Literary Magazine

Category: December

Architectural Photoset

By Jonathan Gibson

This is just a small collection of vaguely architectural photos. I don’t really title my photographs individually, but the common thread between these images is that they spoke to me on some level about the strange architectural heritage of the southwest. From abandoned pioneer-style buildings, to ornate ex-mining town commercial buildings, to Frank Lloyd Wright’s quirky brand of architecture, the built environment of the southwest has an distinctive feel found nowhere else.

The Ride

By g.d.

Trees flashing by
The yellow line runs along with us
Bus hopping over pot holes
Soon we arrive at our destination
What awaits us there

Blue and Yellow

By Tate Harper

This is a painting of one of my friends. I painted this to experiment with colors and try a new medium besides watercolor or graphite, and to show that anyone can be immortalized through art. It also shows a contrast between blue and yellow in order to portray my stylistic choices.


By Morgan Clark

i dont know what to write
i feel like every time i look inside i see nothing.
i used to see something
before i left

i looked inside and saw a mess
a beautiful jumble
abstract beauty
but now when i look back i see that wasnt me.

i was a mirror

a reflection of the world around me.
thats all i was.

and when i was dragged from that world the doors slammed shut behind me

.and i was forgotten.

and my mirror soul fractured.
the shards cut me. shredded me.
but of course how could i be remembered if all people saw of me was a reflection
i had no identity to be remembered by.

but now that ive left nothing remains.
my mirror is broken.
i would rather refract the world around me than just be nothing but its too late.
my mirror is broken.

i guess its time to see if anything else can grow in its place.
something new.
something that will be remembered.

for once i wont be invisible but i am terrified to be seen.

I have lived in Tucson my whole life and I absolutely love it here. I wrote this piece about feeling invisible and discovering who you are on the deepest level even if no one else sees it.


By Echo Rigg

This piece is a representation of how chronic headaches can tend to feel. When your head is pounding everyday and it seems like it would be better to drill right through it.

12th Ave/All The Life We’ve Lived Here

By Mariana Rivera

12th Ave at 11 AM:
A man rides his bike down the street,
His sweat soaked t-shirt flapping in the wind
As he passes through.
Lights flash behind him,
Then come the police.
Occasionally, cars creep past
The alley we take refuge in.
Desert nomads, moving inch by inch,
Following the shade religiously
Because no god can save us the way the clouds do,
When they cover the sun for a minute or two
As we each take a drink of
Our Lord and Savior:
An 89 cent thirstbuster.
Mornings are spent beneath a low hanging tree,
Afternoons are plastered
Backs to the wall,
Permanent ink on concrete
And permanent ink in skin.

12th Ave at 1 AM:
In the middle of the summer,
We’re piled into the bed of a friend’s truck
With tequila on our tongues.
A drunk man is singing
Hey Jude
To a drunk lady
On a bus bench
While we speed past, and
Even in the dark
The colorful buildings grab hold of us.
A piece of my soul escapes with a laugh
And I watch it dance around street lights.
The empty road whispers into the wind,
Reassuring us that here, we have a home.

12th Ave at 5 PM:
5 dollars and 5 friends,
No breakfast, no lunch.
Our stomachs roar the whole way to the Dollar Tree
Where we’ve learned to build a meal big enough for everybody,
Plus a snack for the homeless man sitting by the door,
Because we get it.
One day a lady in the candy aisle offers a puppy she can no longer afford
And after one look,
Homeboy holds her in his hands
And we spend all we have
On a new collar.

If you walk down 12th Ave alone,
You’ll be greeted by ghosts
Of good times and bad times past,
Because all the life we’ve lived here
Will remain here.
Maybe you’ll find a flower
Growing between two slabs of sidewalk
Right next to the man passed out on the ground
With his belly out,
And his face covered.
He too, is a ghost.
And so is the flower.

This piece is titled “12th Ave/All The Life We’ve Lived Here” Because while attending Pueblo, I’ve spent a dumb amount of time roaming the streets surrounding the school, living and growing with my friends and this poem is really important to me because it’s dedicated to them and 12th Ave because I feel that I’ve grown up a second time on 12th and in South Tucson.

Portrait and Best Friends

By Sophie Chapman


‘Best Friends’

Two of my favorite photos of my two favorite people. I love how they capture the joy of the moments they were taken.

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