hours of work. Sweat on her brow, heel to the floor, the work begins. The ticking needle with its methodical hum: the artificial heartbeat. Is all creation like this? To gamble suffering in one's ambitions, needle to cloth, pen to paper. No, we must move forward accepting— in creation, there is misery and worry,
mounthopemagazine
12 hours ago1 min read
Nothing is "Just Following Orders"
By Finneaus Audette Planes soar above like Eagles of War, toward little school children who sit on dirt floors. They say there was nothing lost of any worth, morality judged by money's girth. The Children of Overthere deserve no remorse, Our war heroes call it just “recourse." They were just following orders of course. It wasn't your child. Why should you care? They are from overthere. At most your grief is tame. After all, you can use your second plane to fly to your house
mounthopemagazine
12 hours ago1 min read
Fifteen Minutes
By Lex Terzoiski ONE “Have we got a deal?” Mr. B extended his hand. It was visibly aged and slick with sweat. I sat in my seat, which I felt like I had been in for hours, and stared at his extended hand. The cigar betwixt his thin lips was still lit, and the ash droppings were hitting the top of the glass surface of the table. The smell alone that came from the fat cigar was making my head feel fogged and dazed. Am I worth this? Will I make it? What potential do they
mounthopemagazine
12 hours ago17 min read
Fishing with Dad
By Thalia Ramirez WHOOSH. I heard my dad, four feet away from me, cast his fishing line into the ocean. My dad looked at me, waiting for me to cast my fishing rod as well. I was scared. What if the hook magically managed to get stuck in my skin? I looked at my dad with fear in my eyes, and he started to laugh. “Thalia, everything will be fine. You’re not going to get the hook stuck in you.” I nodded, and I managed to muster up the courage to put the fishing rod over my s
mounthopemagazine
12 hours ago8 min read
Dance! Dance! My Ballroom Evolution
By Aelan Lee My hand felt as if it might melt a hole in my dance partner's shirt from all the hot sweat I was producing. Logically, I knew she wouldn't mind; she was used to all the sweat and stink and puffs of bad breath that came from partners less hygienic than I. Yet the fear remained that I was the worst of them all. I mean, would she be brave enough to tell me? Probably. But that's beside the point. Ballroom dancing is both an art, a sport, and a team game. You have to
mounthopemagazine
12 hours ago11 min read
Love Letters on Feminism
By Nina Bodnar As I write this, I feel it necessary to consider my personal values and how they have shaped my thinking. I have always identified with feminism, even before the term was introduced to me. Being a feminist, to me, has always meant standing up for women and their rights—whether that is cisgender women, queer women, trans people, women of color, white women, old women, young women, or anyone in between. It’s always meant having the freedom to choose, and feeling
mounthopemagazine
12 hours ago9 min read
DNR
By Georgia Olson Look, this is the way it happened to me: The first thing I noticed was the pain in my neck. “Flex your fingers,” said the doctor, but they wouldn’t move. “And again.” By the third try, I got them to twitch. She said that was normal. It was also, apparently, normal that I had to learn to walk again. I was confused, mostly. I felt weird. And everything looked different. But I couldn’t ask any questions—I mean, I tried. I really tried. But I couldn’t. You
mounthopemagazine
12 hours ago5 min read
Interview with Mr. Freddy Hindley
Lorelei Ricci’s first impression of the murderer across from her was Christ, he got fucked up. The giant, red-haired man was handcuffed to his metal chair, staring blankly across the interview table. His face was covered in dark, purple bruises, and his nose was horribly crooked. Looking closer, Lorelei thought she could see the start of a black eye. She wondered if, during their struggle, the victims had inflicted these wounds on him in self-defense. To say that Lorelei
Maggie Levins
Nov 30, 20258 min read
When Love Became a Cage
He said love was trust, and I wanted to believe it— so I handed him the key to every soft part of me. At first, his words were warmth, a sun I stood beneath just to feel seen. But slowly, the light burned. What I thought were arms, became walls, what I thought was safety, became silence pressed against my breath. He called control “care,” called my trembling “love.” And I— I called it normal, because I didn’t yet know love shouldn’t make you small. When I fi
Paige Williams
Nov 30, 20251 min read
Two Poems
"I Do Not Love You" I will say I do not love you until my mouth forgets your taste, until I can wipe my hands clean from our sins and my blood can stain a new soul. I will write I do not love you until my fingers forget how your hands feel, wrapped in mine, and my poems no longer reek of sadness and desperation. I will believe I do not love you until it becomes impossible, or until I begin to love someone new. “The Way I Love” I do not love you the way I once
Killian Finn Paris
Nov 30, 20251 min read
The Garden
Over the hill, Jack’s home sits quiet and still, the garden kept away in the back. The peppers grow fruitful, and tomatoes abundant. Jack heads to the backyard with coffee in hand to see his yield. The garden kept him and his wife Mary sustained. He sees a tomato as red as her lips once were, and kneels down to pluck it off the vine. He admires the seemingly perfect fruit and rubs the dirt off on his shirt. As he gets up, Jack notices the plant below has the tiniest bite take
Allison M. Bumpus
Nov 30, 20255 min read
Cowboy Hustle
“Fan, fan, fan,” she tells you; you watch her feet carefully. “Then point, point, tap, tap.” Her boots hit the ground with a satisfying click. Your dirty tennis shoes squeak. “A little quicker. Next is point, tap.” You are practicing in the hallway to the bathrooms, someone walks by, and you stop. Your eyes stay locked on the floor. “Point, tap,” she repeats, unfazed by the man who looks at you, confused. You do what she says. “Step.” You try to remember why you agreed to t
Abigail Lebowitz
Nov 30, 20255 min read
(Author) and the Fish
In 2020, at the height of isolation, my days were spent in my bedroom, on my laptop, alone. In the morning and through the afternoon, I had school: a time when my teachers would greet us as best they could, staring at their computer cameras. The more “classes” we had, the more we could see the despair, hopelessness in their eyes, but no student was brave enough to make their face or voice known—what was the point?—our meetings remained silent as ever. Between meetings, I’d
Laura Wong
Nov 30, 20254 min read
"40 min in 8x8 pan"
Our recipe was the Great Depression cake that my mother found in the newspaper and clipped out for you and I. It doesn’t use eggs, or milk, or butter, which was perfect for us, because we were poor in college. The ingredients it did call for—flour, sugar, cocoa powder, salt, baking soda, vanilla extract, white vinegar, canola oil, water—we could afford those, for the most part. Usually, we’d nab some vanilla off of one of our neighbors, like Sam Gorman a couple doors down, ro
Hannah DeFeo
Nov 30, 20255 min read
Bright Ocean Sun
Through the persistent rain of Washington State, the Sun shines bright on the Salish Sea. Cormorants move silently through the air, while gulls laugh and dive under the chilled cover of water. Ferries bus commuters and sightseers along the evergreen coast. A small section just off of the unfathomable expanse of the Pacific Ocean, these waters house seals, salmon, and majesty. Underneath the shroud of liquid, large shadows speed by, choosing when they want to be seen—when they
Alexa DoVale
Nov 30, 20257 min read
Auerlia Aurita
Be gentle with me as I lose myself in the crashing tides. Landing at your door, guide me away from shore where I can find my way back home. Let me be a visitor from a distant, salty world. MJ Sangster Dorchester, MA MJ Sangster is a sophomore marine biology and aquarium science double major. She is passionate about marine conservation and aims to connect both science and art through her work. She would like to thank her high school english teacher Mr. John Hopkins for inspiri
MJ Sangster
Nov 30, 20251 min read
Pomegranate
Sweet pomegranate of six seeds, whatever will it be? Taken for granted, they say, in the holiest books of land, with a masculine, phrased hand allowing nectar of self-image to drip, drip, drip until the pomegranate has been deprived of precious, selfless life. But what shall be done now since she is left with no sweetness? No originality? No morals? Not a thought of her own? Just bitterness and spite. Obedience and strife for a man’s word. The seeds being th
Alexis Terzioski
Nov 30, 20251 min read
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