English Club Writing Workshop

Do you like to write? Do you like to hear others talk about writing?
Then this message is for you. The IUSB English Club is hosting their
monthly creative writing workshop at the South Bend Chocolate Cafe
from 12:00 to 2:00 on Saturday, February 5th. Feel free to bring
creative works such as poetry and short fiction. We will try to get
through as many as possible. See you there for delicious hot coca,
tremendous conversation, and fascinating fiction!

Cody Miller
February 5th Creative Writing Workshop Host
and IUSB Graduate


Medusa’s Garden

She handled and stilled
the earth
with butterflies,

the air lit
with inverted

Her hair turned
to scales and tongues
and eyes as

she waited
in her unclosed

for one grave face
that she might

~ McKenzie Lynn Tozan

Marital Secrets

They say,
some can’t see your blood
until it’s red

the soft tendrils
your skin

that wind

into circles, into
pools of
painted trees.

Your eyes are leaves.

I see your blood
in small blue

~ McKenzie Lynn Tozan

Under Supervision

Inspired by Francis Bacon’s “Head Surrounded by Cuts of Beef”

They hung
with the distortion
of human feet.

His hands splayed,

fingertips in
raw paint.

His jaws spread
into two rows
of teeth.

The two open ribs
like ornaments.

~ McKenzie Lynn Tozan

Over Coffee

“I went out to see him yesterday,” she said.
“Under the weather?” he wondered.
“Past the gravestones.”
“At night,” he added.
“When the shadows begin to burn –
“I won’t wake up in the morning,” she decided.
“I’ll bring you breakfast in bed,” he said.
“What should we have?” she asked.
“Two roses and a pair of chocolates on your pillow.”
“I’ll jump out the window,” she said.
“Remind me to clean the garage in the morning.”

~ McKenzie Lynn Tozan

Notes From a Typewriter

There is a theory that ghosts, rather than being the souls of the dead forever tethered to the physical by something unsaid or some image that cannot be forgotten, are only the psychic residue of strong emotion. According to this theory, a ghost is like a groove in a record: the more powerful the despair or love, the deeper the imprint left on the world of the five senses. The deepest imprints record past events as they happen, replaying events over and over again, a skipping moment in time. Continue reading

Untitled # 613

It was one of those days.

A miserably humid, slow fuck
of a day.
And I was a stranded carrion
on a wooden plank
by the landfill.

The wasps were bugle players
without the lungs
to belt out one note.

I wanted to piss
all over the wretched sun overhead
and extinguish the light
for the rest of the world.

If there’s one thing I hate
more than the heat,
it’s the fucking maggots
that burn beneath its eyes.

So I carved into my skin
a soft shard of short verse
to make believe I still had something
to live for.

But I wasn’t fooling anyone.

By the zero hour of June,
I’d be drifting sweetly and effortlessly
into the blissful surrender
of a self-induced nightmare.

A coma by any other bed
would bleed as red.

~ Matt Henry