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The Talon

The Talon

November Literary Magazine

Sweater weather
Art+by+Owain+Hernandez
Art by Owain Hernandez
Art by Owain Hernandez

Poetry

By Junior Owain Hernandez

“Turkey”

The cooked turkey on the table is starting to get cold.

How many more days will it sit till it starts to get old?

Why has no one carved the turkey yet?

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Perhaps the people’s plans for this turkey have gone to heck.

It has been sitting for a full day now

On a table decorated with dried maple leaves.

The turkey following suit with the decorations beside himself.

Will it ever be moved is something we do not know, 

As well as why someone is leaving the turkey to get cold.

Perhaps no one showed up to give thanks.

A funny theory I have is the turkey fell asleep on the plate.


 

By Junior Taylor Walker

“Piano Shivers”

Listening to piano

It is a strange consequence of my time

As it fills my spine with a shiver

And pesters me to wonder

 

As I close my eyes attempting to build a story

Other than my own

Where it is filled with cool nights and soft morning

Where the soft colors bleed

 

Where the leaves of autumn brush against my skin

As it falls from a dying tree

Thy lone bench even has a story

With the remorse of the piano’s soft keys

“Empath”

I cannot talk of what comforts me right now, I am questioning why I am an empath

I cannot wish to you, your wellbeing because I am an empath

I cannot scavenge what scraps of words I have left because I have wasted them all, I am an empath

 

I give you my condolences

To the soft air and warm fire that must be what a comfort

I could never provide that for you

I am an empath

 

And yet you do not see that I 

Am an empath 

I empathize you

And yet you wander away from me on this cool night away from the fire

 

I am an empath and I let you walk over me

You do not see what I denied then

Because I am an empath and I had hope 

So, talk to me tomorrow, maybe then I can tell you I am an empath 

 

So then, then I will be able to tell you that you meant nothing to me

When I blow out the soft scented candles 

When I remind myself there is nothing that would have happened

Because I was an empath and I was blind


Short Story

By Sophomore Arwen Johnson

“Her warmth”

The air around her was always warm. Be it during winter or summer, spring or autumn,
always she was comfortably warm, perfect.

Charlie made his way through an overgrown dirt path as it twisted and winded through a
dense and lush forest, the leaves having started changing to shades of red and orange. The
cool air nipped at the exposed skin of his hands, neck, and face but he pushed on. He hopped
over a fallen tree, its darkened wood growing moss and mushrooms as it rotted away, allowing
for nature to reclaim and reuse its energy.

Charlie carried with him a canvas and various paints and brushes. He was a 23 year old
college student majoring in art. He’d always liked art, thought he was pretty good at it, his father
would agree. Though, the boys where he came from thought he was “girlish,” the thought a
product of his softer, non-confrontational personality and his looks. He was thinner with fluffy
hair that went to the middle of his neck along with his need for glasses and his choice to wear
circular ones. He never really saw the problem with being “girlish” though, that’s likely because
of the way his father raised him. His father was a well kept man, he dressed in button-up shirts,
dress pants, dress shoes, and vests for the most part. He was a bartender who sported a kind
heart and gentle demeanor. That gentle demeanor is what Charlie was raised around. He was
glad he wasn’t brought up like most of the men he knew, they were immature, quick to anger,
couldn’t handle the answer of “no” especially if from a woman, and they were absolutely, mind
numbingly, stupid. It’s a miracle they even passed middle school.

Charlie stepped over a line of small rocks, exiting the trail and landing himself in a clearing. It
was filled with flowers, the most noticeable of which being the lily of the valleys and the forget
me nots. He does his best to avoid stepping on the flowers as he makes his way to what he
came here for.

A statue, unnamed, unlabeled, unclaimed. It was a topless woman with a flowy fabric tied
around her waist and curly hair down to her hips. She was frozen in a walking pose, her left
hand held onto the fabric around her, slightly lifting it up. Her eyes were closed and her lips
parted to show just a bit of her teeth. There were some minor cracks on her hands and along
the fabric but he assumed that as normal, given how old it possibly was.

Charlie carefully sits, crisscross, on the platform, setting his paints next to him. He sighs,
taking in the warmth that surrounds her. He thought it was a bit weird how warm she was, given
that she was, in fact, a statue, but he brushed it off. He took a brush and some paint and started
painting.

He was out there longer than he had planned. When Charlie opened his eyes, he was met
with the sight of the darkened scenery. The forest looked much more eerie than it had before,
the space between the trees dark impenetrable without the assistance of a flashlight. The
Autumn air was now much colder, so much so that Charlie could see his own breath. He’d never
stayed this long before, out in the forest till a blanket of darkness covered the sky, but he’s glad
he did this time. It was beautiful and, had he brought his phone, he would’ve taken a picture.
Charlie stood up and turned to face the statue.

“Goodbye.” He said quietly, giving her a small wave. He grabbed his things and sighed before
stepping out of her warmth and into the cold Autumn air. He walked back through the field,
again, careful not to step on the flowers adorning the ground.

As Charlie left by the path that took him to her, she gained a crack across her collar bones
that stretched to her cheekbone. But Charlie wouldn’t see that until he came back.

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